Some weeks just take everything you’ve got

A couple of years ago, we went to a family event. I did all the prep – made accommodations, had a plan. My child seemed to manage well at the time. Smiling. Chatting. Joining in.

But on the way home, everything fell apart.

That’s the bit people don’t see. The emotional cost. The nervous system fallout. The toll that masking and “fitting in” takes – not just in that moment, but for hours, sometimes days after.

This week has been like that.

My child has been trying so hard to join in with things. A holiday club with peers. A playdate that became louder and more intense than expected. On the surface, it probably looked like they were coping. But back home, it’s been a different story.

They’ve been highly dysregulated. Emotional. Controlling of their sibling. Quick to anger, impulsive, irrational. And I’ve been the one absorbing it all. Placing myself between them to keep the peace. Trying to help them co-regulate when they’re past the point of logic.

They’re big now – almost as big as me. These aren’t toddler meltdowns – they’re nervous system storms. Sometimes it ends with tears and apologies, and me saying I understand. That there’s no judgement. That I know they can’t help it – and I just want them to feel safe.

And me?

I’m exhausted. Physically and mentally overstimulated. My head is foggy, full of noise. I can’t sleep properly. My own nervous system is teetering. And I know what I should be doing – I’ve got the tools. I’ve done the work. But this week? It’s taken everything I’ve got just to hold it together.

So I start with kindness.

We skip the bathroom clean. The laundry piles up. We get takeaway. They want to watch screens and eat snacks before dinner? Fine. Just for now, that’s fine. I pick my battles – and right now, my energy is going where it’s needed most.

And when I notice myself spiralling, I come back to my breath. I put on my headphones. I play calming music. That’s my first step back to myself. When I’ve found a bit of calm, I can sometimes meditate. Other times I just sit. And breathe.

Because this might not be what most people’s summer holidays look like – but it’s ours. And I know I’m doing a bloody good job.

Some days will feel better than others. Some will feel like this. But either way, we carry on. Gently. One foot in front of the other.

And if you’re in it too – I see you.