When “I’m Done” Should Be Enough — A New Year’s Reflection on PDA Parenting (Part 1)
As a new year begins, I find myself doing what most humans do —
looking backward and forward at the same time.
Where we came from.
How far we’ve grown.
What finally started working.
And yes… all the places where we failed, or thought we failed.
There’s a phrase my son learned this year that changed everything:
“I’m done.”
Not “I don’t want to.”
Not “No.”
Not an explosion.
Just… “I’m done.”
And the key — the hardest part — is trusting it.
Some people can.
Some people won’t.
Because to them, it always looks like:
“But he was doing so well!”
“He was having fun!”
“Maybe just one more thing…”
And that’s exactly when it falls apart.
One tiny extra request can flip everything.
Capacity evaporates.
A door slams shut inside his nervous system.
Even when he is willing, even when he does want to continue, it has to be his way:
- not a timer telling him how long he must do something,
- but a clear, finite number of things,
- a number that is small enough to feel safe.
And then — maybe — it happens.
Maybe.
But it wasn’t always like this.
We didn’t always have this language.
We didn’t always understand what was happening under the surface.
Back then, everyone tossed around the word anxiety.
He’s anxious.
I’m anxious.
We’re all anxious.
It made sense at the time.
But over the years, something became unmistakably clear:
This was beyond anxiety.
This wasn’t fear of a thing.
This wasn’t shyness, stubbornness, or “behavior.”
This was his nervous system reacting the moment a demand entered the room — even a fun one — and protecting him from the pressure.
This was PDA.
✨ Walking the Line
I wish I could say I always get it right.
I don’t.
PDA parenting is a daily practice in learning when to step in and when to step back —especially in therapy sessions.
Physical therapy.
Occupational therapy.
Speech therapy.
All the places where adults measure progress, and where kids like mine feel pressure rising long before anyone else notices.
I can see it in his body before it reaches his voice:
- the stiffening
- the quiet eye dart
- the “I’m done” forming even before he says the words
I know what comes next.
He knows what comes next.
Sometimes even the therapist knows what comes next.
And still… everybody pushes.
I sit there silently debating:
Do I speak up and say “Stop, he’s done”?
Do I let them continue because he does need to get stronger for medical reasons?
Do I interrupt the professional with protocols and plans?
Or do I interrupt my child, who is desperately trying to hold it together?
That line is thin.
Some days we walk it beautifully.
Some days we stumble hard.
And when we stumble, it never feels like his failure.
It feels like mine.
I’m the adult.
I’m supposed to know the edge.
I’m supposed to advocate before everything collapses.
Advocating is hard.
Saying “stop” to a professional is hard.
Backing your child when others expect compliance is hard.
And a quiet voice whispers:
“If I truly understood all of this, wouldn’t he look better? Wouldn’t he act better?”
But here is the truth PDA teaches us:
**PDA isn’t just something the child lives with.
It’s something the entire family and community lives with.**
It takes:
- parents learning to trust
- therapists learning to adapt
- teachers learning to shift expectations
- relatives learning to understand
- and a child learning they are not broken for feeling what they feel
PDA is not a “kid problem.”
It’s a system experience.
Which means the solution cannot fall solely on the child either.
✨ Looking Back Without Shame
As the new year begins, I look back on all the times I didn’t understand —
all the moments I added chaos to his chaos because the world kept handing me tools that didn’t fit.
When you don’t understand something, it’s hard to navigate.
And when no one else understands it either?
You start to believe the problem must be you.
“If these tools work for all the other kids, why not mine?”
“What am I doing wrong?”
I remember when everyone insisted reward charts would work:
“A sticker for trying!”
“An M&M for sitting!”
“Make it fun!”
Except he didn’t want the sticker.
He didn’t want the M&M.
He didn’t want the chart.
It was too much.
Too pressured.
Too artificial.
And honestly?
It felt wrong to me, too — like trying to buy compliance instead of supporting his nervous system.
Why does a child have to earn a piece of candy?
Why not just… give the child the damn piece of candy?
Maybe that’s my neurodivergence showing.
Maybe it’s his.
Maybe it’s both.
Either way, the issue was never him.
The issue was the mismatch between the tools and the truth of how his brain works.
Once I stopped forcing what should work
and started honoring what actually does…
everything softened.
Everything shifted.
And that’s what this new year feels like —
a quieter, steadier hope.
✨ Next in the Series: What PDA Really Is (A Gentle, Real-Life Explanation)
Published January 6th.