Parenting the Long Launch: Support Without Overstepping

If you’re a parent feeling confused, concerned, or just plain tired from trying to help your child launch into adulthood—you’re not alone.

Maybe your young adult is still living at home. Maybe they’ve started and stopped a few things. Maybe they’re full of ideas, but struggling to follow through. And maybe you’ve found yourself lying awake at night wondering: Is this normal? Are they okay? Am I doing too much? Not enough?

We’re in a new era of growing up. The old roadmaps don’t apply the way they used to. And it’s left a lot of families feeling unmoored.

Adulthood Isn’t What It Used to Be

There was a time when adulthood followed a fairly predictable path: finish school, get a job, settle down, start a family. Today’s young adults are navigating something much more complex.

They’re stepping into a world with more choices—and more uncertainty—than ever before. The pressure to find the right path can feel paralyzing. And while they may crave freedom, many also long for guidance, connection, and stability.

At the same time, we see so many parents offering deep emotional support… until they reach a breaking point. Suddenly, they’re swinging from understanding to ultimatums—“Get a job by next month,” “You can’t live here for free,” “We need to see progress.”

These reactions are understandable. They often come from fear and fatigue. But for the young adult, the shift can feel abrupt and destabilizing—especially when they were trying, in their own way, to figure things out.

This dynamic can also pull parents apart. One tries to stay soft, the other steps in with structure, and both feel misunderstood. Everyone’s trying to help—but they’re pulling in different directions.

A Story From the Early Days

When I was a young therapist (and definitely not mastering anything yet), I had a teenage client—let’s call her Emily. She had just graduated from high school and was looking for a job. She came into session one day, discouraged and angry that no one was responding to her applications.

When I asked where she’d been applying, I was surprised. Emily had no job experience, no references, and wasn’t customizing her applications. She was applying to office and retail jobs that typically required some kind of track record or connection.

Eventually, a kind manager from one of the stores called her back and gently suggested she try working at McDonald’s for a few months to build a resume and get references.

Emily was enraged. She came into therapy and said, “I’m better than that.”

I wanted to ask, “Better than what, exactly?”

It became clear she was operating under an inherited narrative—one that equated entry-level work, especially in fast food, with failure. Her parents hadn’t praised effort or process. They had emphasized status and outcome: “You don’t want to spend your life working at McDonald’s.”

Let me be clear: I have nothing against working at McDonald’s. In fact, it’s often the exact kind of job that teaches grit, teamwork, time management, and resilience. The issue wasn’t the job—it was the internalized shame.

Instead of encouraging her to take a step and learn through doing, her environment had taught her to avoid anything that didn’t look impressive from the outside. But launching into adulthood almost always involves humble beginnings. We can either teach our kids to fear those, or help them see value in every step forward.

Let’s Talk About the “Find Your Passion” Myth

One belief that quietly undermines progress is the idea that young adults must first discover their passion—and then pursue mastery. But in truth, very few people start their lives knowing exactly what they’re meant to do.

More often, we find meaning through doing. We follow a thread of interest. We build skill. We make mistakes, adapt, grow—and only then does something begin to feel like purpose.

Expecting instant clarity can leave young adults stuck. It’s okay to start with “interesting enough.” The act of showing up, learning, and sticking with something is often what creates passion—not the other way around.

What Actually Helps

If you're a parent looking for steady, compassionate ways to support your child’s launch, here are a few approaches that work:

• Focus on how they’re showing up—not just what they’re doing.Progress doesn’t always look like a perfect job or college enrollment. It often looks like resilience, consistency, and small steps forward.Example: If your child is working at a coffee shop and unsure of their future, acknowledge the value: “I admire how you’re showing up every day and learning to manage stress and responsibility. That matters.”

  
  

• Celebrate effort, not just outcomes.Sometimes the biggest win is that they kept going.Example: After a string of rejections, say: “I know that’s discouraging. I’m proud of how you’re sticking with it. That takes strength.”

  
  

• Offer boundaries with warmth and clarity.Support doesn’t mean endless flexibility—it means clear expectations delivered with compassion.Example: “We’re happy to have you stay while you’re figuring things out. As part of that, we’re asking you to contribute $200/month and have a job-search plan in place by June. We’re here to help you stick with it.”

  
  

• Encourage exploration without pressure.They don’t need a five-year plan. They just need a next step.Example: “Not sure if marketing is right for you? Try an online course or talk to someone in the field. Just take a step, and we can see what comes from it.”

