The things we don’t say out loud

This week, I wanted to talk about something we don’t say out loud very often. The thing we can feel shame around. The thing we worry other people – people who don’t live this life – simply won’t understand. The thing we often soften or rename, because even saying it plainly doesn’t always sit comfortably.

I quite often refer to it as emotional volatility, or things bubbling over, or moments of extreme overwhelm. Even now, I notice myself doing that. But I think we ought to be able to say that many parents in our community have experienced child to parent violence.

And that can feel incredibly hard to name.

Because how could anyone possibly understand that your child – your baby – would turn on you, would attack you?

We know, intellectually, that in those moments of extreme dysregulation their nervous system is on fire. They’re in threat response. They’ve lost control. This isn’t conscious or deliberate. It’s panic. It’s overwhelm. It’s terror in the body.

I used to describe my child’s meltdowns as panic attacks – partly to help myself reframe what was happening, and partly to help others understand that this wasn’t a choice.

Our children are often not developmentally able to cope with the intensity of what they’re feeling. Those emotions spill over into frustration, and very often it’s the person closest to them who gets the brunt of it.

The main caregiver. The safe person.

Because that’s the person they know they can fall apart with. The person they know won’t shame them, blame them, or walk away. The person who will absorb it, hold the boundary, ride the storm, and gently help them find their way back.

We understand all of that – and still, living it can be incredibly hard.

And talking about it can feel almost impossible.

We don’t want people outside our lives to judge our child. We don’t want them labelled as bad, dangerous, or escalated in ways we know aren’t appropriate. We don’t want our parenting blamed. Many of us have very real fears about how this kind of behaviour would be viewed by outsiders.

So it doesn’t get talked about. And that silence can be incredibly isolating.

It can make you feel like you’re living a life no one else could possibly understand. Like this only happens to you. It can stop you reaching out for help, because you don’t know whether you’ll be met with support or judgement – and the risk feels too high.

I wanted to talk about this today because of that loneliness.

I also want to share a little of my own experience. Not because it will mirror yours – every child and every family is different – but in the hope it offers some sense of solidarity.

Years ago, when my child was much younger, we were experiencing multiple meltdowns or panic attacks a day. And they were very much directed at me.

I’ve spoken to many families over the years. Families who’ve lived with extreme behaviours. Homes where items are regularly smashed or thrown. Walls and ceilings damaged. Situations that would shock most people.

I’ve lived through physical injury myself. Things I wouldn’t openly share in most spaces, because I learned early on to be careful about how much I revealed.

Most people would be horrified – and without context, without understanding nervous systems and trauma and overwhelm, those stories can be deeply misunderstood.

But I also want to talk about what helped.

One of the biggest shifts for me was reframing what was actually happening. Truly understanding that this wasn’t deliberate behaviour. That my child was facing expectations they didn’t yet have the skills to meet.

That reframe changed everything.

Working with an occupational therapist was also huge. It helped me understand just how overwhelmed my child was by the world on so many levels we hadn’t even considered. Once we put on what my OT calls our “sensory goggles”, so much started to make sense.

Naming dysregulation. Understanding bodies. Finding ways to support in the moment. Realising how much of the behaviour was sensory seeking.

None of it was quick. None of it was easy.

But I’m glad to say that for the most part now, our home is much calmer than it was five or six years ago. We talk openly about neurodivergence. About how our brains work. About triggers. About what helps us regulate.

We’re not perfect. We don’t get it right all the time. We’re human.

And I’m not pretending dysregulation never shows up – it does. But things are very different now.

I share that because I know how extreme this life can be. I know families who’ve lived with genuine safety risks – situations that outsiders can’t even imagine. And yes, safety matters. Boundaries matter. Support matters.

But so does compassion.

Skills take time. Many neurodivergent children have lagging skills around flexibility and adaptability. Progress happens slowly. Often painfully slowly.

So if this is part of your life right now, I want you to know you’re not alone. You’re not a bad parent. Your child isn’t bad. And this doesn’t mean things can’t change.

Sometimes what we need most is just to know that someone else understands – and to feel a little less alone in carrying it.