What my autistic daughter taught me about being a CD

Let me start with this Earth-shattering revelation: People are different. I know. Pick your jaw up off the floor. 

It’s the kind of phrase you see on well-meaning tea towels or garden centre artwork. It’s a cliché. A nothingy statement. Like “live, laugh, love.” Except it’s also completely, painfully true. And for a long time - I didn’t really get it. Not properly. Not in a way that meant I changed anything. 

It’s like shouting into a colander. Nothing sticks. Or worse - it ricochets back as a full-blown meltdown.

Then I had kids; Freddie and Eden. Freddie is your standard, garden-variety seven-year-old chaos goblin. If he’s gone feral from too much screen time, I can deploy a classic parent threat: “Turn it off or it’s gone tomorrow.” He understands. Cause and effect. Transaction made. Grumble issued. Power restored. Next. 

Eden, though - Eden is autistic. Which is to say, in her case, wired differently, brilliantly and sometimes bafflingly. She doesn’t respond to volume or ultimatums. If I give her that same warning, it’s like shouting into a colander. Nothing sticks. Or worse - it ricochets back as a full-blown meltdown. 

Above: Cliches are cliches for a reason. 

With Eden, I have to stop, sit down, match her eye level. Explain why people need screen limits – the logic, the science, the fairness. Then I have to wait. No volume. No push. She has to arrive at the decision herself. And if she doesn’t, it doesn’t happen. Simple. It’s not manipulation. It’s respect. It’s not that she’s wrong. It just makes her different. 

And that difference has taught me a lot. Not just about parenting. But about managing. About directing. About leading creative people. Because a creative department is not that different from a family in my opinion. Louder, maybe. Smarter, sometimes. But equally chaotic and just as emotionally charged and passionate. 

Real empathy isn’t saying "you alright?" It’s knowing when “yeah, fine” means “I’m falling apart but I don’t want to seem difficult.

You've got a team. They’ve poured heart and soul into a pitch, an edit, a deck that looks like it’s been dragged through a hedge. And now they need feedback. Some want it direct, brutal. "This doesn't quite work. Please change that. Please try this." They nod. Adjust. And apply with a thumbs up. 

Above: Different people have different processing speeds, and sometimes you have to adjust to those differences. 

But others? You go in like that and you're basically nuking their brain from orbit. You don’t see it at first because they’re still smiling. Nodding. Taking notes. But three days later they’ve spiralled, rewritten their concept ten times and are quietly wondering if they should become a dog groomer. Different minds. Different wiring.   

And, before Eden, I didn’t clock that. I thought I did. I thought I was empathetic, because I wasn’t an arsehole and I occasionally asked people how their weekend was. But real empathy isn’t saying "you alright?" It’s knowing when “yeah, fine” means “I’m falling apart but I don’t want to seem difficult.” 

 Before Eden, I didn’t understand neurodivergence in any meaningful way. I thought I did. But I didn’t. Because I hadn’t had to feel it. And once you do, you can’t go back.

And here’s the uncomfortable truth: I didn’t start changing how I gave feedback because I read a book. I changed because life handed me someone I had to listen to differently. Someone who forced me to slow down. To reword. To reframe. Not because I was being nice - but because it was the only way I’d be understood. It was, in short, a lived experience. 

Which means, yes, before Eden, I didn’t understand neurodivergence in any meaningful way. I thought I did, but I didn’t. Because I hadn’t had to feel it. And once you do, you can’t go back. 

Now I think about feedback differently. Now I think about processing speed, not just reaction speed. Now I build in pauses. Even in a non-stop world. Because sometimes - often - the best creative work doesn't come from instant reaction. It comes from the second, third, fourth thought. But if we never stop long enough to let people get there ­guess what? We never see it.