H was buzzing about starting primary school. He loved his uniform, knew most of the kids from preschool, and the intake was a calm, manageable 17 children. I was cautiously optimistic. Finally, something might go smoothly!
SPOILER: It did not go smoothly.
We hit the wall almost immediately. Within days, H was overwhelmed by the monumental shift in his care setting, bursting into tears every few minutes. And not just tears of frustration—this was the kind of pure, visceral fear that makes your stomach drop as a parent.
Next read: To Push Through or Withdraw? Managing Your Child’s Stress for Long-Term Success
When Excitement Turns to Fear
Mornings quickly became apocalyptic. H screamed and clung to me like a baby marmoset at drop-off, absolutely terrified. Once at school, he’d freeze if a staff member so much as spoke to him, tears streaming silently down his face.
My mornings became a tangle of guilt and dread, wondering if I was irreparably harming him by forcing him to endure what felt like daily trauma.
It was clear this wasn’t a tantrum. This was pure survival mode.
Small Wins, Big Challenges
After a couple of weeks, there were glimmers of hope. Mrs. Honey, our saving grace of a reception teacher, made subtle but impactful accommodations:
- Letting H go into the classroom first to settle before the chaos began.
- Assigning him the same chair and tools each day for familiarity.
- Creating a visual timetable.
- Offering breaks when things got too much.
These adjustments brought down the hysterics a little and provided some peace to his school day. But at home? It was absolute Armageddon.
Meltdowns ruled the afternoons, bedtime was a sleepless mess, and mealtimes turned into complete refusal. H was stuck in a cycle of fear and overstimulation that left him utterly depleted and broken.
The Reality of Advocacy
It became glaringly obvious that H struggled with transitions, noise, and the sheer demands of the classroom. Assemblies were a nightmare, even with ear defenders. Every activity felt impossible for him, like being thrown into the deep end without knowing how to swim.
And yet, so many people’s advice boiled down to:
“He’ll grow out of it.”
“Don’t give in to his tantrums.”
But this wasn’t about tantrums. H wanted to go to school—he just couldn’t. It was like asking someone to climb Everest without any gear.
What We Needed to Change
We toyed with the idea of homeschooling, but realistically, I knew I couldn’t manage that. If school was going to work, it needed to be on his terms, and I was ready to advocate like my life depended on it.
This wasn’t just about H. At four years old, he was me. I had been that kid—dismissed, forced to mask, and left to struggle until dissociation took over by age seven. That wasn’t going to happen to him. Not on my watch.
A Mum on a Mission
I made a promise to myself: I would fight for H to thrive. Not just survive, thrive. If that meant emailing teachers, chasing meetings, or politely (read: aggressively) demanding change, I was ready.
Because this isn’t just about school. It’s about creating an environment where neurodivergent kids like H are seen, supported, and celebrated. He deserves that—and so does every other child like him.
What’s Next
This was just the beginning of H’s school journey. With each meltdown, adjustment, and small victory, we learned together how to make things work. And while it’s been messy, it’s also the most important thing I’ll ever do.
To all the parents out there fighting similar battles: Keep going. Your kid deserves it, and so do you.
In my next post, I’ll share all the work that went into making school a success for H. It almost broke me at times, but he’s worth it.
Read next: Autistic Masking: What to Do When School Can’t See Your Kid Isn’t Coping
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