  
  

• Stay on the same team—as co-parents and as a family.When parents disagree on how to help, it can leave young adults feeling caught in the middle.Example: “We’ve talked, and we both agree that the goal is to support you becoming more independent. That means some structure, and also some space to figure things out. We’re in this with you.”

  
  

We See You—All of You

At Little Bear Counseling, we sit with families in this exact place all the time. We see parents who are scared, loving, worn down, and desperately wanting to do the right thing. We see young adults who are sensitive, overwhelmed, frustrated, and deeply unsure of themselves.

And almost always—they want the same thing. Forward motion. Confidence. Relief. A sense that they’re not alone.

But without clear communication or aligned expectations, everyone starts working at cross-purposes. The result? Hurt feelings. Resentment. Sadness. Disconnection. Even heartbreak.

It doesn’t have to stay that way.

A Different Kind of Adulthood

Now, we could wrap this up with some neat, comforting phrases like, “You’re not failing,” or “You’re not behind.” And while those lines might feel good for a moment… they’re not always true.

And honestly? You deserve better than empty platitudes.

The truth is—some parents are over-functioning, or under-supporting, or swinging between the two. Some young adults are behind where they could be. Some haven’t had the structure, insight, or tools they needed. Others have had them, and still feel stuck.

But the answer isn’t blame—it’s curiosity. It’s reflection. It’s asking: What might need to shift—in me, in us—for this to move forward?

Adulthood today is a slower, messier stretch. It’s not just about milestones—it’s about the ability to stay with discomfort, to make repairs, to take the next brave step even after falling short.

No one gets to do this perfectly. But we can all participate in the process of growing.

Let’s drop the shame. Let’s name what’s not working. Let’s try something new.

Let’s help this next generation not just become adults—but become whole.

“Do I Have ADHD or Autism?” Why Thoughtful Testing Matters

If you've ever scrolled through social media and thought, "Wait... that’s me," you're not alone.

So many people—especially women and folks who were missed in childhood—are finally seeing themselves reflected in posts about ADHD or autism. It can be incredibly validating. For some, it's the first time their struggles with focus, overwhelm, emotional regulation, or social energy have a name. A story. A sense of belonging.

That’s powerful.

But here’s the thing we want you to know, gently and with great care: validation doesn’t equal diagnosis. And it’s so important that we pause and get it right.

What We’re Seeing

Diagnoses of ADHD and autism are rising—and with that rise comes an increase in overdiagnosis. Research confirms this. A 2021 scoping review published in JAMA Network Open analyzed over 300 studies and found strong evidence that ADHD is frequently overdiagnosed and overtreated—particularly in children with mild symptoms or those on the younger end of their school cohort.

But overdiagnosis isn’t just happening in kids. It’s becoming increasingly common among adults as well—often in response to real suffering, but without a full understanding of its origin.

And let’s be clear: this post isn’t meant to be inflammatory or to step on toes. It’s about transparency—because accurate diagnosis can change lives for the better, and rushed or incomplete diagnosis can create confusion, harm, and missed opportunities for real healing.

Why Is Neurodivergence Being Overdiagnosed?

This is a nuanced issue, but here are several key reasons:

• Broadening of diagnostic criteria: Definitions of ADHD and autism have expanded over time to be more inclusive. While this has helped many who were previously overlooked, it also creates fuzzier boundaries that can blur clinical clarity.
  

• Social media influence: TikTok and Instagram are powerful spaces of validation—but also oversimplification. Many people relate to traits associated with ADHD or autism, especially when overwhelmed, under-supported, or burned out. Under stress, it’s common for anyone to experience traits that look like ADHD:

  • Difficulty focusing or finishing tasks

  • Forgetfulness and disorganization

  • Restlessness or irritability

  • Avoidance of boring or complex responsibilities

  • Energy or motivation swings

  • Fast speech or impulsivity

  
  

  Similarly, burnout can mimic autism-related traits:

  • Social withdrawal or shutdowns

  • Sensitivity to light, sound, or touch

  • Strong desire for routine or predictability

  • Emotional flatness or rigidity

  • Difficulty with eye contact or attunement due to fatigue

  • Struggling to read others’ emotions while emotionally depleted

  These responses are real and worthy of compassion—but they don’t necessarily point to a neurodevelopmental diagnosis. They may instead signal trauma, anxiety, chronic stress, or nervous system dysregulation.
  

• Access to services: In many settings (ex, schools), a diagnosis is the ticket to receive accommodations, therapy, or medication coverage. Sometimes it’s the only path to getting help.
  

