A Different Kind of Brain and the Cost of Forcing Normal

I’m watching Netflix, half watching, half thinking, which is usually how these things go. I put the Eddie Murphy documentary on because I love a good documentary. Eddie Murphy was a big deal in my house when I was growing up. My dad loved him. Not just liked him, loved him. His humour, his energy, the way he filled a room even through a screen. Some of my earliest memories are of my dad laughing at Eddie Murphy movies, properly laughing, the kind that makes you forget everything else for a moment.

So watching this documentary feels nostalgic. Familiar. Like being wrapped up in something from another time. I’m halfway through when Eddie starts talking about his OCD. He describes how he used to go back and forth, checking the gas stove over and over again. Checking, rechecking, walking away, coming back. He talks about the noises he used to make too. Little rituals. Little things that felt necessary at the time.

Then he says he learned on TV that it was a mental illness.

And his reaction was immediate. No. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be that. So he forced himself to stop. He forced himself to stop checking. Forced himself to stop the noises. He just decided he wasn’t going to do it anymore.

That part sat heavily with me.

Because all I could see was my child.

One of my children is autistic, has ADHD and OCD. They stim. Always have and always will. All the stim’s we’ve gone through are a few over the years: They tap. They chew their hair. They tap the wall. They tap their head. They repeat movements. They check things. They need to know things are turned off. They need to double-check. Sometimes triple-check. And every time they realise what they’re doing, there’s this tension inside them. This frustration. They don’t like that they have to do it. They don’t want to be doing it.

My child desperately doesn’t want to bring attention to themselves, which they believe stimming does just that. They want to be ‘normal’.

And I reassure my child that they are normal. Over and over again. I tell them their brain just works differently. That different doesn’t mean broken. That they are fun and loving and kind and creative and thoughtful and special in ways the world doesn’t always stop to notice.

But my child masks.

They want to mask.

They force themselves to stop stimming because they think it brings attention to them. They think it makes them stand out. They think people notice. Even when no one else does. Even when it’s just us at home. My child forces themselves to stop, and it works for a while. A few weeks. A few months.

And then it comes back.

Not in the same way. Not the same stim. It always manifests into something else.

Maybe instead of tapping, they start doing patterned movements, turning around and sitting, then standing, a certain number of times before they can finally sit down. Maybe instead of touching their hair, they start checking doors or switches. It’s like the need doesn’t disappear. It just changes its clothes.

Watching Eddie talk about forcing himself to stop made me think about how often we celebrate that idea. Pushing through. Stopping behaviours. Controlling the brain. Beating something into submission. Especially when it comes from someone successful, talented, and admired.

But at what cost?

We’ve done four years of occupational therapy. Four years of tools and strategies, emotional regulation, and understanding my child’s body and brain. And it has helped massively. It really has. My child has more awareness now. More language for their emotions. More ways to cope. We use fidget toys, movement breaks, routines, and all the things that are meant to help.

And they do help.

But I’m learning that managing something is not the same as erasing it.

What breaks my heart is how much my child wants to erase parts of themself.

Not all of them. Just the parts that feel too loud. Too repetitive. Too noticeable. Too different.

My child doesn’t see their stimming as soothing or regulating, the way adults often describe it. They see it as wrong. As something to be stopped. Something to be fixed. Something that makes them not like their peers.

And I get it. The world teaches that lesson early and often.

So when Eddie says OCD is a mental illness and that he didn’t want it, it hurt. Not because he’s wrong in his own experience. Not because his story isn’t valid. But because I don’t see my child as mentally ill.

I see a different type of brain.

A brain that notices everything. A brain that feels deeply. A brain that needs repetition, movement, and certainty to feel safe. A brain that finds comfort in patterns, checks, and rituals because the world can be overwhelming and unpredictable.

When my child forces themselves to stop stimming, they aren’t suddenly calm and free. They’re tense. They’re holding it in. They’re waiting for the next thing to leak out sideways.

And it always does.

That’s the part I wish more people understood. Suppression doesn’t mean resolution. Masking doesn’t mean healing. Forcing yourself to stop doesn’t mean the need goes away.

It just finds another strategy.

Being a parent to a child who struggles with this is exhausting in a quiet way. It’s constant watching and adjusting and reassuring and reminding. It’s holding space for my child’s frustration while trying not to add to it. It’s encouraging fidgets and strategies without turning them into rules. It’s trying to teach my child that loving yourself includes the parts they wish they didn’t have.

Some days I feel like I get it right. Some days I don’t.

I want my child to feel safe being who they are. I want them to know that stimming is not stupid. That double and triple checking doesn’t make them weak. That their brain is not something they have to conquer. It’s something they can learn to work with.

I want my child to grow up knowing they don’t have to force themselves into silence to be accepted.

Watching that documentary reminded me how long we’ve been telling people that the goal is to stop. Stop the behaviour. Stop the checking. Stop the movement. Stop the noise. Stop being different.

But maybe the goal isn’t stopping.

Maybe the goal is understanding.

Maybe it’s about reducing distress, not erasing traits. About giving tools without teaching shame. About letting kids like mine know that managing their world doesn’t mean disappearing inside it.

My child is fun. They are loving. They are thoughtful. They are quirky. They are intense. They are sensitive. They are brilliant in ways that don’t always fit neatly into boxes.

My child is normal.

Not in spite of their differences. Because of them.

And I’ll keep telling my child that. Even when the world sends different messages. Even when documentaries hit close to home. Even when it’s hard.

Because I’d rather my child grow up learning how to live with their brain than believing they have to fight it their whole life.

About me

I am a married mother of four children. One of those children is our granddaughter, for whom we are legal guardians and kinship carers. I run a small business, and I love to write, which is how this blog came to be. I write about family life, kinship care, and my experiences living with chronic illness and disability, including ME CFS, spinal stenosis, TMJD, chronic pain, and fibromyalgia. I am also very aware that I am doing all of this in my mid-forties, which still surprises me some days.

You’re not alone here. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need.

Disclaimer: I am not a professional or medically qualified. I’m simply a parent sharing my lived experience of raising a neurodivergent child. Everything I write comes from our journey, not from clinical training.

• Is stimming something that should be stopped?

  I’m not a professional and can only speak from my own experience. Stimming is often a way for autistic children to regulate their nervous system. Forcing it to stop doesn’t usually make the need disappear. It often shows up in a different form, so supporting the behaviour in safe ways can be more helpful than trying to erase it.

• Why does my child’s stimming change over time?

  From what I’ve seen with my child, when one behaviour is suppressed, the brain often finds another way to meet the same need. The underlying reason for stimming doesn’t disappear, it just shows up differently.

• Is masking harmful for autistic children?

  I am not qualified to give medical advice, but in my experience, masking can help children manage certain situations. Over time, though, it can increase anxiety and frustration if it becomes the only way they feel they can cope.

• Is OCD a mental illness or a different way of thinking?

  I’m not a professional. From what I’ve observed in my child and reflected on in watching others, OCD can feel different depending on the person. For some, it is experienced as a mental illness. For others, especially when overlapping with autism or ADHD, it can feel like a brain that needs certainty and repetition to feel safe.

• How can I support my child without trying to change them?

  Speaking from my own experience, focusing on reducing distress rather than stopping behaviours, offering tools without shame, and reinforcing that being different doesn’t mean being broken can help children feel safe and accepted for who they are.

• What should I do if my child wants to stop stimming?

  It’s okay for a child to want to change how they express themselves, and it’s important to listen and support them. Offering alternatives like fidget toys, movement breaks, or safe ways to stim can help them feel in control without adding tension or shame.