SEND Parenting — The Beginning
I’ve been thinking for a while about speaking more openly about SEND parenting.
And honestly, I’ve hesitated.
Not because I don’t have anything to say. Quite the opposite.
There is so much I could say.
But there is a line I have always been conscious of.
My child’s story belongs to him.
His experiences, his challenges, his difficult moments, his diagnosis. They are not mine to turn into content.
And yet, I’m beginning to realise that my experience of parenting belongs to me.
The exhaustion belongs to me.
The appointments.
The phone calls.
The meetings.
The forms.
The advocacy.
The constant thinking three steps ahead.
The childcare arrangements that require childcare arrangements.
The vigilance.
The worry.
The moments where I’ve sat in my car for a few minutes before going inside because I just needed silence.
That is my story.
And for a long time, I think I struggled to work out where his story ended and mine began.
Because SEND parenting can consume so much of your identity.
You become an advocate.
A researcher.
A coordinator.
A negotiator.
Sometimes it feels like you need a working knowledge of education, healthcare, social care and legislation just to get through the week.
And somewhere amongst all of that…
you’re still Mum.
You’re still a person.
You still have a job.
Relationships.
Bills.
Dreams.
A body that needs rest.
A nervous system that occasionally whispers, Girl… enough.
And if you're reading this as a SEND parent or carer, I'm guessing some of this might feel familiar.
Maybe you've sat in the car too.
Maybe you've stared at yet another form and thought, I haven't got the capacity for this today.
Maybe you've had a phone call that changed the whole shape of your day.
Maybe you're just tired of having to explain things that you wish somebody already understood.
I see you.
Because somehow, we keep going.
Not because we’re endlessly resilient.
Not because we have some superhuman capacity that other people don’t possess.
Sometimes we keep going simply because there isn't another option.
And that’s something I want to talk about more.
Not resilience as a badge of honour.
Not the inspirational parent narrative where everything difficult is transformed into some beautiful life lesson.
Just the truth.
Sometimes this is hard.
Sometimes I’m exhausted.
Sometimes I’m angry.
Sometimes I’m incredibly grateful.
Sometimes I laugh.
Sometimes I cry.
Sometimes all of those things happen in the same day.
And none of them cancel the others out.
I can adore my children and acknowledge that parenting can be difficult.
I can be grateful and overwhelmed.
I can advocate fiercely and wish I didn’t have to advocate quite so fiercely.
I can love the life we've built and still admit that some parts of it are bloody hard.
Both can be true.
And maybe you need to hear that too.
You don't have to tidy up your feelings before you're allowed to talk about them.
You don't have to add “but I wouldn't change them for the world” every time you admit you're exhausted.
Your love was never in question.
That middle ground is where I want to write from.
Somewhere between silence and exposure.
Because I don’t want to tell my child’s story.
But I’m becoming more comfortable sharing my experience, because that belongs to me.
And maybe there is another parent sitting somewhere thinking:
I love my child more than anything… but bloody hell, I'm tired.
I get it.
Maybe we need more spaces where we're allowed to say that without somebody questioning our gratitude or our love.
Spaces where we don't always have to be the advocate, the organiser, the one who knows what needs to happen next.
Where we can just be people who love our children deeply and sometimes need somebody to ask:
But how are you doing?
This isn’t a series about what is wrong with our children.
It isn't about fixing them.
And it certainly isn't about turning their most vulnerable moments into content.
This is about us.
The parents.
The carers.
The people navigating systems that can sometimes feel impossible.
The people carrying things that nobody else can see.
And the people who, somewhere amongst all of that caring, are trying to remember themselves too.
And maybe that's part of why I created The Things We Carry.
A small, free online evening for those of us who are carrying more than most people can see.
Not to fix anything.
Not to give you another list of things you should be doing.
Just somewhere to come as you are, put some of it down for a little while, and be around people who get it.
If that sounds like something you need right now, you’re very welcome to join us.
I don't know exactly where these conversations will take us.
Maybe that's the point.
I'm not coming to this as somebody who has figured it all out.
I'm living it.
Learning.
Questioning.
Trying things.
Getting some things right.
Getting other things spectacularly wrong.
And perhaps we can talk about that too.
Perhaps we can create a little corner where we don't have to explain quite so much.
Where the complicated feelings are welcome.
Where we can laugh too, because honestly, sometimes you have to.
And where, every now and again, somebody reminds you that you matter in this story too.
So this is the beginning.
I’m nervous about beginning.
I’m also ready.
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