‘She’s doing fine at school.”

Yesterday, I sat with a young person who is anything but.

There’s a phrase I keep hearing at the moment:

“They’re coping.”

They’re going into school.

They’re revising.

She seems fine

From the outside, it looks like everything is holding together.

But when I sit with these young people, I hear something very different.

“I’m exhausted.”

“I can’t think straight.”

“I feel like I’m going to fail anyway.”

“I just want it to stop.”

“ I just need to try harder “

This is what isn’t always visible.

Because many young people don’t fall apart all at once.

They push through. They mask. They keep going long past the point where their nervous system is overwhelmed.

Until eventually, something gives.

And when it does, it can look sudden.

Refusal. Shutdown. Panic.

Not going in. Not engaging. Not coping.

But this isn’t a switch being flipped.

It’s the result of a nervous system that has been under strain for far too long.

Yesterday, I sat with a young person who, to her teachers, appears to be functioning well.

She is bright.

She is compliant.

She is doing what is expected of her.

But she is also autistic.

Her nervous system is highly attuned to change and inconsistency. What might seem like a small, inconsequential change to many can be the tipping point for her.

The difference between just coping…

and her brain shutting down completely.

The difference between getting through the day

and being unable to walk through the school gates at all.

This is what often isn’t understood.

She doesn’t need bribes or rewards.

She doesn’t need more discipline.

And her parents do not need to be questioned or punished on the days she simply cannot go in.

What she needs is understanding.

Consistency.

Safety.

This is the part that matters:

What we are seeing is not behaviour in the way it’s often understood.

It’s a neurological response.

When the brain perceives overwhelm or threat, it moves into survival mode. In that state, learning becomes incredibly difficult. Memory, focus, motivation, all of the things young people are expected to access during exam periods, are impacted.

So what looks like avoidance is often protection.

What looks like disengagement is often overload.

And for some young people, continuing to push through is no longer possible.

This is where families often find themselves feeling stuck.

School attendance becomes difficult.

Mornings become overwhelming.

Conversations with school start to feel strained or misunderstood.

If this is something you are navigating, there is something important I want you to know:

Your child does not lose their right to an education because they cannot attend school.

Under Section 19 of the Education Act, local authorities have a duty to provide suitable education for children who cannot attend school due to physical or mental health needs.

This includes young people experiencing anxiety, EBSA, or school-based distress.

It does not require a diagnosis.

It does not depend on an EHCP.

And it should not be delayed while a child is struggling.

In practice, this means education should be adapted to meet your child where they are, not where the system expects them to be.

Calmer.

Flexible.

Responsive to their nervous system.

Not forced. Not rushed.

Rebuilt in a way that makes learning possible again.

I know how difficult it can be to advocate for this.

Knowing what to say.

How to explain what’s happening.

How to be taken seriously without feeling like you have to fight.

That’s exactly why I created two resources:

• A simple, clear guide to Section 19 so you understand your child’s rights

• A professionally written template letter you can adapt and send to school

If it would help, you can find both here:

https://carolinesuttonhypnotherapy.co.uk/

If you are in that space right now, where things feel fragile or uncertain, this might be a helpful place to start.

And if this isn’t your situation, perhaps this is just something to carry with you.

That not all young people who are “coping” are actually okay.

That behaviour is often communication.

And that underneath it all, there is usually a nervous system trying to stay safe.

This time of year doesn’t need more pressure.

https://carolinesuttonhypnotherapy.co.uk/product/a-parents-guide-to-section-19/

The current war in the Middle East is one of those times. Images, stories, and commentary are everywhere. For many people, even those thousands of miles away, it can provoke deep feelings of fear, sadness, anger, and helplessness. We are witnessing suffering, uncertainty, and political tension that may feel far beyond our control.

It is completely human to feel affected by this. When this first unfolded I had just returned from a holiday in Thailand and had been in Dubai airport only a few hours before the first attacks took place. It felt very uncomfortable and close to home. I have never been so grateful to fly into a cold grey Manchester Airport as I was last Friday.

But when the world feels turbulent, protecting our own nervous system becomes essential.

Why Our Brains React So Strongly to Threat

From a neuroscience perspective, our brains are designed to prioritise danger.

