I recently listened to a podcast discussing how labels can become limiting.
The host was talking about the labels we give ourselves.
"I'm just an anxious person."
"I'm not disciplined."
"I'm bad with money."
Once we adopt a label, our brains become remarkably good at finding evidence that confirms it. Psychologists call this confirmation bias. We begin noticing all the moments that support the story we've been telling ourselves while overlooking the ones that don't.
It made me wonder...
What about the labels we hold for our children?
Autistic.
ADHD.
PDA.
How do those labels shape not only how others see our children, but how we see them? How do they influence what we believe is possible?
When my son was diagnosed with autism at age four, he was exactly the same smart, quirky little boy he'd been the day before.
But almost overnight, my brain started telling a different story about his future. The diagnosis became a lens through which I viewed him, and without realizing it, I began placing limits on what I imagined was possible for his life.
For a long time, I rarely shared his diagnosis. Partly because I didn't yet understand what autism meant for my son or know how to explain it to others. As the saying goes, "If you've met one person with autism, you've met one person with autism."
But I also worried about what the diagnosis would mean to other people.
Would teachers expect less?
Would people make assumptions about him?
Would they make assumptions about me?
Then someone shared a quote I'll never forget:
"How you hold it will be how others hold it."
That sentence really resonated.
It reminded me that before I could help others understand my son, I first had to make sense of the diagnosis for myself—not through the lens of other people's fears or assumptions, but through my own experiences and beliefs.
That understanding turned out to be far more nuanced—and far more hopeful.
Today, when I hear the word autism, it doesn't carry the weight it once did. To me, it's a useful label that describes a collection of characteristics. Helpful? Absolutely. The whole story? Not even close.
I still think labels have an important place. They help us recognize patterns, access support, guide treatment, build community, and sometimes replace frustration with understanding.
But they can also quietly narrow what we notice—and, in turn, what we believe is possible.
I still notice my brain reaching for labels—about my son, myself, and other people. But instead of treating those labels as the whole story, I try to recognize them for what they are: my brain trying to make sense of a complex world.
And I remind myself there's always more to the story.
Holding a label lightly doesn't mean pretending it isn't real. It means remembering it's one view—not the only one.
When we loosen our grip on a label, it's as though we zoom the camera out. The label is still in the frame, but it no longer fills the entire picture. We begin to notice other things that were there all along—strengths, growth, resilience, joy, interests, and possibilities that were easy to miss when we were holding so tightly to a label that it filled the entire frame.
That's what holding a label lightly means to me.
Use it when it's helpful.
Set it down when it isn't.
Let it deepen your understanding, but don't let it be the only lens you look through.
Want More Support?
If you'd like help navigating the challenges of parenting neurodivergent kids—or simply want support for your own emotional wellbeing:
• New clients can schedule a free 30-minute consult through my scheduling page
• Existing clients can book sessions through the client scheduling page
– Jenn