They say we learn from the people around us.
When I was growing up, being part of the family meant participating in it. Washing and drying dishes. Hanging out clothes. Bringing in firewood. Feeding the chooks. As I got older, more was expected.
It wasn’t framed as character development. It was just normal life. You were included in it. You learned by doing. You were shown how, then gradually trusted to carry it yourself. It was preparation for independence, but it didn’t feel heavy. It just felt like belonging.
Now that I have teenage children, I find myself wanting that same steady participation from them. Not perfection. Not flawless compliance. Just a sense that this home is something we all help hold together. That daily life isn’t serviced for them but shared with them.
This is where things have become more complicated than I imagined.
I ask for more involvement – small things, ordinary things – and sometimes I’m met with reluctance, or delay. Or the pull of a screen that seems far more compelling than whatever needs doing in that moment. I repeat myself. My tone tightens. They push back. The temperature rises.
And in our home, neurodiversity adds another layer to that dynamic. Regulation isn’t always even. Transitions can be abrupt. Being interrupted mid-focus, especially mid-game, can trigger more than it appears to from the outside.
I’m reminded of that. And I do try to understand it.
But understanding why something is hard doesn’t remove the need to grow through it.
This has been the tension for me. How to hold compassion without dissolving expectation entirely. How to acknowledge wiring differences without allowing them to become permanent exemptions from participation.
Because what I value hasn’t changed.
I still value contribution.
I still value shared responsibility.
I still believe that learning to show up for ordinary tasks is part of learning to show up in life.
What I’ve had to examine more closely is not the value – but the expectation wrapped around it.
Often, my frustration isn’t about the task, it is about the feeling of being ignored. Or the shift in tone that suggests the request is unreasonable. That’s the moment something in me tightens. It stops being about dishes or laundry and starts feeling like respect is on the line.
And that’s when I escalate.
Lowering expectations, I’m learning, doesn’t mean lowering values. It means separating the timeline from the principle. Releasing the demand for immediate compliance. Letting go of the internal clock that says, “By this age, this should be achievable.”
It also means accepting that growth – especially in teenagers, especially in neurodiverse wiring – is rarely linear. It doesn’t unfold on my schedule. It doesn’t always look grateful. It certainly doesn’t look polished.
There are evenings where I still slip. Where I repeat myself too sharply. Where I let tone pull me into reaction. This hasn’t been an easy shift. It hasn’t come naturally.
But I’m beginning to see that pressure rarely produces the kind of participation I’m actually hoping for. Steadiness does. Persistence does. Modelling regulation does.
Family life isn’t about efficiency. It’s about formation.
The tasks matter – but not as much as how we move through them together. If I can hold my values steady while loosening my grip on how quickly they should appear in my children, something changes. The atmosphere softens. The lesson lasts longer.
Family life is long.
There is always hope in that length. Hope that what is modelled quietly will settle deeply. Hope that the ordinary, repeated actions of shared life will shine through in ways I can’t yet see. Our children are always full of surprises.
And if we stay steady in what we believe matters, perhaps more of those surprises will be the good ones.