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Mid-doom scroll, I saw a meme that stopped me in my tracks: “You weren’t the problem child. You were the child communicating the problem.”

That was me. Shoplifting at 12. Marlboro Lights at 13. What I was doing at 14? Not going on the internet.

My parents tried everything: listening in on my phone calls to sabotage my vodka-in-a-local-park plans, banning me from the Year 7 disco because I threw a tantrum after not being allowed to wear heels, and the occasional out-of-nowhere crack to the legs when I got mouthy.

But they never asked why I was acting that way.

I was an undiagnosedneurodivergent kid in a house full of shouting, shame, and secrets. I screamed it the only way I knew how: bad behaviour.

It’s easy to punish a difficult kid. It’s harder to ask: is something going on that’s making them act this way?

So obviously, when I found weed in my teen’s bedroom many years later, I paused, reflected, and calmly sat them down for a chat.

Did I fuck. I freaked out, grounded them, and tried to force them into therapy.

Turns out, it was me and their dad that........

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