A glimpse into what it really takes for us to enjoy the outdoors together.

Our family is made up of at least five people — though it’s often six or more, including the extra kids who roll with us.

I live with chronic illness and physical disability. My wife lives with bipolar disorder, migraines, and complex PTSD. All three — and sometimes more — of our kids are neurodivergent.

So when we head out into nature, it’s not a casual thing — it’s a coordinated operation. Think of it like prepping for a mission: gear is packed, sensory tools are loaded, meds are double-checked, backup plans are made.

Nature isn’t just fun for us — it’s medicine. It helps us regulate, reconnect, and reset. But getting out the door takes strategy, teamwork, and a whole lot of flexibility.

What Neurodivergent Nature Adventures Really Look Like

Loud noises, bright lights, overwhelming crowds — they don’t just annoy us; they require a huge amount of energy to deal with. That leaves us drained. Prolonged exposure like this leads to shutdowns or meltdowns.

We’ve learned to prepare for our adventures.

Channing brings his noise-canceling headphones and sensory-friendly swim gear when we go to the lake. Royce wears either his harness backpack or his life jacket depending on where we’re going. These give him freedom to explore while still managing his safety. Raeleigh packs snacks and water because she often misses her body’s cues until hunger or thirst shows up as an urgent need. I bring my cane, a folding camp chair, and open-ear earbuds so I can listen to an audiobook and still hear my kids.

Thy, my wife, brings her emergency anxiety meds, uses music to calm herself in the car, and isn’t afraid to take space — sometimes heading back to the van to regulate if things get overwhelming.

This is what it takes for us to show up and thrive in outdoor spaces.

🌿 Reminder: This isn’t a highlight reel.

I’m not perfect at this. None of us are. Recovery days are hard. Fights still happen. People get overwhelmed and sometimes snap. Plans get canceled because of pain. Sometimes my wife and the kids go without me. That’s part of the rhythm too — not every day is magic. But we keep showing up. We keep trying. And that matters.

How Nature Meets Us Where We Are

Nature is one of the few places where each of us can regulate in our own way.

Royce (1½):

Our youngest is full of energy and curiosity. He screeches like a pterodactyl when he’s excited — or overwhelmed — and sometimes melts down when he isn’t getting the right sensory input to stay balanced. And as his family, we’ve learned to read those cues and help him reset. His harness and life jacket let him explore safely without me needing to chase him. That freedom is huge.

Channing (11):

Channing is also neurodivergent and actively participates in occupational therapy to learn what works for him. He’s learned that the swimming helps regulate his sensory system, and he brings tools that support him — water shoes, goggles, and a life jacket. He also brings his noise-canceling headphones just in case. He gives soft hugs on days I’m overwhelmed, and he’s learning to understand his own needs while supporting mine.

Raeleigh (15):

Raeleigh has grown into my rock. She’s learned how to lead, care, and carry more than most adults — making dinner, helping with her brothers, and guiding our days when things get overwhelming. She also manages her own neurodivergence. She brings snacks and water, and she keeps a small backpack purse with essentials. One of those essentials? A set of markers she uses to draw on herself — a coping skill recommended by her doctor that helps her avoid self-harming behaviors.

Sylas (15):

My nephew Sylas is the muscle. He helps with loading gear, carrying the cooler, and pushing my wheelchair (no 👻 ghost riding permitted). He backs up Raeleigh with the baby and has learned that accessibility often means pitching in without being asked. And when he’s out of social battery? He self-regulates by skateboarding with his earbuds in or taking a nap to reset. We support that — just like he supports us.

Thy (my wife):

My wife lives with bipolar disorder, migraines, and CPTSD. Nature helps her stay grounded. She does the heavy lifting I can’t, helps me brainstorm and plan our trips, and steadies me when I crash. When we return home, she often takes the lead — making meals and getting the kids outside so I can rest. Her support doesn’t always look loud, but it is steady and vital. Mama Thy makes the whole thing possible.

Me (Mimi):

My body’s limits have changed. I can’t hike trails or explore caves with the kids. But I can hold down the campsite, organize meals, and plan nearby outings that include me. One activity I love is sitting at the picnic table with a sketchpad or paint while the kids play. Art brings me peace — and creating nature-inspired pieces outside is especially grounding.

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Neurodivergence in Motion

It means there are days when:

• Thy needs the music turned up, and I’m wearing my Loop earplugs.

• Raeleigh and Royce are digging in the sand, while Channing panics about how the lake bottom feels on his toes.

• Raeleigh needs a deep-pressure “squeezy” hug, and I can barely tolerate clothes on my skin from sensory pain.

We’re a family made up of sensory seekers and sensory avoiders — navigating the world side-by-side.

We’ve learned that helping each other regulate is part of being a team. It’s how we teach our kids to advocate for themselves and make room for others. With patience, humor, and heart.

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Final thoughts:

When we find the right fit, the outdoors doesn’t just become possible — it becomes amazing.

It teaches us to adapt. To be creative. To show up for ourselves and each other.

It heals us — mind, body, and soul.

❤️🌿 Mimi