The things we quietly let go of

I drove past my local church the other day, and it stirred up a memory for me that I think I’d buried.

Many years ago, when my children were very small, I used to try to take them to church. It had been such an important part of my own childhood and upbringing, and it felt like something important to pass on to my children. At the time, it felt like something I should be doing. Something that mattered.

It became clear very quickly that my children didn’t act in the same way as other children there. While other children would sit compliantly and quietly next to their parents, looking at little books and joining in, my children were uninterested and loud, needing constant distractions with snacks and colouring. We tried the children’s activities too, but they were too strict, too formal. My children couldn’t sit still and do what the other children were doing. It didn’t hold their interest. They needed to move.

This was early in our journey. I didn’t really understand what was happening yet, but I was starting to realise that things were different for us. I remember looking around and seeing how the other children behaved, how other parents could simply tell their children what to do and they would do it. And I assumed it must all be my fault. That I was getting it wrong. That I was a bad mother.

One of my children would regularly escape my clutches, tear out from the pews, run up and down the aisle, even up onto the altar. I’d have to go and fetch him, and I could feel the congregation bristle. I could feel the eyes on us as he screamed.

The priest was actually incredible. He was kind, accepting, welcoming. Truly a lovely human. And I think that’s probably why I tried to keep going for as long as I did.

But I remember one Sunday morning so clearly. I was standing in the pew with my children either side of me. They were colouring. It had been difficult, but they were distracted in that moment. I was looking down towards the front, watching the service, and I just had tears streaming down my face. I couldn’t stop them. I wasn’t even really crying. They were just pouring out because everything felt so much. We felt so different. And I knew, deep down, that I couldn’t keep going. I felt like an epic failure.

I caught the priest’s eye, and he just gave me a look that was nothing but love, kindness, and concern. He checked in with us at the end. But in that moment, I realised it just wasn’t the right environment for my children.

I had to ask myself what I was doing. Why I was putting all of us through this week after week. Why I was trying so hard to force our square peg into a very round hole. As kind as the people were, we didn’t fit. My children weren’t coping, and that was why their behaviour looked so different. And I had to accept that this was something I was going to have to let go of.

I knew it wasn’t fair on my children. It wasn’t fair on me. So I quietly stepped away. Like many things we’ve had to step away from over the years, I just knew it wasn’t worth continuing to push. But at the time, there was great sadness in that decision. I had to quietly walk away from another piece of me. Another piece of what I thought my identity was. Something I thought I would pass on to my children.

There is a quiet grief in that choice which many parents will understand. And it doesn’t have to be about church or faith. For some of us, it’s clubs, holidays, family gatherings, school events, routines, traditions, expectations. A picture we held of what we thought life would look like.

And underneath that grief, there is often guilt. Guilt for feeling sad about letting go of something, when we know our children can’t cope and we’re doing the right thing by stepping away.

At the time, a lot of what made it so hard was that I blamed myself. I blamed myself for their behaviour. I didn’t understand what was really going on yet. I was still carrying that pressure to fit in. To follow social norms. To live life how it should look.

That has taken years to make peace with. Radical acceptance doesn’t arrive overnight. It takes time. Sometimes a very long time.

But now, I’m comfortable ensuring my children feel safe and supported in environments that actually work for them. I no longer try to make them conform or fit in when something clearly isn’t right for us.

That moment of standing there with tears streaming down my face was gut-wrenching. And it’s something so many parents of SEN and neurodivergent children sit with very quietly.

That grief for the things we step away from.

If this resonates, please know this – you are not weak, broken, or failing. Your experience is real. Your grief is valid. And you are not alone in it.