When a child starts to struggle at school, at home, or in relationships, most parents do what good parents do: they seek help. They call the school counselor, ask friends for referrals, or look for someone online who “specializes in kids like mine.” The problem is, in today’s world, that often means walking into a system that’s quicker to classify than to understand.
When a parent says, “I think my child might be on the spectrum,” or “I’m afraid my son has ADHD,” they’re rarely looking for a label. They’re looking for answers, some understanding that makes sense of the chaos. But those answers are complicated, and sometimes the very process of diagnosis can cause as much harm as good if the therapist isn’t careful.
That’s why one of the most important questions parents can ask isn’t “What does my child have?” but “Who is the person helping us?”
Finding a Counselor Who Sees the Whole Picture
The best counselors don’t rush to conclusions. They take time to know the family, the home, and the child’s world. When I was referred a new client, I often didn’t want to read previous notes or diagnostic impressions before meeting them. I wanted to see the person for myself, to hear the child’s voice, meet the parents, and understand the school environment before letting anyone else’s description shape what I saw.
Once a counselor hears that a child “has conduct disorder” or “is on the spectrum,” it’s almost impossible not to see through that lens. Every question, every observation, becomes filtered through that assumption. And the same is true for the child. Once they hear that they are “disordered,” “abnormal,” or “a problem,” they begin to live the story others have written for them.
That’s the tragedy of labeling too early; it becomes prophecy.
The Limits of a Single Lens
Parents often rely on professionals for direction, and rightly so. However, not all therapists view the world through the same lens. Many today are trained in trauma-informed practice, which has brought great awareness to real issues of abuse, neglect, and PTSD. The danger is when this framework becomes a hammer and every child a nail. A therapist may look for trauma everywhere, interpreting every bit of acting out as a symptom of something sinister.
Sometimes, though, what we’re seeing isn’t trauma; it’s childhood.
Kids cry, lie, fight, get jealous, and push boundaries. They get moody when they’re tired and irritable when they’re hungry. Grandparents die, parents raise their voices, and sometimes kids get spanked or grounded. Those things aren’t always signs of deep trauma; they’re part of learning, testing, and growing in an imperfect world.
That’s not to say parents bear no responsibility; of course, we do. But we’re also human, and parenting doesn’t come with a flawless manual. A good therapist helps parents grow, not grovel. They balance empathy with empowerment.
My Time in the Group Home
For me, the lessons about how children change didn’t come from theory or textbooks they came from the years Dawn and I spent living with and working with children who had every reason to give up. We served as houseparents in a group home, raising kids who had endured more than most adults could bear. Some came with thick files of diagnoses and medication lists that read like menus. However, we chose to believe that if we could create a stable, structured, and loving environment, we could help change behavior, regardless of the individual’s history.
We were naïve, maybe. But we were also right more often than we were wrong.
We used clear routines, behavior charts, consistent expectations, and frequent laughter. And something remarkable happened: kids who had been on medication for years began to stabilize, calm down, and engage. We didn’t cure anyone; nothing needed to be fixed, really. We simply gave them a predictable world where consequences made sense and affection was guaranteed.
One of our boys, Tyrone, came to us angry and wounded. His mother was sick and unable to care for him, and he was the only Black child in our home, a reality that must have deepened his loneliness. On the surface, he was defiant and quick to anger. Underneath, he was just a boy who missed his mom and didn’t know how to say it.
One day, he got into a fight at school so intense that it took five adults to restrain him. When the school called, they warned our staff to send several strong men to pick him up. Instead, Dawn drove over, barely 110 pounds and 25 years old at the time. She walked into the school, looked at Tyrone, and said calmly, “Get in the van.” He stood up, said, “Yes, ma’am,” and left without protest. The staff was stunned. They expected muscle. What they saw was trust.
Our life in the group home was immersive. Every evening, I helped get the boys showered, tucked in, and settled before going to help our own children. Then Dawn would sit with the boys, reading to them until one by one they drifted off to sleep. It was a rhythm of order and affection, something many of them had never known before.
One night, with our own kids, Destiny and Brittany, spending time with their grandparents, we decided to make the evening special with movies, stories, and sleeping bags spread across the big family room. The boys loved it. Most of them, anyway. Tyrone stood in the hallway, arms crossed, refusing to come closer. He had learned long ago that distance felt safer than connection. Still, as the night went on and laughter filled the house, we saw him inch closer… first at the end of the hallway, then leaning on the doorframe, and finally sitting on the floor near the others.
By the time the last story ended, and the room was filled with the soft breathing of boys drifting to sleep, Tyrone was lying just a few feet away. When we woke the next morning, there he was, curled up between Dawn and me on the sleeper sofa. The boy who had resisted love had, in his own way, found his way to it.
We never saw his rejection or anger as abnormal. We saw it as longing in disguise. Every child wants to be close, even if it takes them time to admit it. They test boundaries not because they hate authority, but because they’re desperate to see if love will hold when they push. And when it does, something inside them softens.
That’s what real therapy looks like, too. It’s not about decoding every symptom or cataloging every behavior. It’s about waiting long enough for trust to grow; about meeting defiance with steadiness and pain with presence. Sometimes the healing isn’t in what you say to a child, but in what you’re willing to endure beside them.
What Parents Can Do
That experience taught me what every parent needs from a good therapist: patience, partnership, and the belief that change is possible.
When you’re looking for a therapist for your child, look for someone who sees beyond labels. Ask questions like:
- “How do you decide whether something is a disorder or part of normal development?”
- “How do you involve parents in the process?”
- “Do you meet the whole family?”
- “What do you believe helps children change most: insight, medication, or environment?”
You’re not interviewing a diagnostician; you’re looking for a partner. You want someone who listens with empathy, challenges with care, and focuses on growth over labels.
And if you already have a diagnosis, don’t let it define your child. See it as one piece of information, not a verdict. Watch how your child acts when they feel safe, structured, and connected. That’s where the truth lies.
Never Say “I’ve Tried Everything”
The most common phrase I heard from parents was, “I’ve tried everything.” And I’d always validate that feeling, because parenting a struggling child can be exhausting and heartbreaking. But quietly, I often thought, No, you haven’t tried everything. Not yet.
There’s always another approach, another conversation, another chance to stay consistent, to adjust, to reconnect.
Parenting isn’t about perfection; it’s about persistence. Structure and love still change lives. Consistency still heals chaos. And hope still belongs in the home, not just the therapist’s office.
Dr. Wesley