I knew it would unravel. I just didn’t know when.

I’ve been reflecting a little over the past few weeks, thinking back to when my PDAer was still registered at a mainstream school and just how difficult things were. I remember when my son’s 1:1 — well-meaning, kind, trying her best — told him he could earn Pokémon cards during his sensory breaks.

He came home buzzing.

He was barely attending school at the time, but this… this got him excited.

And I smiled. Nodded. While my stomach dropped. Because when your child has a PDA profile, even rewards — especially rewards — don’t have the impact you might expect.

The build-up becomes unbearable. The anticipation turns to anxiety. Something they want turns into something they can’t cope with. And they don’t always know why.

That day, he missed the break he thought he’d get the card in. A change in routine. A mix-up. No big deal to anyone else. But by that evening? He was in meltdown.

Sobbing, raging, thrashing in the bath. Screaming that it wasn’t fair. Convinced he’d done something wrong. Completely dysregulated.

And who was left to pick up the pieces? Me.

I was sat on the bathroom floor soaked through, exhausted, trying to co-regulate, while also managing the rage, the helplessness, the sheer disbelief that they still didn’t get it.

Because after a whole day of masking and trying to get it right, he finally came home to his safe person — and fell apart in my arms.

And I wanted to scream.

Because I’d worked so hard to help the school understand. Emails, meetings, careful explanations about PDA, about masking, about anxiety. I’d poured myself into trying to protect him — into making sure they got it right. And then this.

Some bloody flippant decision from someone who should have known better. Who didn’t check with me. Who thought a few Pokémon cards would help, when in reality it detonated the whole day.

It wasn’t just a reward. It was a demand dressed up as kindness. And it wrecked him. And I was the one holding the fallout. As always.

Because no one really gets it unless they live it.

They nod. They smile. They say the right things in meetings. And then they go and do this. And your child — who is already not coping with life, who is hanging on by a thread — is left drowning in shame and confusion. And you’re the one left trying to make it better.

Even when you’re completely broken too.

This is what no one sees.

This is the bit no one talks about.

This is the reality.

And it’s lonely as hell.

If you feel this in your bones, then just know you’re not alone. I’ve been there and I see you.