How has your back to school gone?

It’s the question I’ve been asked more than anything else over the past few weeks. Understandable, given everything we went through last school year. For two weeks straight, it’s all I’ve heard:

“How has your back to school gone?”

And honestly—it’s a hard one to answer. If things were going well, I almost didn’t dare say it out loud for fear of jinxing it. And if they weren’t, well, I definitely didn’t want to talk about that either. But I get it—people ask because they care. At the point when everyone was asking, school had gone well. But I didn’t want to say that, so my answer became:

“So far, so good…but time will tell.”

And time has told.

I wasn’t especially worried about the first week. I knew my son would go in those first few days—that’s not how his struggles work. For him, it’s the build-up. Pressure, tension, little signs gathering until suddenly it spills over and he reaches the point of no return.

Last school year had ended on a high. He’d gone in every single day during the summer term, which, after the nightmare of November through February, felt nothing short of miraculous. The thing is, we never really found out why. Was it because summer term was lighter? Because the teachers made a special effort? (That was even mentioned in his report.) Or had he just finally settled into that year? With no debrief from school, I was left with questions and no answers.

Still, this September started well. Really well. He went in. He wore his “big boy” trousers with a zip instead of pull-ups. He came home talking enthusiastically about his day. By the end of week one, I found myself relaxing into it. Maybe—just maybe—the changes we’d worked so hard on at home were starting to make a difference.

But then came week two. I noticed the tension creep back. After school, the vocal noises he’d started making were louder, more frequent, constant almost—as though he needed to release everything he’d bottled up all day. One evening he went to bed at 7:30, iPad in hand while I ate my tea. But by 7:45 he’d called me back five times. On the last, he asked if I could sit with him. And I knew then—it wasn’t attention-seeking. Something inside him was telling him he needed me there. So I left my tea, made a cup of tea, and sat with him. Because this is the truth: what he needs to feel safe is me. He needs co-regulation. Nothing more, nothing less.

Then came week three.

On Monday, after a weekend at his dad’s, he seemed tired but fine. Soon, though, he grew restless, unsettled, desperate to do something. I could sense a storm building. I’ve been here before, and I felt confident I could help him through it. But in the blink of an eye, it escalated beyond control.

One of our little coffee tables was smashed. His room was torn apart—tubs, toys, everything thrown. And over it all, he chanted:

“I am not going to school. I am not going to school. I am not going to school.”

There was no stopping it. I just stayed with him, keeping him safe, and let the storm pass. It’s a process—one he has to go through. And then, as quickly as it came, it went. His body softened, his voice changed, his whole manner shifted, and he was suddenly back to asking me questions like nothing had happened.

It’s heartbreaking and fascinating, all at once, to watch him transform so completely.

By then it was 7 p.m. We hadn’t eaten. We were both drained. I threw tea together, got him into bed, and stayed until he fell asleep. I couldn’t believe how quickly things had escalated. Déjà vu hit hard—it was this exact point last year when everything began to unravel.

So, while sitting in his room, I typed an email to the SENCO asking for a call. Because the truth is, I had no idea what to do next. Other than him having one-to-one support at school, like he has at home with me, I couldn’t see a way forward. But I knew that without an EHCP—and even with one—that level of support was unlikely.

That night, I barely slept. Tossing, turning, worrying about what the morning would bring. And though he did go to school the next day, I was riddled with anxiety. It’s the worst feeling—dropping them off, not just worrying about if they’ll make it through the day, but also about how those six hours will shape them afterward.

I spent the whole morning, like I have so many times before, on tenterhooks, waiting for the SENCO to ring.

She called at lunchtime. And to her credit, she was good. This SENCO is relatively new, having taken over around November last year. Before her was the SENCO who shall not be named—dismissive, cold, and unhelpful. But this one is different. Early on she seemed nervous, like a rabbit in headlights, but now she’s finding her feet. She reassured me, promised to speak with my son, and said she’d put things in place for him.

I knew it wouldn’t fix everything. But the way she handled it—with compassion, professionalism, and care—was a world away from last year. And for that, I’m grateful.

This time last year, these meltdowns were happening all the time, and I kept some of it from school, waited until we had had a few weeks of these meltdowns. I didn’t want to be seen as exaggerating, or as “that parent” who’s always bringing problems. This year, I’m doing it differently. At the very first sign, I’ve told school. And this time I expect some action. It doesn’t have to be the perfect action—or even one that fixes everything—but I do expect something and I hope this will happen from this SENCO.

Yes, my son has changed. Yes, the SENCO has changed. But most importantly, I’ve changed too. It doesn’t make the road ahead less uncertain, but it does make me feel stronger knowing I’m stepping into this school year differently—not just hoping for things to be better, but actively pushing for them to be.

Same struggles…..new strength….

How has your back to school gone?