They don’t melt down. They just fade.

This time of year has a way of shining a light on things we usually manage to hold together.

It’s always been very clear with my PDAer when school was too much.

The sensory overload – too loud, too smelly, too bright, too many unpredictable children brushing past. The demands – putting on a uniform, entering the building, being expected to engage in something that resembled work. The communication – too direct, too many rules, too rigid.

For a long time, the energy used to mask came out as a huge fallout at home, until attending at all became too much. It was intense. It was loud. It was extreme.

But as we know, not all children in distress show up like that.

My other child, also autistic (and likely ADHD – just another layer of spicy in our house), presents very differently.

For the most part, if life is predictable and they know what to expect, if the people around them understand how to respond and can read when movement, sensory input or quieter time is needed, if they feel listened to, understood and validated – then they can cope. Just about. Within a mainstream environment.

And I want to be really clear – this is far from ideal. I would much rather my child was given every opportunity to thrive, not simply get through the day and cope. But this is the reality for so many families. Children who are too specialist for mainstream, but not considered “specialist enough” for a specialist placement – especially in a system where places and funding are scarce and reserved for the most extreme, desperate cases (and even then, fought for tooth and nail).

This time of year really brings all of that into sharp focus.

While most children are swept up in the excitement of Christmas, my child struggles with the disruption to routine – nativity plays, carol concerts, Santa visits. All designed to create magic, but at the cost of familiarity and safety. When a child needs to know exactly what to expect in order to feel safe, Christmas can feel overwhelming.

Sensory sensitivities ramp up too. Twinkling lights filling corridors and classrooms. Christmas trees and musky decorations pulled out of storage. Everything is brighter, louder, just… more. Christmas jumper days, festive hats and headbands – all adding another layer of unpredictability.

For an autistic child already barely surviving day by day, Christmas can be too much.

But the distress doesn’t look dramatic. It isn’t loud. It isn’t explosive.

It’s quiet.

They shrink. They shut down. They withdraw.

It’s not necessarily “masking” in the way people often talk about it – it’s a child who is deeply uncomfortable, overwhelmed, and unable to articulate what is needed. Or if they do, not in an environment where those needs can truly be accommodated, even with all the goodwill in the world.

There are days where attending simply isn’t possible. And yet this is a child who usually attends. They know they are “supposed” to go to school, so they do.

It is beyond heartbreaking to watch your child slowly fade in front of your eyes, while the systems you turn to for support tell you it isn’t urgent enough. Not extreme enough.

If this sounds familiar, if you’re reading this and thinking “this is my child” – please know you are not alone.

And if you’re finding this time of year heavier than usual, that makes complete sense. Your load is bigger right now. The expectations are higher. The emotional labour never really lets up.

If you can, try to look after yourself in small, regulating ways – nothing fancy, nothing unrealistic. A pause. A slow breath. A moment of quiet before responding. Something that helps you come back to yourself so you can show up as the parent – and the person – you want to be.

And if you have your own moments of overwhelm? Forgive yourself. Repair when you need to. Model being human.

You are doing your best in a system that makes this far harder than it should be.

I’m walking this path too – and I see you.