Confessions of a Former BCBA & PDA Parent

PDA parents can at times experience stop-you-in-your-tracks cycles of guilt, shame, and remorse.

Heavy feelings.

Unexpectedly intense.

Sometimes arriving without warning.

Often when reflecting on the past.

Wishing you had even the smallest glimpse of the understanding you have now.

The understanding that your child was struggling.

Not choosing.

The understanding that access to skills is not always available.

The understanding that nervous systems matter.

The understanding that behavior is not always under conscious control.

These feelings can emerge when Facebook memories pop up.

When old photos appear.

When old videos surface.

When autistic burnout becomes visible in hindsight.

When you remember the advice you followed.

The things you tried.

The expectations you held.

The goals you pursued.

The battles you fought.

The accommodations you did not yet understand.

Sometimes these feelings emerge when reflecting on the ways you judged others.

The times you assumed.

The times you misunderstood.

The times you believed people simply needed more effort.

More motivation.

More accountability.

More consequences.

More compliance.

Sometimes they emerge while watching others interact with children.

Using the same top-down approaches.

The same shame-based assumptions.

The same strategies you once used.

The same strategies you once believed would help.

Sometimes they emerge when you know exactly what your child needs.

Accommodation.

Flexibility.

Co-regulation.

Safety.

And you simply do not have the capacity to provide it in that moment.

Not because you don't want to.

Because you can't.

Sometimes they emerge when trauma responses developed during periods of autistic burnout unexpectedly surface.

Months later.

Years later.

Appearing in ways that seem disconnected from the original experience.

Yet are not disconnected at all.

And sometimes they emerge when observing unsupported neurodivergent adults.

Those experiencing homelessness.

Institutionalization.

Marginalization.

And recognizing pieces of your child's experience within theirs.

Recognizing what happens when generations of neurodivergent people move through systems with little understanding.

Little accommodation.

Little compassion.

Little capacity.

These moments can be painful.

But they also offer something important.

Perspective.

Not the perspective that invites self-condemnation.

The perspective that invites compassion.

Compassion for your child.

Compassion for yourself.

Compassion for the people who were doing their best with the understanding they had at the time.

Because guilt may tell us to stay in the past.

But perspective shifts invite us to move forward differently.

And perhaps that is the purpose of these moments.

Not punishment.

Not shame.

Not self-blame.

But the opportunity to become more human.

More compassionate.

More aware.

More willing to frame ourselves and others as doing the best they could with the capacity available to them at the time.

Which is where Compassion for Capacity begins.