There are moments, as a parent, when something doesn’t quite land. Nothing dramatic is said and no big event happens. On the surface, everything looks fairly ordinary, and yet something in you pauses.
It might be a comment about your child, or the way their behaviour is described. A small interaction that seems to pass without question. And you find yourself thinking, almost reluctantly:
I don’t think that’s quite what’s going on.
For me, this didn’t arrive as a single, clear moment. It developed gradually, as a growing sense that something about my daughter didn’t fit the way it was being interpreted. She was around three or four, and there were increasing struggles that, from the outside, looked like not listening, ignoring, becoming deeply absorbed in her own world, and strongly pursuing her own agenda.
All of this could easily be read as typical for her age. And that is exactly how it was framed to me. I was told it was a phase, that other children were the same, that she seemed fine, that she just didn’t want to, that she was probably tired. Each explanation made sense. Each one reassured.
And yet, something didn’t settle.
It was difficult to explain, even to myself. Not a clear concern or defined problem, but more a sense of misalignment between what I was being told and what I felt I knew of her. I knew intimately her rhythms, her sensitivities, the way she moved through the world, and at times her responses didn’t quite match what was being assumed.
It felt as though something was getting in the way — like she wasn’t always able to respond in the way that was expected. There were moments where she seemed slightly behind what was happening, or moving through a kind of fog that no one else could see.
Other people were seeing what was most visible — her imagination, her independence, the way she could become completely immersed in her inner world. I already knew that her absorption, her dreaminess, the way she could disappear into that world, were part of her nature — something I had seen consistently across time, not just in those moments. But they weren’t inside the moments that sat alongside that — the ones where she seemed to miss things, drift away, or respond in ways that didn’t quite match what was happening around her.
When she spent time at nursery, I was told she liked to sit on the swing all morning, that she kept to herself, that other children sometimes bumped into her or pushed past her. It was all described as neutral, nothing of concern. And yet I knew she was curious, drawn to other children, interested in connection.
Again, it didn’t quite add up.
What followed was not clarity, but conflict. Alongside that growing sense that something wasn’t being seen came a wave of self-doubt. Maybe I was overthinking. Maybe I was worrying unnecessarily. Maybe I just couldn’t handle what was, in fact, typical behaviour.
There was a physical quality to that uncertainty — a tightness in my chest, moments when I would feel the heat of embarrassment when her behaviour didn’t align with expectations, a dragging desperation in my belly around not being able to reach her or fully understand what was happening. And underneath that, something deeper: the feeling that I should have known what I was doing.
I had trained in child development. I had worked with hundreds of children and families as a Speech and Language Therapist. And yet here I was, feeling as though I couldn’t communicate with my own child, nor make sense of her experience.
At times, it felt as though I was losing my footing. What I was sensing didn’t match what I was being told, and what I was being told sounded coherent, reasonable, and widely accepted.
Part of what made it so difficult to stay with my own perception was the inconsistency. Some days everything felt difficult and confusing, yet the next day she would seem completely fine. Even within a single day, things could shift. There was no clear pattern and no obvious problem, especially to those outside of close family. She was developing well in many areas, which made it easy to dismiss the moments of uncertainty.
So each time the feeling arose, it could just as easily fall away again — until it returned.
It took over a year for that underlying sense to become something I was willing to really stay with. Eventually, we took her for assessment and discovered that she had fluctuating hearing loss caused by glue ear, varying in severity across hours, days, and weeks.
Suddenly, things made sense.
The missed cues, the drifting, the apparent lack of response, the distance I had felt. It wasn’t random, and it wasn’t behavioural in the way it had been interpreted. It was her experience.
Looking back, what stands out most is not simply the hearing issue itself, but the period before it was understood. That space where something was being felt, but it was not yet recognised — where there was no clear explanation to anchor it, and where it was therefore easy to override what I was sensing in favour of more familiar interpretations.
How disorienting and alone that can feel.
This kind of moment isn’t limited to situations like this. It appears in many ways. A child described as “not listening,” when something about their attention feels different to you — less like choice, more like something else. A child whose sensitivities are brushed off as typical, while you experience their intensity more directly.
A child who appears socially capable and articulate, and yet something about their understanding or connection doesn’t quite line up beneath the surface. A child who struggles in groups and is seen as difficult, when what you’re sensing is overwhelm. Or a child who appears to cope well in structured environments, but falls apart afterwards in ways that don’t seem to be fully recognised.
Individually, each of these moments can be explained, normalised, and reassured away. But sometimes, especially when experienced from within the relationship, they carry a different kind of weight. They don’t quite resolve.
And in those moments, it’s very easy to move away from your own perception. We look for patterns we recognise, compare with others, and reach for familiar explanations. If something looks similar on the surface, it’s natural to assume it means the same thing underneath. And in a culture where expertise is often positioned outside of us, it can feel easier to defer than to question — especially when what we’re sensing isn’t yet clear or easy to explain.
So the moment passes. Or gets softened. Or set aside.
But sometimes, what you’re sensing in those moments isn’t confusion.
Sometimes it’s perception.
Not fully formed. Not yet understood. But pointing.
I’ve recognised this in other areas too. With both of my newborn babies, I was told they would need a tongue tie procedure. It was presented as routine and necessary, and there was no obvious reason to question it. And yet, there was a hesitation I couldn’t quite account for.
No clear argument. No well-formed reasoning. Just a sense that it didn’t feel right for them.
It would have been easy to override that and follow the recommendation. But I stayed with the feeling. And in time, both babies fed and developed well without intervention.*
* This isn’t a general recommendation to delay or decline treatment. In some cases, tongue tie can significantly affect feeding and early development, and intervention can be important. This was a specific decision in the context of my own children, where feeding was effective and closely observed. The point here isn’t what to do, but how easily our own sense of a situation can be overridden — even when something doesn’t quite add up.
Experiences like this began to show me something — that these moments, the ones that are least solid, least explainable, and easiest to dismiss, are often where something important is beginning to come into view.
This doesn’t necessarily mean that something is wrong. Often, it’s something more subtle than that — something that hasn’t yet been fully seen.
And this is often where clear seeing begins. Not with certainty, and not with answers, but with a pause. A slight shift away from immediate interpretation, and a willingness to remain with what doesn’t quite fit, even when it would be easier to move past it.
If you have felt this with your own child — that sense that something doesn’t quite add up, even if you cannot yet explain why — it may not be something to rush beyond. Not everything that matters is immediately visible, and not everything that is visible tells the full story.
Sometimes, the most important thing is simply this:
to notice the moment, and not look away from it.
If this piece stirred something, I’d love to hear.
Have you had a moment where something didn’t quite add up with your child — where what you sensed didn’t match what you were being told?
What did you do with that feeling?
Your reflections often help other parents recognise these moments too.
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This started for me in his first month of life. No dramatic moment, just a sense that something wasn't quite matching what I was being told. It took years, but we eventually got a 2e diagnosis. Reading this back was like finally seeing that early feeling named and taken seriously.
Thank you for sharing this. It’s such lovely, thoughtful writing. That quiet feeling of something not quite lining up, even when everything looks “fine,” is so real. I love how you stayed with it, even without clear answers. 💛