The Unseen Hand
They say hindsight is 20/20. Looking back, I can laugh with my 22-year-old son about the many parenting missteps I made, all while navigating the uncharted waters of neurodiversity. But if I’m being truly honest, I didn’t do it alone. There was a hidden coach by my side the entire time—my wife. Patient, persistent, and wise, she guided me not with lectures or reprimands, but with quiet nudges, subtle insights, and infinite compassion.
Unbeknownst to me, I was being coached all along.
Fatherhood Dreams and the Shattering of Expectations
Before my son was even born, I already had a mental highlight vision of our future together: playing sports, roughhousing in the garden, cheering at football matches. That was my world—structured, competitive, and traditional. I followed the well-worn script from school to university to a professional career, ticking boxes and collecting accolades. I thought parenting would be just another arena in which to perform.
When he arrived, life felt on track. But by the time he was four, subtle signs began to unsettle my assumptions. He couldn’t quite catch a ball, struggled with fine motor skills, and his writing was nearly illegible. In France, where we lived at the time, teachers gently suggested seeing a psychometrician. The results: likely dyspraxia. He flapped his hands, had difficulty with handedness, and struggled with coordination.
I wasn’t ready to hear it. I did what many fathers do—I stuck my head in the sand.
The Sandcastle of Denial
My default response was to double down on effort. I convinced myself that practice would cure everything. So I became that dad—always armed with a football, always pushing a little too hard. To be fair, we had moments of success. He learned to swim, to ride a bike, to ski. But every milestone felt like a battlefield win rather than a natural part of growing up.
I kept dragging him into my world. Football first. Then field hockey. Tried cricket. Then rugby. I was relentless in offering him my passions. For a while, he went along. Perhaps out of love. Perhaps because he didn’t yet know how to say no.
But then came the day he finally found his voice.
“Dad, I’ve really enjoyed playing with you,” he said, “but ball sports aren’t for me. I like gaming.”
That was the first real crack in my ego. And the first real step toward change.
The Plonker Epiphany
In British slang, a “plonker” is someone foolish or inept. That was me. And I only truly saw it when I stopped resisting and started listening. My wife, a seasoned counsellor, had been gently pointing me toward a new way of thinking: shift from projecting what I thought he needed to understanding what he actually needed.
Gaming was his world—rich, complex, imaginative. And I had ignored it entirely. My wife, on the other hand, saw it for what it was: a bridge. A connection point. A way into his inner world.
So I started crossing that bridge.
The Door Opens – First Glimpses of Coaching
Like many families navigating autism and ADHD diagnoses, the road was bumpy. Confusing. Frustrating. Early assessments were inconclusive—some even guessed Tourettes. But eventually, we found our way to Leuven, Belgium, where a specialist quickly ruled that out and initiated a comprehensive assessment.
The result: Autism Spectrum Disorder with ADHD. And a recommendation to try Ritalin.
I remember the drive home vividly—my mind a whirlwind of questions, fears, and resistance. The idea of giving a young child a stimulant drug was terrifying. I even tried it myself (a hilariously ineffective experiment). But the results were astounding. Teachers noticed a difference almost immediately. The fog had lifted.
The breakthrough wasn’t just drug driven. It was also deeply emotional. For the first time, a professional—the brilliant Dr. Peters—offered to see us as parents. Not just to talk about our son, but about us. That hour-long session was my first conscious experience of coaching.
Dr. Peters wasn’t there to diagnose. He was there to listen, to reflect, and to guide. In that quiet room, I began to see myself and my relationship with my family more clearly.
Road Trips and Reflections
Every few months, we would drive 230 kilometers to Leuven for a one-hour session. To some, it seemed absurd. To us, it was golden. Those conversations provided not only professional insights, but a mirror in which I could finally see the complexity of my own role as a father.
Each visit was preceded by meticulous planning—again, led by my wife. Each return was filled with discussions, realizations, and practical steps. Dr. Peters didn’t “fix” anything. He empowered us to understand. To reframe. To parent better.
