The Emergency Contact

People think I’m calm.

They see me at soft play, crouched by the toddler with her neon socks and biscuit dust hands, gently explaining why we don’t lick the foam slide.

They hear me on the phone, confirming the referral, asking the right questions, sounding like someone who has it together.

They pass me in the school corridor, smiling, holding one child’s hand and the other’s backpack and making small, tired talk about the weather.

And they think:

Wow. She’s coping.

But I’m not coping.

I’m masking.

Hard. Constantly. Quietly.

In a way that no one ever warned me I’d have to do as a parent.

Because when you’re neurodivergent, and the default mode of the world already grates against your nervous system, and then you add children -

who need you

and climb on you

and melt down at the same time you’re melting down

but only one of you is allowed to

…something has to give.

And it can’t be you.

Not yet.

Not right now.

So you perform.

You filter your tone to sound soothing when your brain is screaming.

You contort your face into soft empathy while your own sensory threshold is howling for silence.

You say, “It’s okay, we’ll figure it out,”

even when you don’t know how.

I’ve said “you’re safe” through gritted teeth while my whole body wanted to run.

I’ve carried the weight of two sobbing kids, a bag of groceries, and a thousand unspoken thoughts, all while trying to look like someone who knows what they’re doing.

Because they need me to seem solid.

Even if I’m not.

I don’t get to stim when I want.

I don’t get to shut down when the lights are too bright and the toddler’s volume knob is missing.

I don’t get to melt down in public and have someone scoop me off the floor and whisper, “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

People say, “You’re doing amazing.”

And I smile. Maybe crack a joke. Maybe brush it off like it’s nothing.

They don’t see the tension I carry like a second spine.

The way I script full conversations in my head before answering a simple question.

The way my jaw aches from clenching through school runs, phone calls, bedtime.

They don’t see me in the toilet with the tap running, trying to breathe through the urge to scream.

Or counting tiles, distractions, anything, just to stay in control.

But I stay in control.

Because I have to.

Because they need me to.

And because falling apart in front of them isn’t an option.

Not yet. Not today.

So I tuck it in.

Tighten my jaw.

Hold the line.

Put on the voice that means everything’s fine, the one they believe, because I’m their anchor.

And I want to be their anchor.

God, I love them.

I would duct-tape the sky together for them.

But some days, it costs more than I have.

Some days, masking through motherhood feels like acting in a play I can’t leave, even when my lines run out.

And then they go to sleep, finally, and I sit there in the quiet, surrounded by crumbs and toys and half-done thoughts, and I take the mask off.

Or try to.

But it sticks.

Because I’ve worn it so long, I’m not sure where I end and the brave face begins.

I don’t want to fake it forever.

But I also don’t know how to show them my cracks when I’m still learning how to hold them without shame.

So I do what I always do.

I breathe.

I stretch the mask just wide enough to let love through.

And I keep going.

Not because I’m coping.

But because I have to.