We have a collection of orchids in our home. Not a collection of Orchid Kids (I have only one of those). I mean actual orchid plants. People always seem to gift them to me, often with a wink and a nod to the phrase Raising Orchid Kids. And while I genuinely love orchids, both the plant and human varieties, I feel a particular, and perhaps metaphorical, pressure to ensure that they thrive.
I have four orchid plants that have flowered and then regrown their stems a couple of times, and every time they complete their blossom lifecycle, I worry. Will they bloom again? Am I watering them enough? Too much? Is this spot sunny enough? Too sunny? There are so many variables.
This past summer, we moved six states north, and when we landed in the Boston suburbs, I did my best to guess the right location for them, somewhere that might replicate the magical spot they’d enjoyed in D.C., where they regenerated and blossomed year after year. Their past blossoms were long gone, and I wasn’t sure they would come back. It felt like we’d been waiting forever for a new stem to sprout from the recesses of the plant’s leaves. I checked daily—nothing.
Then suddenly, last week, I noticed that ALL FOUR plants had tiny baby stems emerging, signs of successful regeneration and the promise of new blossoms. I smiled instinctively and felt actual joy that these little plants had traveled across six states and still managed to fulfill a potential I had been patiently (and perhaps anxiously) hoping for. And in that moment, it really struck me how fitting it is that we call our neurodivergent kids and teens “orchids.”
As I stood there admiring those new stems, it struck me how familiar that feeling was: the waiting, the wondering, the quiet anxiety of not knowing what’s happening beneath the surface. Orchids can seem dormant or stagnant in their growth for longer than feels “right,” and we often start to doubt our instincts. We begin to ask ourselves the same questions on repeat: Am I doing enough? Am I doing too much? Do they need something different? Is there a variable I’m missing?
Parenting a neurodivergent child often feels exactly like this.
We do our best to provide what they need. We work to create predictability, help them with emotional regulation, find spaces for connection, give them room to authentically be themselves. And yet so often, the “growth” we expect will come as the result of our careful curation of as much of their lives as possible simply doesn’t show up right away. The world around us moves quickly, and it’s hard not to compare our child’s timeline with those of their peers who seem to bloom effortlessly on schedule. Meanwhile, our Orchid Kids may be gathering strength invisibly, learning slowly, recovering from overstimulation, or resting deeply in ways we don’t always recognize.
Like my floral orchids, Orchid kids’ development can stall, pause, regress, or leap forward in surprising bursts. One season looks quiet; the next, a new stem emerges seemingly out of nowhere. We may see growth one day and then what seems to be regression the next. It can feel like a defeat, which is understandable. But have faith – they are growing and learning along their own timeline. Growth for Orchid kids is often nonlinear.
What I’ve learned, both from my plants and my Orchid child, is that growth rarely happens on the timeline we imagine. Progress is often found in subtle shifts, that if we’re poised to notice, we can begin to see more regularly. It might be a moment of regulation that didn’t exist before, a new tolerance of something that was previously a no-go, a skill attempted again after months of frustration, a moment of surprising flexibility, or a conversation that unfolds with more ease than expected.
Our role, for both plant and human Orchids, is not to force blooming, but to set up and enhance the conditions that make blooming possible:
- Consistency and predictability that help our kids feel safe and regulated.
- Warmth and connection that keep their nervous systems grounded.
- Respect for their sensory needs that others might dismiss as “extra” or unnecessary.
- Supportive environments that reduce overwhelm and provide space to honor who they are and how they recharge and reset.
- Patience, which can sometimes feel uncomfortable, that trusts that growth is happening even when we can’t see it.
Because the truth is: Orchids don’t bloom on command. And neither do Orchid kids.
Yet when those new stems appear, when the progress finally becomes visible, it feels pretty magical. Not because it happened suddenly, but because it happened through quiet perseverance, steady care, and faith in something we couldn’t always see.
When our Orchid kids bloom, whether it’s a new milestone, a breakthrough, a newfound confidence, or simply a moment of being more fully themselves, if we can position ourselves in a space to notice, we can feel that same heartwarming sense of magic. And, as we like to say around here, keep your expectations aligned with what your child has shown themselves capable of doing, grounding our support in the “Just Right Challenge.”
If they’re provided the right environment, support and nourishment, our Orchid kids will find their way to blossom, in their own way and on their own beautifully unique timeline.
Warm wishes,
Jen
Photo by Gabe Pierce on Unsplash