Deep within the brain sits a small structure called the amygdala. Its job is simple but powerful: scan for threat and keep us alive. If the brain senses danger, it quickly activates the body’s survival system, preparing us for fight, flight, or freeze.

This system evolved to protect our ancestors from immediate dangers, things like predators or physical threats. In those situations, the brain responded quickly, the body mobilised, and once the danger had passed, the nervous system gradually settled again.

But the modern world is very different.

Today we are exposed to a constant stream of information about global events, conflict, disaster, and crisis. Our brains often interpret these signals as ongoing threat, even when the danger is not directly in front of us.

The result is that many people live in a prolonged state of background anxiety.

Our nervous systems were never designed to stay in survival mode all day, every day.

When we remain in that state for too long, it can leave us feeling exhausted, overwhelmed, and emotionally flooded.

So the question becomes: how do we stay informed without allowing fear to take over?

Practical Ways to Protect Your Nervous System

Stay informed, but avoid constant exposure

It is natural to want to follow events as they unfold. Staying informed matters.

But there is a difference between being informed and being immersed.

Watching rolling news all day or constantly refreshing social media can keep the brain locked in threat detection mode. Instead, consider choosing one or two specific times during the day to check the news.

This allows you to stay aware while protecting your nervous system from continuous exposure.

Notice when your brain starts catastrophising

When uncertainty is high, our minds often begin to imagine worst case scenarios.

This is a very old survival mechanism. The brain believes that if it anticipates danger, it can prepare for it.

But constant catastrophic thinking rarely helps. More often, it increases anxiety and makes us feel powerless.

When you notice your thoughts racing ahead into frightening possibilities, gently bring your attention back to the present moment.

Ask yourself: What is actually happening right now, in this moment?

Most of the time, the immediate environment around us is safe.

Stay grounded in the physical world

One of the simplest ways to calm the nervous system is to reconnect with the body and the senses.

Step outside. Feel the air on your skin. Notice the colours of the sky or the movement of trees in the wind. Walk your dog. Sit in the garden. Listen to birds.

Nature has a powerful regulatory effect on the nervous system. It gently reminds the brain that the world is not only danger and crisis.

Lean into human connection

In uncertain times, connection becomes even more important.

Talk to friends. Spend time with family. Share a meal. Check in on someone who may be feeling vulnerable.

Humans are wired for co-regulation. When we sit with calm, supportive people, our nervous systems often begin to settle naturally.

Connection helps counter the isolation that fear can create.

Take breaks from the noise

It is healthy to give your brain periods of complete rest from global events.

Turn off notifications. Put the phone down. Read a book, cook, exercise, or simply sit quietly.

These pauses allow the nervous system to reset.

Seek support if you feel overwhelmed

For some people, global events can trigger deep anxiety or past trauma. If you notice that the news is significantly affecting your sleep, mood, or daily functioning, it may help to speak with a therapist or trusted professional.

You do not have to manage those feelings alone.

Holding Compassion Without Losing Yourself

It is possible to care deeply about the suffering of others while also protecting your own wellbeing.

Compassion does not require us to absorb every piece of pain the world holds.

Staying regulated actually allows us to respond with more clarity, kindness, and steadiness.

The truth is that the human brain was never designed to carry the emotional weight of the entire world all at once.

So if the news feels heavy right now, be gentle with yourself.

Stay informed, but stay grounded.

Look for moments of connection, beauty, and calm in your own small corner of the world.

Sometimes the most powerful thing we can do in turbulent times is simply this:

keep our nervous systems steady, care for one another, and continue living with humanity and compassion.

Yesterday, on a boat trip here in Thailand, I noticed a young girl travelling with her parents.

They were French. Their English was far better than our French, although still limited. Between gestures, smiles and fragments of language we managed to communicate.

The girl looked angry and shut down.

I noticed it immediately. I usually do.

I have a strong instinct for sensing discomfort in other people. I am still working on my constant urge to fix it, even when I am meant to be resting.

Anyway, back to the boat.

The girl said she felt unwell. Feverish. Tummy pain. And I believe she genuinely did.

But here is what I also noticed.

The boat was crowded. People from different countries. Loud voices. Engines roaring. Stops at beautiful swim spots that were, in reality, chaotic and overstimulating.

Even I felt overwhelmed.

