So you want to write a blog? I think you should!

Note: This post is part of the Voices for Education Justice series—a practical guide for anyone ready to speak out about harm in schools. Whether you’re building a blog, drafting your first post, or finding the courage to hit publish, this series is here to remind you: your words carry weight, your story matters, and silence is not the price of survival.

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Have your frustrations grown so immense they hum beneath your skin, demanding release, while every part of you still longs for safety, control, and some measure of privacy in a world that rarely offers either?

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When your body starts leaking truth

There comes a moment, somewhere between the third unanswered email and the quiet humiliation of being spoken over in a school meeting, when the body begins to leak truth that can no longer be stored, when rage shows up in the wrong places—at the dinner table, in the driver’s seat, in an argument with a loved one—and the inside of you begins to feel like a pressure cooker of silenced knowledge, pushed past containment, aching for an exit.

I have cried and screamed in the car so many times that my voice has disappeared for days, unspeakable truths stored in my chest. I have poured wine into myself until my liver protested, and still I felt no relief. I have exercised until my muscles hurt, hoping I could outrun the panic. I have felt the desire to disappear, because the rage had no place left to rest, and I felt hollow and incapable of doing anything right. Every one of those moments came from holding truth inside too long.

When that moment arrives—and it does, for almost everyone—I believe the most tender and life-preserving thing you can do is pull your parachute. And one kind of parachute, one that holds both clarity and care, one that allows meaning to emerge without demanding resolution, is a blog.

A blog is a space where you can speak without interruption, remember without permission, and begin to shape something truthful and grounded from the fragments of what you’ve seen.

You can begin even if your hands shake or your voice cracks.

Here’s a video for people who like them

Why writing helps: the elevator pitch

When your body has absorbed too much gaslighting, and the pressure of unspoken truths becomes greater than the fear of reprisal, and something inside you insists on being heard, it’s time.

It’s about the cellular consequences of self-erasure—the muscle memory of edited emails, softened rage, strategic compliance—and the way that accumulation lodges in the chest until breath itself becomes a burden. It chokes you.

It’s about the moment when containment fails—when rage leaks into your parenting, your body, your relationships—and writing offers a path that feels safer than wine, safer than silence, safer than collapse.

It’s about discovering that the energy you thought had disappeared was never gone, only buried beneath the weight of forced composure and the chronic grief of watching your child hurt in a world built to harm them.

It’s about speaking aloud the things you were told to keep quiet, and watching as clarity returns—first in flickers, then in torrents—and the fatigue of chronic injustice begins to lift in the presence of truth.

It’s about building a record that cannot be erased by school administrators, cannot be reworded by district communications staff, and cannot be denied by those who hoped your exhaustion would keep you quiet.

It’s about choosing the precision of a blog post over the scream in your throat, choosing testimony over tantrum, choosing to transmute helplessness into something public, permanent, and politically dangerous.

It’s about becoming the archive your child deserved. It’s about making sure no one else has to wonder if they imagined it.

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But I can’t do that…

By enduring what no family should ever be asked to endure, you have already crossed the threshold into expertise. You carry knowledge that can’t be taught and shouldn’t have been acquired—knowledge written into your nervous system through IEP meetings that felt like interrogations or lip service, supervision gaps that placed your child at risk, and the quiet, cellular grief of always bracing for the next failure.

You do not need to prove your legitimacy to anyone. The simple fact that you are still standing—still fighting, still loving, still paying attention—qualifies you in ways that no degree ever could. You might feel frustrated by how this is impacting your career, but the knowledge you’ve gained through this pain can change the world. Each voice that emerges, telling these stories, forms a collective victim statement for the failures of our school system that will gain a momentum capable of creating change.

This part—the writing—carries fewer consequences. You can say your complete truth without having to crush it into something the school or district will see as civil. You don’t have to massage your words for three hours to avoid hurting egos or instigating a crisis. Everything you say will be loved and considered by our community. We see you.

