Parenting Through Transitions: When the Journey Shifts.

The last day of term, the last day of school had arrived for my ASD son. That morning, I woke before the sun, my chest felt impossibly heavy, and yet, deep inside, a spark of pride flickered. Sixteen years of sweat, tears, second-guessing every choice—every EHCP meeting, every late-night search for the right support—had led us here. And in that moment, I understood: we’d made it.

Unexpected Emotions....

I expected joy, of course. But what hit me first was relief. The long, dark tunnel of fitting an autistic child into a rigid school system had finally given way. I felt like I’d crossed a finish line I didn’t know I would ever reach. My spine loosened, my shoulders dropped—only then did I realise how tight I’d been holding my breath all these years.

I’ve spent years carrying his anxiety, absorbing his frustration, and shouldering every interaction with the school system. My body remembers the tension: migraines born of endless worry, the tight knot of dread before each parents’ evening, the sleepless nights spent drafting appeals. My own health—mental, emotional, physical—has been bruised and battered. And then, as the school’s silhouette faded in my rear-view mirror, I finally felt the release of every breath I’d been holding.

I quietly tried to hold back my tears on the drive home, but still they silently rolled down my cheeks; I had perfected the art of crying unnoticed. The radio played a cheerful tune that jarred against the storm in my chest. It wasn’t just the end of school. It was the end of every uphill climb we’d faced together. Each teacher who told me how wrong my child was, and each time I advocated for him from a fire within … they all counted towards this moment of quiet triumph.

The Silence after the Storm....

There was no stage for a leavers’ assembly, no excited plans for prom, nor would there be a GCSE results day filled with hugs and high-fives. Instead, he slipped out of the school gates quietly, honoring his need for calm over spectacle. He never felt comfortable in bright lights and crowded halls, so we created our own ending: simple, private, just for us.

But yet as I watched proud parents sharing photos of daughters in ball gowns and sons in sharp suits, celebrating grades and accolades, it felt a world away. I felt a quiet ache. Not envy. Just distance. A reminder that our journey has always run parallel to theirs, never quite intersecting.

Their joy seemed effortless, effortless in a system that worked for their children. I felt lonely and isolated, as if I were watching someone else’s story unfold - but beneath that was relief.

For now, my courageous boy could rest, a break from trying to fit into a system that wasn’t built for him. He endured fluorescent lights, unpredictable timetables, crowded corridors, and the constant pressure to “fit in.” He navigated it all with a quiet courage I can barely describe. And I fought beside him. Every EHCP review. Every phone call to the SEN department. Every meltdown behind closed doors. Every time I had to explain—again—why he needed something different.

After years of struggle and fighting for us both, we didn’t get applause on the last day of school, a certificate of achievement, or acknowledgement of our success - just silence as we quietly slipped away. But we got through. And that, to me, is monumental.

Maybe that is because they didn't understand what the journey looks like for a SEN child who has to battle through, or because those who do are also in the shadows, observing, recovering, reflecting on their own unique journeys and the way in which it has shaped them. So, to those who walk along the path with me, fighting their own battles and feeling the isolation, "well done, you did it, and I hope that you know how strong and amazing you are - now rest in the relief of your achievements, even though they look different to most."

The Unspoken Toll....

The relief that washed over me felt like a fleeting release, but then I crumbled. I hadn’t realised how much I’d been holding. The sleepless nights. The constant hypervigilance. The quiet grief of watching your child struggle in a world that doesn’t bend. My body is tired. My mind is frayed. My heart is bruised from years of advocacy, worry, and whispered prayers. And yet—I’d do it all again because he’s worth every ounce of fight.

Over the years, the constant strain on my nervous system reflects how my body bore the weight of it all. The autoimmune conditions, the migraines that came like clockwork before every parents’ evening. The tension in my shoulders from years of bracing for bad news. The fatigue that settled deep in my bones, not just from lack of sleep but from carrying the emotional load of two children alone.

I stopped recognising myself in the mirror. My smile became tight, my breath shallow. I forgot what it felt like to rest without guilt.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, I discovered something else. I am neurodivergent too.

The Realisation....

It came like a whisper at first. A late-night article. A podcast. A moment of recognition so sharp it made me cry.

The forgetfulness. The overwhelm. The sensory sensitivity. The emotional intensity I’d always chalked up to “being too much, so don't let them know”

I was diagnosed with ADHD in the middle of parenting two neurodivergent children. And suddenly, everything made sense—and nothing felt simple.

I realised I hadn’t just been navigating his meltdowns. I’d been masking my own. I hadn’t just been advocating for his needs. I’d been ignoring mine.

The emotional intensity. The way I carried everything, and still felt like I was dropping pieces of myself. Now it makes sense.

The guilt was immense. The relief was bigger.

I finally understood why I struggled with forms, deadlines, overstimulation, and the crushing pressure to “hold it all together.” I wasn’t failing. I was just wired differently.

And that changed everything.

To my boy....

My heart overflows with pride. Sixteen years of watching you grow, learn, and become the incredible young man you are. You are strong, compassionate, funny, and uniquely you, and I couldn't be prouder to call you my son.

Being your mum is one of the greatest gifts life has given me. I feel so deeply blessed to walk beside you through every chapter—supporting you, cheering you on, and learning from you in the quiet moments too. You've taught me as much as I hope I’ve taught you, and that is something truly special.

Now, we move forward into the next chapter together, with hope, love, and a bond that can never be broken.

I see you....

I write not only to process my own thoughts and experience but to honour the stories that don’t get shared enough—the invisible labour, the quiet grief, the fierce love. I believe in celebrating the small wins, in choosing softness over spectacle, and in building a world that’s kinder to those who move through it differently.

Whether you’re here as a fellow parent, a neurodivergent soul, or someone seeking connection—I’m so glad you found your way here 🔆