Holding it all together when the world starts again

Two weeks off for Christmas and New Year and I actually found myself looking forward to getting back to something resembling a normal routine. The break was lovely, it really was, but it was also over-stimulating, demanding, full of co-regulation, noise, emotional energy, big feelings, crossed wires, all the feelings. It’s a lot, as we all know.

In my mind I genuinely thought that because the children were due to go back to school this week, everything would calm down. But honestly? I should have known better. I do know better than that. My capacity has been stretched to the absolute limit this week. It’s never just one thing in families like ours. There are always plates spinning. And more plates.

I’ve had to support back-to-school transitions, which even on a good day can be a big ask for a nervous system that’s already overloaded after a break. And for those of us parenting children who experience emotionally based school avoidance, the return after holidays can feel impossible to hold.

I remember when a previous school break ended and the return felt impossible. There was crying. Clinging to me at the waist. Taking clothing off to scream into because the sound needed somewhere to go that felt contained, less exposed. Kicking walls. Banging on windows, trying to reach me when I stepped outside, hoping for a breath of calm, only to realise calm hadn’t arrived yet. Walking back in again. And again. And again. Because when a nervous system is that overwhelmed, connection is the only bridge you have left. There was no reasoning. No bargaining. No talking round it. Just overwhelm, panic, and a little body saying “I can’t do this right now.”

What hurt wasn’t just the moment – it was the aftermath. That internal whisper we all know too well: what am I doing wrong? Why does it feel like every other family can walk back into routine when we’re still standing outside trying to hold it all together? The shame that sits like a stone in your stomach when EBSA gets treated as a behavioural choice, not what it actually is – anxiety, overwhelm, a nervous system at breaking point.

I remember having to put it into words for school, explaining that this wasn’t defiance, this wasn’t choice, this was stress the body couldn’t control – and to be fair, they did listen. They offered safe space, familiar adults, time, options, and they handled it with care. But even when school is supportive, it still hurts. It’s brutal. It breaks us.

And if you’re UK based, you’ll probably be feeling this as well. There’s a lot of noise right now around SEND reform. A lot of talk about “expensive” support, and this suggestion that autism and ADHD are being overdiagnosed. It’s hard not to hear the ableist edge in some of what’s being said, and it sits in the background like a low hum.

I’ll be honest, it does make me uneasy. I’ve already fought this system once and it pretty much broke me getting what was needed for one of my children to thrive. I’m now on the cusp of starting that journey again, and it doesn’t exactly feel like things are getting easier. So if you’ve got that worry sitting behind everything else this week, you’re not imagining it…

And if this is resonating right now, if you’ve had a similar week, or a similar morning, or a similar “please don’t make me do that, I’ll do anything but not school” moment, please know – you are not alone. You’re not the only one going through this. I see you. I’ve been there. I still am there.

So I’ve learned that I really need to show myself some grace, that I need to slow everything down, that I need to take the pressure off myself and be gentle and kind with myself. Some days I can keep all the plates spinning, some days they all fall on the floor, and honestly, sometimes the dog walks across the kitchen holding a plate too.

And even when it hurts, even when it’s brutal, even when you feel like you’re failing because your child can’t return after a break the way others seem to, I remind myself of this: my child’s nervous system matters. My family matters. I matter. And that means pacing is the only sane option we have.

So I take it day by day, with tiny moments that actually help my body calm down in the middle of chaos. Not the stuff that sounds pretty, the stuff that actually works in real life. Like meditating when I can grab a few minutes of quiet. Taking 30 seconds to breathe in the bathroom before I walk back into a situation that’s already exploded. Resting my head against the fridge for a second when my system spikes because cold grounding is better than screaming. Whispering “I can do hard things, but not all the hard things at once” to myself while I make packed lunches. Sitting on the stairs for 2 minutes with a coffee and breathing slowly because my body is shaking and I need it to stop. Not because it’s peaceful, but because it’s real.

And if this week has hurt you too, if you’ve carried the guilt, the anger, the exhaustion, the internal “why can’t I get this right?” monologue, please know – this is not unusual. You are not alone. Your child is not alone. And you’re not doing anything wrong by taking the slower, kinder, more human route through this life.

You matter. Your reactions can shift even when the world doesn’t bend. It’s okay to try again. It’s okay to stop. It’s okay to prioritise connection over expectation. It’s okay to take the easier option because the harder one costs too much. It’s okay to rest when you need to because your nervous system deserves kindness too. You are human. Your child is doing their best. And you are too.

We get through this one breath at a time, one day at a time, one micro moment of regulation at a time. That’s how we survive this life without disappearing under it.