A friend asked me recently why I hadn’t filed more external complaints—human rights complaints, formal grievances, legal action. And it’s true. I should have. There were so many moments where I could have, where I had grounds to. And I believe deeply in the importance of external complaints. I’ve written about them. I’ve supported other parents through them. But the truth is, school advocacy is one of those perfect storms that breaks people slowly. Especially if you’re doing it alone.
As a single parent, even the basics are a lot. Parenting neurodivergent children comes with layers of invisible labour and constant emotional recalibration—but when school systems fail them, something more profound happens. Our children start to slip backward. They lose skills. They stop trusting adults. They start clenching their fists again. They wet the bed again. They need help brushing their teeth again. And suddenly, in the exact years where most parents are celebrating chore charts and small bursts of independence, we are wiping bums, watching shadows creep back over our children’s faces, trying to find the words to explain that this is not our failure—it is theirs.
And then, on top of that, comes the judgment. The comments about needing a better routine. The suggestions that we just haven’t been consistent enough. The Facebook posts about chore wheels and accountability jars. And somewhere between the labour and the heartbreak, people get lost. They fall into hysterics. They spiral into hatred. They drink more wine than they meant to. They stop replying to emails. They stop sleeping. They start saying things like “I just need to get through the next week,” but the next week always asks too much. Families fall apart in that gap. I’ve watched it happen.
And those of us who can’t afford to fall apart—we keep going. And a lot of the time it doesn’t feel like we’re doing anything well.
Disbelief
What I’ve felt, more than anything, over these years isn’t rage. It isn’t even grief. It’s disbelief. Disbelief that systems can be this under-resourced, that professionals can be this under-trained, that grown adults responsible for children can have so little capacity for problem-solving. It took me a long time to realise that I’d already had a crash course in neurodivergent parenting by the time my kids were five—and that most school staff haven’t had even a fraction of that training. I was showing up with trauma-informed knowledge, with communication strategies, with years of navigating meltdowns and shutdowns and sensory overload, and they were looking at me like I was speaking a foreign language. Because I was.
Hope
The next emotion was hope. I believed—truly, fiercely—that if I could just explain what was happening, if I could just walk them through the dynamics and give them the language and show them the impact, they would understand. And if they understood, they would change.
This, unfortunately, is not true.
Information from parents is received through a different lens. There’s a protectiveness around professional identity. A refusal to be taught by the people they believe should defer to them. A need to hold on to their role as the expert in the room. And if I wasn’t wrong, then I was asking for too much. I was the one making unicorn demands. The one who wanted gumdrops and rainbows and things they didn’t have the budget for. And it’s hard—really hard—to be the person who is always framed as wrong. Or unreasonable. Or naïve.
What kind of fuckery is this?
And then there’s the feeling reserved for management. The ones who make decisions about funding and staffing and still manage to blame you. The ones who smile and say “thank you for your feedback” after you’ve told them your child is afraid to go to school. That feeling is less philosophical.
That feeling is fuck you.
Fuck you for pretending this is an unfortunate misunderstanding. Fuck you for drafting apologies that don’t include the word sorry. Fuck you for talking about capacity while children are being harmed. Fuck you for deciding that harm is fine, so long as it happens to other people’s children. Fuck you for making us into the problem when we ask for help. Fuck you for needing a lawsuit to learn.
But anger, too, has a shelf life. There’s only so long you can be a marionette dancing on the strings of rage, letting their decisions ruin your breakfast, curdle your coffee, steal hours of sleep you didn’t have to spare. There’s only so long you can live inside the storm before it hollows you out.
Because here’s what I’ve come to understand: people get promoted for going to bat for these policies. For being willing to rebrand poisonous practices as “positive behaviour support.” For quietly shipping kids out and calling it “a team-based decision.” For nodding through every meeting while their eyes glaze over. This is what systems reward: loyalty, not integrity. And somehow, they sleep at night. I don’t know how. But they do.
These are the people who risk their skin for a slightly higher salary. And yes, they’re taking a risk. And yes, soon enough, I’ll be filing complaints against more of them. Because some things deserve to be on the record.
But not all harm is equal.
Forgiveness
There are others—the ones I can forgive. The educators who make daily choices under pressure, who don’t always get it right, who feel threatened from all sides and still come back. The ones who are trying to do their job, to teach, to care, to survive. These aren’t the people implementing regressive punishments or shutting down dissent. They’re just trying to get through a day without letting a child fall through the cracks.
And to those people: if you want to know why I haven’t made more external complaints, it’s because I forgive you.
I want you to have more tools. I want you to have better training. I want you to have access to trauma-informed mentors and proper supports. I want you to be able to meet families where they are, not where you wish they were. I want your classrooms to be structured in ways that allow you to succeed. Because I don’t want you to burn out, and I don’t want you to cause harm, and I don’t think those have to be opposites.
I forgive you—not because I wasn’t hurt, but because I don’t want to become what this system does to people.
Forgiveness, in this world, is not a gift. It’s a strategy. And maybe it’s the only one that keeps us from sinking.
More ideas
1. Build relationships & understand sensory/emotional needs
Why it works: What looks like “misbehaviour” is often a student in distress or sensory overload. A curious, empathetic approach helps you see dysregulation rather than defiance.
Read more:
- Inclusive Classrooms for Neurodivergent Students – Discipline (Keywell)
- Observing Executive Functioning in Neurodivergent Students (SAGE Journals)
2. Explicit instructions & visual supports
Why it works: Clear instructions and visuals reduce uncertainty and anxiety that contribute to behaviour challenges.
Read more:
- Designing for Neurodivergent Inclusion (Autistic Realms)
- Supporting Autistic Students in the Classroom (PubMed Central)
3. Priming for transitions
Why it works: Warn kids before transitions to reduce surprise and emotional overwhelm.
Read more:
4. Collaborative behaviour planning (NIBS approach)
Why it works: Co‑creating the plan empowers students, provides structure, and offers insight into the function of behaviours.
Read more:
5. Celebrate neurodiversity & teach about it
Why it works: Normalising differences builds community acceptance and reduces stigma.
Read more:
- Neuroaffirming Education with Sue Fletcher‑Watson (Reframing Autism)
- A Neuroinclusive School Model: Focus on the School, Not on the Child (Rajotte, Grandisson, Couture, Desmarais)
6. Language: identity-first & strengths-based
Why it works: Using “autistic student” and focusing on strengths affirms identity and shifts mindsets.
Read more:
- Perspectives on Neurodiversity-Affirming Education (Macalester College)
- Why Strengths-Based Language Matters (Autistic Realms)
7. Neurodivergent-led reflection & training
Why it works: Training created or informed by autistic voices ensures relevance, respect, and efficacy.
Read more:
8. Use SPACE framework in class design
Why it works: SPACE (Sensory, Predictability, Acceptance, Communication, Empathy) structures your classroom for predictability and autonomy.
Read more:
