If I could catch you before you fall, I would.
If I could make them understand—make them see you as you truly are—I would. You are doing so well, in so many ways. If I could make you feel the pride you deserve, the pride I feel when I look at you, I would.
But no matter what you do, or I do, the system is designed to destroy you. I would change that, if I could.
Since you were small, people have adored you. You were the pretty one, the funny one, the brave one. A social butterfly. The kid who helped her brother. People would say, “I love that kid.” And I would too—if you were here, if you were their child, if you hadn’t been born into this.
Because even when they praised you, there were hard parts I would have spared you, if I could.
What looked like normal play to others was you playing beside your peers, not with them. You cried in the car, almost every ride. Overwhelmed. Trapped. I would have cried too—if I wasn’t trying to keep it together for you. (Sometimes I did anyway.)
We made a rule: “Shut up, shut up, shut up. Everyone, shut up.” After that, no one could speak.
You found your besties. They got you. The adults didn’t always. Sometimes you followed every rule to the letter. Other times, you collapsed. Drowned. And if I’m honest, I’m drowning too.
I’ve learned there’s more than fight or flight. There’s fawn. There’s freeze. I’ve spent my life freezing—submitting to the moment, no matter the cost. I didn’t want that for you.
If I could run, I would.
I love you. I tell you that, even when you roll your eyes and mutter, “Oh, Mom.” Even when you don’t say it back. I love you in every meeting, in every moment we’re in that school building. I wish we could run away instead.
They’ll say you’re attention-seeking. They’ll say you provoke conflict with adults. I’ll say you’re dysregulated and disengaged. I’ll say that collective punishment is torture. That it harms you more than anyone else.
They won’t understand what it means to be humiliated—called out, spotlighted, framed as a problem.
But I know the truth: you are clinging to life itself, refusing to apologise for your existence.
And I won’t expect you to. I won’t apologise either.
We’ll go to the meeting. And if it’s crap, we’ll get ice cream after.
We’ll sit in the car and say, “Forget them.”
And we’ll mean it with our whole hearts—
and wish we could.
