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When my eldest son was first diagnosed with ADHD, I felt like most of the support conversations seemed to orbit around mums.
The school spoke mostly to my partner.
Parent groups online were full of brilliant, exhausted mums trading advice and reassurance.
Every book, podcast and professional conversation felt like it was aimed at someone else.
It left me wondering, where are the dads in all this?
We’re here. We’re tired. We’re trying.
But we’re often doing it quietly, in the background, figuring it out alone.
And that needs to change.
If you're a dad raising a child with ADHD, you need support just as much as anyone else.
This isn’t about ego or pity. It's about being able to show up for your kid without burning yourself out in the process.
We don't always get a lot of space to talk about how tough this really is.
Society still wires us to be the steady one, the logical one, the solution-finder.
So when our child is struggling and nothing we're doing is “fixing” it, it hits hard.
I felt useless at first. My son would have meltdowns over nothing. I couldn’t calm him down. I didn’t understand the school reports. My brain defaulted to “sort it out” mode, but there wasn’t a clear solution.
That kind of failure builds quietly and painfully.
When you’re not expressing what you’re carrying, it turns inward. That shows up as stress, withdrawal, impatience, guilt, and in my case, low-level burnout that I pretended didn’t exist.
We need to drop the idea that support is something for other people. It’s for us too.
Here’s a truth that took me too long to accept: just being present counts for more than we think.
If you're getting up every morning, doing the school run, showing up at meetings, trying your best to stay calm when things go sideways, reading this blog - that’s more than something.
That’s advocacy. That’s parenting.
It’s easy to feel like you’re falling short because your partner is doing more emotional labour or is the one leading the ADHD research rabbit holes.
But supporting a child with a busy brain isn't about doing everything. It's about showing up consistently, being a safe presence, and learning as you go.
You don’t have to be perfect. But you do have to be there. And if you’re reading this, you already are.
I didn’t cry the first time I heard the diagnosis. I didn’t cry after the 1,000th meltdown.
But I do go quiet when things get too much.
I bury myself in distraction, overwork, and trying to pretend like things are fine.
But they’re not a lot of the time.
I’ve felt overwhelmed and underqualified. Resentful and angry. Not at my son, but at the situation we face everyday.
And for a while, I just tried to carry on like everything was normal.
Eventually, I realised that bottling it wasn’t strength, it was emotional debt.
You can’t support your child properly when you're mentally and emotionally maxed out.
What helped? Talking.
Not some massive heart-to-heart, just regular small conversations with people who might get it.
Another dad at school. A mate with a neurodivergent child.
Even just listening to a podcast that reminded me I wasn’t the only one going through this.
That helped more than I can say.
Here’s the thing: most traditional support spaces don’t fit the way dads operate.
Big Facebook groups, emotional Instagram stories, hour-long Zoom calls on child behaviour.
These are brilliant for some people, but often not the way many dads process stuff.
We tend to want short, useful, actionable stuff. Give me a five-minute read, a bullet-point checklist, or one thing I can do better today. Don’t ask me to bare my soul to strangers on a Tuesday night.
So we end up drifting. Watching from the sidelines. Consuming, but not engaging. And over time, that disconnection builds.
That’s why we need dad-specific spaces.
Not to exclude others, but to create something that feels comfortable and relevant.
Somewhere to be honest without judgement, swap stories, share what’s working (or what’s not), and walk through this thing together.
Here’s the kicker. When we don't look after ourselves, the people who pay the price are the ones we’re trying to help.
Tired, stressed-out dads are more likely to lose their temper, disconnect, or check out mentally. I’ve done all three, more times than I care to admit.
But when I’m rested, supported, and connected, I’m a different dad. I have more patience. I can see what’s really going on underneath my son's behaviour.
I can meet the chaos with calm (most of the time).
Taking care of your mental and emotional health isn’t selfish. It’s essential.
Your kid doesn’t need a superhero. They need you, with a full tank.
Let’s be real, support doesn’t have to mean therapy and journalling and group hugs (although all of that is brilliant if it works for you).
It can look like:
Small things. Regular things. Real things.
If you’re not the “group chat” type, that’s fine. You don’t have to announce it on social media. Just start small.
Here’s what helped me:
That was enough to open doors.
Dads of ADHD children don’t need fixing. We don’t need sympathy. But we do need space.
Space to be honest, to mess up, to try again, to connect, to reset, and to support each other through the chaos.
We need to stop pretending that we’ve got this all figured out. None of us do. And that’s OK.
What matters is showing up, staying in it, and building a life that works for your family.
One late bedtime, awkward conversation, or small win at a time.
So if you’re feeling alone in this, I promise you’re not. There’s more of us out here than you think.
You're doing better than you know. You’re still in it.
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