The girl remained fully clothed, mostly huddled under a blanket. Shoulders tight. Face guarded.

At lunchtime we left the group and moved away from the crowds.

I felt better almost immediately.

And just as I registered that shift in myself, I looked across at her.

She had relaxed.

She was laughing.

Chatting.

Her whole body had softened.

Nothing medical had changed in that short time.

The environment had.

When the Environment Changes, the Nervous System Changes

We often interpret behaviour at face value.

“She’s being moody.”

“He’s refusing.”

“They’re overreacting.”

But what if we asked a different question?

What is this nervous system responding to?

Our bodies are constantly scanning for safety or threat. Noise levels. Crowds. Social expectations. Heat. Sensory input. Unpredictability.

When stimulation exceeds capacity, the body moves into protection.

Fight.

Flight.

Freeze.

Shutdown.

Tummy aches. Headaches. Irritability. Withdrawal. Anger.

These are not character flaws.

They are regulation signals.

Signs Your Nervous System Might Be Overloaded

Sometimes overload does not look dramatic. It can be subtle.

You might notice:

• Feeling unusually irritable or snappy

• Sudden fatigue that feels heavy and hard to push through

• Headaches or tummy discomfort with no clear cause

• Wanting to withdraw or cancel plans

• Difficulty concentrating

• Feeling tearful for no obvious reason

• A strong urge to control something small

• Or a sense that everything feels “too much”

Children often show overload through behaviour.

Adults often push through it.

Both are nervous systems asking for relief.

Regulation Is Contagious

What struck me most was how quickly things shifted once the intensity reduced.

No lecture.

No strategy.

No fixing.

Just less input.

When we moved away from the crowded swim stop and the noise softened, both of our nervous systems recalibrated.

Safety is often quieter than we expect.

It is space.

Predictability.

Reduced demand.

Gentle tone.

Slower pace.

A Personal Reflection

Watching her also reminded me how early many of us learn to track other people’s moods.

Hypervigilance can look like empathy.

Fixing can look like kindness.

Sometimes it is both.

But often it began as adaptation.

When we grow up needing to monitor the emotional climate, our nervous systems stay alert long after the danger has passed.

Even on holiday.

I am still learning that not every dysregulated system is mine to calm.

Sometimes the kindest thing is simply to notice, to soften internally, and to allow the environment to do its work.

A Gentle Invitation

Before we rush to correct behaviour, it can help to ask:

Is this a character issue

Or a capacity issue?

Is this defiance

Or dysregulation?

Is the environment asking too much right now?

Often, regulation is not about adding more structure, more instruction, more pressure.

It is about reducing load.

When safety increases, flexibility follows.

Sometimes the shift we are looking for is not inside the person at all.

It is in the space around them.

Recently I’ve noticed a growing frustration online about the increase in adult assessments for ADHD and autism.

Some argue it’s a trend. A bandwagon. A search for labels.

Others suggest people are looking for excuses for behaviour.

I understand why the conversation has become heated. But I also think it misses something important.

When I chose to pursue an ADHD assessment in my fifties, I did not do it lightly. I felt self-conscious. I doubted myself. I worried about how it would look. I questioned whether I was “making a fuss.”

If you are neurodivergent, you often grow up highly attuned to how you are perceived. Disapproval can feel threatening. At a primitive level, rejection equals danger. Our nervous systems are wired for belonging. Historically, exclusion from the group meant reduced chances of survival.

On top of that, many neurodivergent children are repeatedly told they are “too much,” “too sensitive,” “not trying hard enough,” or “doing it wrong.” I cannot count the number of times I was sent out of the classroom or made to stand at the front for behaviour at school.

So I adapted.

I developed a persona. I made fun of myself before anyone else could. I exaggerated my mistakes to make people laugh. I became sociable, confident, slightly rebellious. I still love humour. I adore slapstick. I genuinely enjoy making people laugh.

But beneath that coping strategy was something more serious: chronic masking.

Masking can be conscious or unconscious. It is the process of suppressing aspects of yourself in order to fit in. Over time, that suppression carries a cost. Research increasingly links chronic masking with anxiety, depression and autistic burnout — a deep, pervasive exhaustion that can last for months.

