💥 Support for My ADHD Kid? Oh, You Mean the Emotional Obstacle Course I Now Live In.

 Let me just say this straight: getting support for your neurodivergent child in school feels less like parenting and more like preparing for an emotionally exhausting Olympics you never trained for.

Except in this event, you’re juggling IEPs, referral forms, passive-aggressive emails, and your child’s emotional wellbeing — while trying not to lose your mind, your temper, or your last bit of hope.

Spoiler: it’s not you. The system is broken.

Here’s the “support” cycle in a nutshell:

1. You raise concerns.

You’re told “it’s early days.”

(He’s been there five years, Sharon.)

2. You get a referral.

It leads to generic family support you didn’t ask for — and your child’s name barely gets mentioned.

3. The strategies roll in.

Reward charts, ELSA sessions, a laminated ‘calm corner’ no one uses.

4. It doesn’t work.

You bring this up.

They suggest trying the same thing again. But with more laminated feelings.

5. Your child melts down. You melt down.

You're told they’re “managing well in school.”

And yet, they come home shattered, dysregulated, anxious, and barely hanging on

Meanwhile…

You’re questioning yourself.

You’re overthinking every email.

You’re watching your kid fall apart and being told “we’re doing everything we can.”

Except it doesn’t feel like enough — because it isn’t.

Behind every meeting and email is a parent holding it together with stubborn love, burnt-out nerves, and pure fight.

I shouldn’t have to prove how hard this is.

Or explain the effort it takes to keep showing up.

Because I’m already doing it — every single day.

IEPs? More like Imaginary Expectations in Paperwork

I’ve got IEPs that haven’t been looked at in months.

Goals that make no emotional sense.

Strategies that worked once… and haven’t since.

And every day, I get told the same thing:

“He had a good day… just a little blip.”

Cool. But what does that mean?

Was he anxious? Did he shut down? Did he lash out? Was he masking so hard that he came home and melted into the floor?

Because a “little blip” every day isn’t just a blip — it’s a pattern.

And pretending it’s not happening doesn't help Hugo.

It just makes it easier to ignore that he’s struggling.

But instead of adapting the plan, we just keep pretending it’s fine.

We act like children don’t grow and change. Like a term-old intervention is still relevant.

My son — like so many ADHD kids — becomes immune to strategies over time.

What helped once doesn’t always help again.

Support should adapt as quickly as their brains do — but it doesn’t.

Here’s what I’m saying:

Support shouldn’t look like a loop of referrals and gaslighting.

It shouldn’t be this hard to get real, tailored, human help.

And it definitely shouldn’t leave parents wondering if they’re just imagining the struggle.

Because I’m not imagining it. I’m living it.

And I’m still here. Showing up. Fighting. Advocating.

Even when the system treats my son like a behaviour problem.

Even when my concerns are brushed aside because he “copes in school.”

Even when I’m barely coping myself.

💬 To every parent stuck in this cycle:

You’re not dramatic. You’re not asking too much.

You’re just asking for your kid to be seen, understood, and supported in a system that should already be doing that.

So if you’re in the thick of it — I see you.

If your kid’s needs are being downplayed — I hear you.

And if you’re crying on the school run, in the loo, or into your yarn stash while being told they’re “coping well” — just know this:

You are not the problem.

The system is.

And we’re not done fighting.

Even if we have to scream it with glitter, snacks, and a crochet hook.