• Cultural trend: Diagnoses rise and fall in cultural visibility. Just as we saw a spike in bipolar diagnoses in the 2000s, we’re now in an era where ADHD and autism are more visible and socially normalized, making them more likely to be considered—even prematurely.
  

• Limited clinician training: As LCPCs, LMFTs, and LCSWs, we are legally allowed to diagnose. But the truth is that most of us had one course during graduate school that attempted to cover a wide range of disorders and assessments. That doesn’t make us specialists in neurodevelopmental conditions.
  

• Symptom overlap: Traits like emotional dysregulation, executive dysfunction, and sensory sensitivity can show up in trauma, anxiety, depression, or high stress—not just ADHD or autism. Without a thorough intake and differential assessment, it's easy to misdiagnose.
  

A Story That Stays With Me

I’ll never forget Brian.

Brian was one of the most traumatized clients I’ve ever supervised care for—his story was intense, layered, and deeply heartbreaking. He struggled with social anxiety, depression, and active suicidal ideation, which made perfect sense given his history of early neglect, abuse and abandonment.

Brian’s medical doctor referred him for an in-house mental health screening. He was assigned to an intern, supervised by an LCPC. In a 45-minute session, Brian was given a brief screen for ADHD and autism—and “tested positive” for both.

His therapist (seeking consultation with me) was surprised. “How did I miss this?” she asked. I was baffled too. I encouraged her to go back and ask if a full history had been taken or whether assessments for trauma, anxiety, or depression had been included. The answer was no.

Still, Brian embraced the diagnosis. He felt seen—something he had rarely felt before. And for a time, it helped.

But six months later, that intern and supervisor had moved on. A new therapist reviewed the file and questioned the diagnosis, requesting a more thorough evaluation before continuing treatment. Brian was referred to a psychiatrist, who intentionally ignored the previous assessment to avoid bias.

This time, the evaluation came back negative for ADHD and autism. Instead, it confirmed trauma-related disorders.

Clinically, this felt right. His therapist and I were relieved. But Brian was devastated.

The validating identity he had clung to was stripped away. He returned to feeling like a broken, misunderstood child—confused, abandoned, and full of shame. He felt as though the one thing that had made sense was taken from him. This hasty diagnosis actually set Brian back months in the good therapy he had been doing.

“Isn’t It Kinder to Just Say Yes?”

We hear this question sometimes—especially from well-meaning clinicians and family members:If someone feels validated and seen by a diagnosis, and gets the services they need, isn’t it kinder to just go with it—even if it’s a little fuzzy?

We get it. We really do.

But here’s why it’s not always kind—even when it feels compassionate in the moment:

• Misdiagnosis leads to mistreatment. When we treat ADHD but the real root is trauma, we might soothe some symptoms while reinforcing disconnection or avoidance—missing the chance for deeper healing.
  

• It can destabilize identity. A diagnosis that is later reversed can leave a client feeling duped or ashamed, undermining their ability to trust themselves—or future providers.
  

• It follows them. Diagnoses aren’t just emotional—they live in medical records, insurance databases, and future provider notes. A mislabeling can affect someone’s access to care for years. Additionally, it can impact career prospects as well as life insurance coverage.
  

• It can become a bypass for emotional responsibility. We’ve seen diagnoses used—sometimes unintentionally—as a way to sidestep deeper growth. When everything is explained through a diagnostic lens, it can stall accountability and complicate relational repair. Clients may struggle to recognize their impact on others, thinking, "This is just how my brain works," rather than, "This is something I can work on."
  

• It breaks trust. When a diagnosis is later called into question, clients can feel abandoned and betrayed. Even when the clinical picture becomes clearer, the emotional fallout can be painful.
  

So no—kindness without accuracy is not always kind.True care means slowing down. Asking more questions. And sometimes saying, “I don’t know yet, but I want to keep exploring this with you.”

About Medication and the Allure of Relief

It's also worth noting that most people feel better on stimulant medications—whether or not they have ADHD.These meds increase focus, energy, and motivation, especially in folks who are exhausted or overwhelmed. But a positive response to medication does not confirm a diagnosis. It simply shows that the medication had an effect—which is true for nearly everyone.

What We Recommend

If something in you resonates with the language of ADHD or autism, we’re not here to dismiss that. You’re not imagining your pain or your patterns. There’s real wisdom in what you’re noticing.

We just want to make sure that if a label is offered, it’s accurate, earned, and rooted in the full story of your life—not a 45-minute session or a checklist.