From a physiological perspective, sustained nervous system activation means elevated cortisol, inflammation and prolonged stress responses. We are asking the brain to run multiple parallel processes constantly: monitoring tone, facial expression, posture, impulse control, sensory input and social cues. It is cognitively expensive.

And often invisible.

For years, I functioned. Many of my friends said kindly, “You’ve managed perfectly well for over fifty years. Why get assessed now?”

I thought they might be right.

Then a few months after my diagnosis, something shifted. I realised I could forgive myself for the things I find difficult. I could understand why certain environments drained me. I could stop framing my challenges as moral failings.

One memory stands out. In my forties, when I was working in healthcare, our team moved to an open-plan office with hot desks and shared workspaces.

It was awful for me. I didn’t have the language for it at the time. I became irritable. I argued with colleagues. I struggled to complete paperwork. I felt constantly overwhelmed and on edge.

Yet place me in a client’s home, working one-to-one, and I thrived. I could connect deeply. I could think clearly. I could do the work I was good at.

The problem was never my competence. It was the environment.

Without diagnosis, it is very hard to advocate for adjustments that genuinely support your nervous system. Quieter workspaces. Predictable routines. Reduced sensory load. Flexible hours. Structured deadlines. These are not indulgences. They are accessibility.

This is where the “over-diagnosis” debate becomes simplistic.

Yes, there has been a significant rise in adult referrals. But we are also looking at generations of people who were never assessed as children. Particularly women, high-masking individuals and those who were academically capable. Many of them internalised distress rather than externalising it.

For some, diagnosis opens access to medication, which can be life-changing. For others, medication is not appropriate or the side effects outweigh the benefits. That too is a personal choice.

For many adults, diagnosis is not primarily about medication. It is about coherence. Self-acceptance. Language. The ability to design a life that fits rather than constantly trying to squeeze into one that doesn’t.

I have sometimes felt uncomfortable with the push for assessment because it can appear to reinforce a deficit model — the idea that something is wrong. I much prefer the paradigm that our brains are wired differently, not wrongly.

The strengths are real.

I see it in young clients who can absorb, recite and replicate vast amounts of information about subjects they love. I see it in the ADHD adult who produces creative, lateral solutions that others would never consider. There is intensity, enthusiasm, pattern recognition, deep empathy, originality.

But there can also be hypervigilance. Sensory overwhelm. Exhaustion. A mind that rarely rests.

The question of diagnosis is not about fixing people. It is not necessarily about medicating them. It is about informed choice.

It is about asking:

• Would understanding my brain help me treat myself with more compassion?

• Would it help me access support?

• Would it allow me to make environmental adjustments that protect my mental health?

• Or am I content without formal assessment at this stage?

There is no single correct answer.

Some people will never seek diagnosis and will build lives that work beautifully for them. Others will find that assessment provides a pivotal shift in how they see themselves.

What concerns me is not the increase in diagnosis. It is the ongoing shame attached to difference.

If someone chooses assessment and finds clarity, that is not weakness.

If someone chooses not to pursue diagnosis, that is equally valid.

The goal is not labels for the sake of labels.

The goal is self-understanding, access, inclusion and mental wellbeing.

You were never broken.

You may simply navigate the world differently.

And in a world that is still learning how to accommodate difference, understanding your own operating system can be a powerful place to begin.

Nature is doing what it has always done. The days are shorter. The pace is slower. There is less outward energy. And yet, culturally, we are often encouraged to push in the opposite direction. To set goals, make plans, improve ourselves, and emerge stronger and more focused than before.

Winter, though, does not ask this of us.

It invites us to hunker down, to conserve energy, to turn inward rather than outward. Not to stop living, but to live more quietly for a while. To listen more closely to what feels steady and what feels strained.

I have been reflecting on this a lot recently, partly through my work with clients, and partly through my own reading. I have been slowly making my way through Manifestations for Mortals by Oliver Burkeman, a book that feels less like a set of instructions and more like an invitation to exhale.

What resonated most for me was its gentle challenge to the idea that life should feel manageable, optimised, or neatly organised. The book speaks openly about imperfectionism, the reality that we will never get everything done, and how the constant push for productivity often fuels anxiety rather than easing it.

Rather than offering a system to fix ourselves, it encourages small, imperfect actions, taken within the limits of who we actually are. There is also a strong thread of Stoic thinking running through it, a reminder to focus on what is within our control and to loosen our grip on what is not. Other people’s emotions. External expectations. The pressure to keep up.