And once that truth enters the world—once it touches another person living inside the same gaslit terrain—it begins to dissolve the shame that silence once preserved. It opens space. It changes chemistry. It makes memory collective.

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Choose a platform that feels like a soft landing

Each of these options allows you to begin with ease:

• Blogger – Free, Google-owned, straightforward for anyone already using Gmail.
• WordPress.com – Simple, flexible, ideal for longer-term growth with familiar editing tools.
• Substack – Perfect if you prefer email-based publishing, with no need for a separate mailing list setup.
• Medium – Offers an elegant writing interface and a built-in reading audience.

For those craving fuller creative control or looking to build a multi-layered resource hub, a self-hosted WordPress site offers the greatest flexibility, though it benefits from a little patience, technical savvy, and setup support. If your energy is low, your grief is fresh, or your time is thin, these other platforms provide immediate ground under your feet.

Personally, I prefer to set up a separate account for authentication with whatever platform you choose. So if it’s blogger, set up a new Gmail, if it’s WordPress set up a new email whether that’s Proton or Gmail or whatever you prefer. Make it anonymous, a nom to plume that will help you feel protected so you can tell the whole truth. More coming soon on how to protect yourself online from legal perspective.

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Too exhausted to type? Use your voice

You already carry the words inside you. Sometimes the effort required to organise them into sentences feels impossible, especially after a day of caregiving, emailing, navigating conflict, and holding steady through bureaucracy and grief. So speak instead. Speak into the phone, into the silence, into the truth you haven’t yet said aloud.

Here are tools to help you do that:

• Phone dictation – Use the built-in microphone on your phone’s keyboard to speak your post into any app.
• Otter – Records your voice and turns it into text, with high accuracy and editing tools.
• Google Docs – Open a doc and use voice typing, or copy in notes from other sources. Autosaves make it reliable.
• Email-to-blog – Blogger and WordPress.com allow you to post by sending an email to a special address.
• ChatGPT voice prompt – Dictate into a phone app, then ask ChatGPT to help you format, edit, or refine your ideas into something more readable.

All of these tools honour what your body already knows. You have something to say. You deserve a place to say it. More coming soon on how to use these tools to say our truth, while preserving your voice and moving fast.

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No story requires perfection to matter

Your words, in the form they arrive—shaky, rushed, furious, fragmented—already hold value. Grammer is cheap. Beauty emerges from honesty, not refinement and sometimes the roughest paragraph, poured out after an IEP meeting that collapsed into shameful silence, carries more resonance than anything written in peace. If you feel the pull to speak, you already have a reader. If you feel the ache of injustice pressing through your ribs, you already carry the beginning of a sentence that could loosen something unbearable in someone else.

The post I am proudest of on this site is the one where I wrote about fatalism and the desire to destroy. Writing this made me feel like I was finally out of their grip and my mind was no longer conquered. That is how deep the damage runs. That is the toll of being gaslit, placated, and discarded while trying to protect your child with no tools but language and love. That is the toll of goalposts that never stay still, lip service policies, and teams that promise collaboration and deliver harm.

To be neurodivergent in this fight is to think with unbearable depth. It means holding everyone’s perspective at once while trying to name your own. It means seeing systems while others focus on scripts. It means spending four times longer deciding what comes next because your brain is not built for cruelty or consensus, but for clarity.

So yes—I encourage you to write from your rage. The world needs to hear how much moral injury is being absorbed by mothers, educators, caregivers. The world needs to understand that grace under pressure is not the cure—it is the poison.

The frame they hand you will always be too small. You may be told to contain your rage, to remain civil, to be strategic. But there is a world beyond that lie—a world full of women and caregivers who are leaning into their fury, telling the truth, and surviving together.

Your feelings matter. Your anger matters. And it causes no harm to feel rage in response to harm—unless someone believes their comfort should matter more than your child’s safety.

For each caregiver who writes a blog and contacts me, I will list your site and re-post your content. Here’s an example of a post from another mom. Get started now, however works best for you and let me know how I can help!

Take the next step