I Stopped Explaining What's Next and I Started Shrinking the Unknown

When my child asks "how long?" five times in a row, they're not being annoying or trying to rage bait me. Their nervous system loses its grip on time the moment it feels under threat. The question is the brain trying to find ground. Sometimes the questions can feel frustrating, being asked what day it is, what time it is, over and over. But those are often accessible moments of short, instant connection to reassure my child of my presence. Once I understood that, I started to practise more patience and started giving information differently.

I stopped explaining what's next. I started shrinking the unknown.

Time disappears under threat

Anyone in a threat response state, whether that's fight, flight, freeze, or fawn, can lose access to the part of the brain that processes time. My PDA brain and body can be running hot a lot of the time, so "in five minutes" can feel like an eternity or like nothing at all. I know this about myself and I see it in my children constantly.

Repeated questions aren't disrespect. They're our bodies trying to find a landmark. When my child asks me the same question about time or what's happening next, they're not trying to wind me up. They are trying to orient themselves in a world that feels unpredictable and unsafe. The information I gave them three minutes ago didn't stick because their nervous system was too activated to hold onto it. That's not a behaviour problem. That's a neurological reality.

Too much info, too much demand

As a parent to PDAers, I've often been encouraged to give all the details so my PDA children feel prepared. And I understand why people suggest that, because on the surface it makes sense. If they know what's coming, they'll feel safer. But for my PDA brain, and I've noticed for theirs as well, more information means more variables, and more variables means more threat. More demands. More overwhelm. This may not be the same for all PDAers, and I want to be clear about that.

The amount of info that helps my children and me is the amount we ask for. Not more. When I started holding back the details and letting them come to me with questions instead of front-loading everything, the overwhelm dropped. Not because I was withholding information, but because I was letting them set the pace of how much they could take in at any given moment. And that pace changes constantly depending on how their nervous system is tracking that day.

Saying yes now, no later

I'll say yes to something six months out and mean it completely. I really, really want to do the thing. PDA children might be asked to "promise" to follow through and in the moment, we'll agree. But is this really aligned with how we function, think, assess and process?

By the day before, my body can be in full panic about a thing I genuinely wanted to do. It's not flakiness. It's a future demand my present moment self can no longer carry. I've had to learn to stop committing to things too far in advance, and I've had to extend that same understanding to my children. When they say yes enthusiastically and then can't follow through, that's not dishonesty or manipulation. It's the reality of living in a nervous system where the future is itself a demand, and the weight of that demand changes depending on how much capacity is available on the day.

Show, and avoid explaining

I might leave out a photo of where we're going. Watch a short video in close proximity. Leave open a map. Images bypass the language demand and give the nervous system something concrete. But not when they're forced.

Sometimes what we need isn't reassurance. It's a picture, a visual, something concrete and real. I learned that language can be its own demand for a PDA brain, especially when there's a lot of it. Explaining, describing, preparing with words can actually add to the overwhelm rather than reducing it. But a photo left casually on the bench, a video playing nearby, a map open on the screen, those give the nervous system something to hold onto without the pressure of having to listen, process, and respond.

An anchor in the room

If I'm going somewhere new, can I bring a friend? A familiar object? My headphones? My iPad or device? My stuffies? Can I wear the same shirt I've worn for the past week?

Even one familiar thing in an unfamiliar place can be the difference between possible and impossible. Anchors aren't crutches. They're how we widen what we can do. So is asking someone to help me do something we both know I can do alone, because I'm asking them to meet me there to help me move forward.

I've had to unlearn the idea that independence means doing things without support. For my children and for me, independence often means having the right supports in place so that we can do the thing. The headphones, the stuffie, the familiar shirt, those aren't signs of dependency. They're the scaffolding that makes the new thing possible.

It's okay to say no

Sometimes the answer to uncertainty is: we don't go. And that's okay. Knowing I can opt out at any moment is what makes opting in possible.

This isn't failure or a lack of resilience. It's evidence that I am safer to try something that feels threatening, knowing I can land somewhere safe. Building a body of evidence that I am safe allows me to know I can try hard things. Forcing through does not build resilience. It accumulates distress that we carry in our bodies and dissociate from feeling. It can teach disconnection and build trauma.

I had to stop treating "no" as a problem to solve and start treating it as information. When my child says no, they're telling me something important about where their nervous system is at. And when I honour that no, when I don't push through or try to convince them or frame it as a missed opportunity, I'm building the trust that eventually makes yes possible. Not today, maybe not this week, but over time.

Less unknown, more now

The future is a long demand. The present is where I live. And when I stopped trying to prepare my children for every possible outcome and started just being with them in the moment they were in, the anxiety around uncertainty started to soften. Not disappear, but soften. Because they knew I wasn't going to force them into anything, and they knew that if it got too much, we could stop. That safety is what makes the unknown less frightening. Not more information, not more preparation, not more explanation. Just the knowledge that they are safe with me, right now, in this moment.

Kristy Forbes inTune Pathways