It’s not separation anxiety – it’s survival

When your child can’t go to school without you, it’s not about over-dependence. It’s about safety.

There’s a story many of us are told when our children struggle to separate from us at the school gates.

“It’s separation anxiety.”

It’s said gently, maybe with a tilted head or a sympathetic smile. But what it often feels like is subtle blame. Like we’ve made our children too dependent. Like we’ve smothered them. Like if we were doing this parenting thing better — if we were more like “those other parents” — our children would be skipping off happily without looking back.

And let’s be honest — that hurts.

It stings.

It brings guilt. Shame. Self-comparison.

And confusion — why does this feel so different and so much harder for us?

Here’s the thing: for many autistic children — and especially those with a PDA profile — it isn’t about emotional over-attachment at all. It’s not clinginess. It’s not anxiety in the way schools often describe it.

It’s logic. It’s strategy. It’s survival.

Years ago, when my eldest PDAer was still trying to attend mainstream school, I found a way to explain it that made so much sense to me — and to him.

He was using me as an auxiliary aid.

Just like a child with a visual impairment might need glasses…

Just like a child with mobility difficulties might need a wheelchair…

My son needed me — not because he was too attached, but because I was his translator. His interpreter. His human bridge to a world that didn’t speak his language.

In school, that auxiliary aid might be a 1:1 support worker.

But here’s the truth most schools miss:

That kind of support is not just about a role — it’s about deep, lived-in, relational knowledge.

And no one knows our children like we do.

No one else is “trained” in the precise language of their regulation, communication, and cues like we are.

So when they cling, cry, protest, or panic — they’re not being emotionally weak. They’re reacting to the loss of their only functional support aid in that moment.

When my son was handed over to staff who didn’t know him — not really — what was being removed wasn’t just “mum.” It was his anchor. His safety. His voice. His calm.

And calling that separation anxiety flattens the reality.

It shames us — and it misrepresents the autistic experience entirely.

So if this is your world right now, I want to say this clearly:

You haven’t failed.

You didn’t make your child too dependent.

You’re not over-involved.

You are doing the incredibly hard work of being both parent and auxiliary aid in a system that often doesn’t see the difference.

And you’re not alone.