At Little Bear Counseling, we approach diagnosis with care, collaboration, and humility. We listen closely. We slow down. And when needed, we refer to psychologists or psychiatrists who are trained in in-depth, multi-method assessments. Because your diagnosis—if there is one—should feel right, not just relieving.

You deserve clarity. You deserve to feel seen.And you deserve support that honors the full complexity of who you are—not just what you’re struggling with.

Cringe Attacks Aren't Just Quirky-They're Often A Symptom of Something Deeper

I came across an article about “cringe attacks” in a popular publication recently. At first, I was intrigued—who hasn’t had one of those moments, when you’re folding laundry or trying to fall asleep, and a wave of embarrassment crashes in out of nowhere? But as I kept reading, I felt myself growing frustrated. The piece described these experiences in a lighthearted, almost whimsical way, offering tips to simply shrug them off.

But here’s the thing: people who can easily let things go and be kind to themselves aren’t usually the ones stuck in loops of self-criticism.

For many of us—and certainly many of my clients—these moments aren’t just embarrassing. They’re crippling. They don’t feel like a funny flashback. They feel like a full-body emotional storm. And often, they come with a crushing internal narrative that’s been rehearsed for years.

Cringe attacks aren’t quirky; they’re often a signal of something deeper. Maybe we grew up needing to be perfect to feel safe or lovable. Maybe we internalized harsh expectations that still govern our sense of worth. Maybe we’ve simply never been taught how to relate to ourselves with warmth and understanding.

So, what do we do when that old memory hits like a freight train?

Here are five ways to respond—not to make it go away, but to meet it with more honesty and care:

1. Name what you feel.

Instead of minimizing, dismissing, or trying to push the feeling away, see if you can gently name it. What is the feeling? Use words that land for you. For me, it’s often just embarrassment, or even the simple phrase: “I feel bad.”

That alone can slow the spiral and bring a little steadiness. Naming our experience helps us shift out of self-judgment and into self-connection.

2. See if you can offer the cringe some kindness—gently.

Rather than jumping in to fix or reframe the memory, pause and notice how much it hurts. This isn’t just about an awkward moment—it’s about feeling unworthy, exposed, or fundamentally flawed.

Can you feel some kindness toward the part of you that feels small, hurt, or embarrassed?

If that feels like too much, that’s okay. You might try directing that kindness toward a younger version of yourself—the kid who felt ashamed on the playground, or who didn’t know better and wanted so badly to belong.

And if even that feels out of reach, that’s okay too. Instead, imagine a child you love—your own, a niece or nephew, your friend’s child—someone who has probably felt this same kind of hurt. See if you can feel warmth or tenderness toward them in their moment of embarrassment. That feeling counts. That’s the doorway.

3. Offer a moment of comfort to the cringe.

If it feels okay, place a hand on your heart or another spot that feels tender. Feel the warmth and weight of your own touch. Let yourself be with what’s happening, without rushing to fix it.

You can say a mantra—gently, softly, to yourself, your younger self, or a hurting child you care about:

“Hello you. You are hurting. And it is hard. This is a moment of suffering. But in this moment of suffering, may you be safe, may you find peace, may you find comfort, may you know you will be ok.”

You don’t need to believe every word right away. You’re simply practicing the act of showing up for yourself with tenderness. That act alone can shift something deep inside.

4. Extend the feeling to others.

If it feels right, imagine the millions of other people who have felt something similar—who’ve cringed in the shower, winced in traffic, or stayed up late replaying an old mistake. You’re not alone in this. Not even close.

You can even say the mantra to them, just as you would to someone you care about:

“Hello you. You are hurting. And it is hard. This is a moment of suffering. But in this moment of suffering, may you be safe, may you find peace, may you find comfort, may you know you will be ok.”

Let your heart recognize the shared experience. That connection softens the pain and brings a sense of belonging right when we most need it.

5. Let it be witnessed.

Embarrassment thrives in silence. So try the brave act of sharing it. Tell someone you trust. Choose someone who won’t minimize it, but also won’t let you stay stuck in it.

A friend, a therapist, a partner who can meet your story with warmth and “me too” energy can shift the whole experience. We’re not meant to metabolize this stuff alone.

At the end of the day, cringe attacks connect us to the part of ourselves that longs to be good, worthy, and accepted. That longing is sacred. It deserves tenderness, not ridicule.

Let’s stop treating these moments like punchlines—and start treating them like portals. If this resonates, you’re not alone. This is the kind of work I support clients with every day. If you’d like to learn more about working with me or my team, reach out here.