Parenting a child with FASD required me to rethink many of the strategies I thought I had for raising children. I had to move away from parenting philosophies that are often based on compliance and instead focus on connection, capability, and understanding.

Many traditional parenting approaches assume that children can consistently meet expectations if they are motivated enough, such as reward charts, and positive or negative reinforcement.  As adults, we adjust our own environments and routines to meet our needs every day, like seek quiet when we are overwhelmed, postpone tasks when we are exhausted. Yet children are often expected to tolerate discomfort, suppress sensory needs, and comply with expectations regardless of how they are feeling.

Strategies that work well for neurotypical children may be ineffective, and sometimes harmful, for children living with FASD who have significant differences in executive functioning, memory, emotional regulation, sensory processing, and adaptive functioning. What these children need most is not more consequences or greater compliance, but a community who is willing to look beyond behaviour, understand the brain-based challenges driving their responses, and adapt expectations to match their developmental needs.

Children with neurodevelopmental differences like FASD often receive significantly more criticism than their peers, some estimates suggest up to 20,000 additional negative comments by the age of 10. They grow up hearing messages such as "sit still," "pay attention," "be more organised," or "do as you were asked." While often subtle and well-intentioned, these repeated corrections send a powerful message: that the way you think, learn, and respond is somehow wrong.

Over time, many tamariki begin to internalise these experiences. They learn to doubt themselves, question their abilities, and feel that they are constantly falling short of expectations. This can contribute to shame, anxiety, chronic stress, and eventual burnout from the effort of trying to meet demands that may not align with how their brain works. As a result, many become highly sensitive to criticism, disappointment, rejection, and perceived threats to their relationships and sense of belonging. Their reactions are often understood as behavioural, when in reality they may reflect years of accumulated experiences of getting things wrong despite trying their best.

Understanding this changed everything for me. It shifted my focus from correcting behaviour to understanding the experiences, unmet needs, and neurological differences beneath it. Instead of asking, "How do I make my child comply?" I began asking, "What support does my child need to succeed?" Rather than focusing on consequences, I focused on building skills. Rather than assuming independence, I learned that some pathways simply need much more time, my daughter may need more support, and to hold different expectations of capability. FASD causes lifelong changes to the brain, but different does not mean less. It just means we need to build alternate pathways and create environments where children can thrive as themselves. We cannot shame a brain into functioning differently.

Many tamariki with FASD also experience significant sensory challenges. My daughter has additional diagnoses that make sensory input particularly overwhelming. A crowded supermarket, bright lights, scratchy clothing, unexpected noise, too many instructions at once, or even a change in routine can leave her feeling distressed and unsafe. At times she may lash out, shut down, or disconnect completely, not because she is choosing to misbehave, but because she is struggling to cope. What others may see as anger, defiance, withdrawal, or "bad behaviour" is often a nervous system that has become overloaded. For tamariki with FASD and other forms of neurodivergence, sensory responses are survival strategies. When we view these communication responses through a behavioural lens alone, we risk misunderstanding the child and reacting in ways that increase their distress, when actually they are attempts to regulate, protect themselves, or communicate needs when words are not available.

When we recognise that every child, every family, and every brain is unique, we create space for success to look different. When whānau are trusted to define what thriving means for them, rather than being told what it should look like, everyone benefits. Success isn't about meeting someone else's expectations—it's about recognising strengths, building supports, and creating pathways that work.

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This article is part of a series on FASD by parent and advocate Karena Findlay. You can read the other articles here

• What FASD advocacy looks like
• Self-care and managing burnout