Looking back, I realize those road trips weren’t just therapy sessions for our son—they were personal development retreats for me. Coaching without a formal title. Growth disguised as parenting support.
Transformation Through Coaching
This journey slowly, then suddenly, changed me.
I learned that coaching isn’t always formal. It doesn’t always involve frameworks, contracts, or action plans. Sometimes, it’s about presence. Patience. Being listened to in a way that helps you hear yourself differently.
I started to see how my own ego had blocked my relationship with my son. I had viewed parenting as a projection of my identity—what kind of dad I wanted to be—rather than who he needed me to be. Through my wife’s gentle interventions, Dr. Peters’ insights, and the reflective space created by those long drives, I began to grow.
Coaching helped me become a better parent, not because it told me what to do, but because it helped me understand why I did what I did.
The Circle of Parents
While Dr. Peters gave us professional insight, and my wife offered constant, intuitive coaching, there was another quiet source of wisdom that became increasingly invaluable: other parents with similar challenges.
Their stories were grounding. Some were years ahead and could warn of the rocky terrain. Others simply said things that stuck. I listened to tales of small victories—taking public transport alone, cooking a meal, opening up emotionally. These weren’t milestones you post online. They were beacons.
I learned to realise it’s important to, “Always have faith”. Young people are extremely resilient and adaptive and we as parents just need to get out of their way!
We coached each other in informal, powerful ways. Empathy, truth, experience—it flowed both ways. I began sharing my own lessons too. Laughing at my plonker moments. Admitting my mistakes. And realizing that in helping others, I was reinforcing my own growth.
Empowering Our Son, Empowering Ourselves
Our son continued to grow—not just in age, but in confidence. With the right support at school (thank you, St George’s International School), the right accommodations, and the right guidance, he began to thrive. Not in the way I had once imagined, but in his own unique and brilliant way.
Gaming, it turns out, wasn’t a distraction. It was a form of self-expression, a domain where he could master complex systems, connect with others, and build confidence. Today, he has his own strategies for managing challenges. He knows how to ask for help. He understands himself better than I ever did at his age.
He is his own person. But he also had a team—his mum as the ever-present coach, his dad as the humbled learner, a sister to keep him true and a community of teachers and professionals who cared enough to learn with us.
The Ongoing Journey
I wish I could end the story with “and everything was perfect.” But life doesn’t work that way. Parenting a neurodivergent child is not a chapter—it’s a whole book. One with twists, turns, and sometimes frustrating cliffhangers.
Even now, at 22, he faces challenges. But he faces them with tools, with perspective, and with a foundation of love. And I, as a father, continue to learn.
One of the most profound lessons? That coaching is not a one-time intervention. It’s a lifelong process of becoming more self-aware, more curious, and more compassionate. It’s what allowed me to set aside my need to be “right” and instead be present.
Coaching helped me dismantle my ego. It helped me embrace humility. And in doing so, it helped me become the father my son actually needed—not the one I had imagined myself to be.
From Coachee to Coach
Today, I find myself naturally sharing what I’ve learned with others—other dads, other families, other professionals. I’m not an expert in autism. But I am experienced in the messy, miraculous process of learning how to love better.
My wife remains my greatest teacher, my invisible coach. And now, increasingly, my kids have taken over that role. Their feedback is honest—sometimes brutally so—but it’s always rooted in love.
And that, perhaps, is the greatest legacy of all: not that I coached my son & daughter, but that we grew together as a family. That we learned to see each other fully. That we laughed, stumbled, failed, and found our way—not despite the challenges, but through them.
If there’s a takeaway for any parent reading this, it’s this: The journey is long. The road is winding. But with the right support, a little humility, and a lot of love, it’s also deeply rewarding. And sometimes, the best coach in your life isn’t the one with the title—it’s the one holding your hand whether they be big or small. Never forget …..‘Have Faith’.
