by Dr Amy Homes, CEO & Senior Clinical Psychologist at Shore Psychology 

If you’ve found yourself wondering whether your child might be neurodivergent, you’re not alone. Many parents reach this point after months, sometimes years, of noticing patterns that don’t quite fit: big emotional reactions, sensory sensitivities, social struggles, or challenges with attention and/or impulsivity. Is it ADHD? Autism? Anxiety? A mix of things? And where do you even begin? 
Many parents worry if an assessment is the right next step for their child. As a parent of a neurodivergent child, I understand these fears— and how complex the decision can be. 

Start with the right question: what’s going on for my child? 
A good assessment isn’t just about getting an answer. It’s about making sense of the whole picture: your child’s strengths, challenges, and the environments they’re navigating. 
ADHD and autism can overlap, and some traits can look similar. For example, a child who appears distracted may be struggling with anxiety, sensory overload, or social stress. 
That’s why a high-quality assessment should explore context as well as symptoms. 

What should a thorough neurodiversity assessment include? 
A reliable assessment needs to be detailed, evidence-based and carried out by a qualified clinician with experience of working with children and young people. The clinician should take time to understand your child’s story (not rely solely on questionnaires), consider information from school, and spend time with your child in person. A quality assessment should also take into account how children might present differently depending on the environment. 
At Shore Psychology, assessments follow NICE guidelines and are delivered by an experienced multi-disciplinary team. This matters because it brings more than one professional perspective, helping us build a rounded understanding and draw clear next steps. 
Families often tell us the difference is in the depth and thoroughness of our assessments—we take the time to understand the ‘why’ behind the difficulties, not simply naming them. 

By Alice Beveridge

Every house has a morning routine. A rhythm. Patterns of behaviour that, over the years, form your household norms. They are different for everyone. In my house, until recently, it included the phrase: “Where are your shoes?!” 
Followed shortly after by: “No… seriously, where are your shoes?!”
Followed by: “I literally put your shoes here last night, where have they gone?!”

This fiasco always ended the same way. With me panicking that my nine-year-old was about to miss the school bus, which I should point out inconveniences me far more than it does him. He couldn’t give a toss. He has absolutely no sense of urgency whatsoever.

Now, as you scoff at my parenting style, I’d like to point out that my twelve-year-old gets herself up, dressed, fed, completes a full skincare routine that is more in-depth than anything I have ever achieved in my life, and gets herself to high school an hour earlier with no such hassle. And has done since she was six. (Although I’ll admit the skincare routine is new.) Same house. Same parents. Very different kids.

Every morning, this little shoe-related treasure hunt involved me searching all over the house, shoving the shoes on his feet and escorting him out to the bus stop with seconds to spare. At 8:18 he would wander, bleary-eyed and unfazed, onto the bus. I would turn around, sigh and take the dog for a walk before work.
Him missing the bus means I have to drive him to school, which messes with our perfectly crafted morning routine. It annoys the dog, which means he bugs me all day. It means I miss my cup of tea, which is unsafe for everyone I then come into contact with. The whole day just feels off.

Unwittingly, I had fallen into a trap. Even more frustratingly, it’s a trap I regularly work with others to break free from in their professional lives. I had become the architect of my own prison of enablement. I had inadvertently taught my son that he didn’t need to put any effort into finding his shoes, because he knew I would do it for him. And so the cycle continued. Until it didn’t. Until I let him miss the bus. Until I let him walk in late and have to explain why to his teacher.

This was in no way a shame tactic. It was the application of some very simple behavioural psychology. Actions have consequences.

Unless, of course, you repeatedly remove the consequences. Shelter people from them. Protect them from every discomfort or adversity that comes along. Which is a very natural instinct for many of us. To love. To coddle. To protect. But as they grow, we can end up removing the opportunity to experience what is, in my opinion, one of the most important learning experiences of all. 

The opportunity to fail, to make mistakes and to deal with the consequences of our actions.
So one day, I took a stand. I didn’t participate in the search and rescue mission. In a shocking turn of events, he is perfectly capable of finding his shoes.

This kind of enablement is often referred to as learned helplessness. It shows up in lots of small, everyday ways. In children who immediately say “I can’t” before they’ve tried. In teenagers who give up at the first hurdle. In adults who quietly decide “I’m just not good at that” and never go back.

At the mild end, it looks like the twenty-year-long nonsense between me and my husband. Him wrapping gifts badly in front of me, safe in the knowledge I will fix it. Me stacking the dishwasher in a way that would make him lose sleep if he didn’t realign the clumsily placed bowl to his exact specification.

We do these things without thinking. To be helpful. To be kind. To keep the peace. But what we are really teaching is: you don’t need to try, because someone else will step in.

Martin Seligman, one of the founding figures in positive psychology, talks about the difference between learned helplessness and learned optimism. The belief that setbacks are permanent and personal, versus the belief that they are temporary and changeable. One leads to giving up. The other leads to resilience. And resilience doesn’t appear out of nowhere. It is built. Slowly. Through experience. 
Here is the uncomfortable truth…

If we never let children struggle, they never learn that they can cope. If we never let them fail, they never learn that failure is survivable. If we never let them be disappointed, they never learn how to manage disappointment.

We think we are protecting them. But often, we are just postponing the learning.

Because life does not remove consequences. It does not soften every edge. It does not step in to fix things. And one day, our children will be in situations where we are not there to rescue, to buffer, to tidy up the mess. The question is not whether they will face challenge. The question is whether they will trust themselves when they do.

We are not raising perfect children, we are raising capable ones. We are not trying to eliminate discomfort, we are trying to build capacity. We are not trying to make life easy, we are trying to make them strong.
Strong enough to try. Strong enough to fail. Strong enough to try again. And that starts in the small moments; the shoes, the bus, the forgotten homework, the wobbles. Not in the big dramatic moments, but in the ordinary, everyday ones.

​So yes, I have stopped the daily shoe hunt. Not because I don’t care. But because I care enough to let them learn. It’s time to let them find their own shoes. 

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Alice Beveridge is an applied positive psychologist, coach and speaker who works with schools, leaders and organisations to build confidence, resilience and human skills. She is also a mum of two, which means most of her learning is tested daily in the chaos of real life.
For more articles and advice like this you can follow Alice on Substack where she goes Beyond the Small Talk every week: https://substack.com/@alicebeveridge