The reality of always being switched on

I’ve been thinking a lot this week about hypervigilance. About what it does to us as parents when we are always switched on.

From the outside, it can sometimes look like our children are “not listening”, or that we’re too soft, or that we’ve somehow lost control. I think that’s part of what makes this so relentless. People see the behaviour. They don’t see the context.

They don’t see the sensory overload. The noise, the smells, the unpredictability. They don’t see how a small change can feel enormous. How a misunderstood comment can spiral. How being told “no” isn’t defiance, but genuine overwhelm.

We understand all of that.

We understand that our autistic children, our PDA children, our neurodivergent children experience the world very differently. We understand the reasons behind what happens.

But that understanding comes at a cost. Because what it tends to mean for us is that we are always alert. Always anticipating. Always running through scenarios in our heads before we’ve even left the house.

If we do go out, we’re explaining, reassuring, adjusting plans, planning exits, scanning the environment, watching every reaction. Staying outwardly calm while bracing for impact underneath.

All parents look after their children. Of course they do. But this is a different level of vigilance. It’s living in a constant state of readiness.

And when your nervous system is constantly in that high-alert state, it’s very hard to come out of it. You’re in fight or flight more often than you realise. You’re tense. You’re scanning. You’re hyper aware.

It’s chronic stress. It’s the invisible toll of caring for a child whilst also feeling judged by the outside world.

I used to joke that I couldn’t even go to the loo without a small shadow following me. But it wasn’t really funny. When your child relies on you as their external nervous system, you don’t really get to switch off. Even when they’re calm, you’re still holding everything steady underneath.

It’s not just that you can’t leave the room. It’s that you can’t leave the role.

And next week is half term for us. Which means it all gets louder and busier. The parks, the soft plays, the shops, even the “safe” places. More families, more noise, more unpredictability.

I know some of you will already be weighing it up. Do we try? Is there anywhere that feels safe enough? Will we end up stuck at home?

For years I felt trapped like that. Not really able to get out and do anything. And when we did try, you never quite knew which way it would go. Sometimes you were glad you tried and your child managed something new. Other times it turned into a complete disaster and you drove home thinking, why did I even attempt that?

And still, we get up the next day and try again.

When people say to me, “I don’t know how you do it,” I know they mean it kindly. But it can feel grating. Because what other choice do we have? These are our children. We love them. There isn’t a backup team waiting in the wings.

So we push ourselves beyond our own capacity. We override our own needs. We stay switched on because someone has to.

If you’re feeling that familiar tightening in your chest as half term approaches, if you can feel your system already bracing, please know you are not the only one. There are so many of us living like this.

This exhaustion makes sense. It isn’t weakness. It’s what happens when you live on alert for a very long time.

If you can, this week, find one tiny moment that belongs to you. Not something unrealistic. Just a breath outside. A cup of tea in silence. Looking up at the sky and remembering that you exist too.

Not because it fixes everything. But because your nervous system deserves a few seconds of safety as well.

I see you. I really do.