This idea of limitation has been sitting with me. Not as something bleak, but as something deeply human.

We are finite. Our time, energy, attention, and emotional capacity are not endless. And yet so much of modern life asks us to behave as if they are. To stretch further. To do more. To keep going.

In my work, I see how often people arrive feeling exhausted not because they are failing, but because they have been trying to override their own limits for too long. Sometimes the most therapeutic thing is not another tool or technique, but permission. Permission to slow down. Permission to rest. Permission to accept that this season may be quieter than others.

This reflection has also shaped some decisions in my own working life. From 9 February until 9 March, I am taking a pause from seeing clients face to face. I am using this time to travel, to move home, and to reflect on how the business continues to grow and evolve.

More importantly, I am creating space to think carefully about how I move forward in a way that is sustainable, ethical, and genuinely supportive. I want to ensure that I can continue to meet the needs of clients without stretching myself beyond what is realistic. I am also developing some new ways of working that will improve access and support in the months ahead.

I am sharing this not just as an update, but as a reflection I suspect many of us are quietly navigating. What would it look like to work with our limits rather than against them? To trust that rest and reflection are not wasted time, but part of the cycle?

Winter does not demand clarity or momentum. It asks for patience. For gentleness. For small, imperfect steps taken in the right direction.

A question to sit with:

What might change if, for this season, you allowed yourself to do a little less and listened a little more to what your body and mind are asking for?

Perhaps that is enough for now.

Christmas, done differently

Every year, as December arrives, I experience the same old feeling of conflicting emotions.

There are parts of Christmas I genuinely love. Twinkly lights, walks on the moors in crisp winter air. Time away from work and the constant pull of other commitments. The sense of feeling cosy, slowed down, and slightly removed from ordinary life. There is also something quietly magical about seeing children in awe, caught up in wonder, even briefly.

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And yet, alongside all of that, there is a familiar tightening in my chest.

Because Christmas has never been simple for our family.

We can’t do Christmas the way other families do. My son Max’s autism and learning disability mean that many of the things people take for granted at this time of year are either confusing, overwhelming, or completely inaccessible to him. Busy environments, things looking different, changes to routine, and social expectations he doesn’t understand can very quickly tip his nervous system into distress.

For many years, I dreaded Christmas.

I tried different approaches, hoping each year would be easier. I lowered expectations, simplified plans, and told myself we would cope better this time. And yet, I often ended up feeling sad, isolated, and quietly aware that the Christmas others seemed to enjoy was not one we were allowed to have.

There has been a cost to getting it wrong.

Some Christmases pushed Max into crisis, his distress spilling out as challenging behaviour because his system was overwhelmed. Many Christmas Days ended in tears, with both my husband and I exhausted and carrying a heavy sense of guilt for something that felt impossible to control.

Last year, we went away for Christmas, just the two of us. It was quieter, and in some ways easier, but it also felt wrong. There was sadness there too. Christmas has a way of bringing grief to the surface, and of feeding the story that everyone else is having a perfect day with family and friends, even though we know the reality is often far more complex.

This year, we are trying again.

Not to get it right, but to make it gentler.

That starts with reducing expectations and focusing on what truly matters.

We won’t open presents with Max. He can’t manage presents. He doesn’t really understand the idea of giving, often tells you what’s in your present before you open it, struggles with the shared attention of other people opening theirs, and cannot tolerate waiting. If he asks for something, he wants it immediately, not wrapped under a tree.

Crackers are also out. He hates them. The noise, the unpredictability, and the fact they simply don’t make sense to him add nothing except stress.

What he does enjoy is sitting down together as a family to eat. But even that has limits. As soon as his meal is finished, he will want to do something else, and that’s okay. This year, we’ll eat together with everything planned in advance. His food plated and ready. His PS5 set up. His care team on call if we need them. Support arranged, rather than hoped for.

This is what Christmas looks like for us now.

And I know we are far from alone.

Christmas can be incredibly hard when you’re parenting a neurodivergent child or a young person with a learning disability. It can also feel heavy when a loved one has dementia, is living in a care home, or when you’re facing the season after a bereavement. The images we’re shown rarely reflect the realities many families are quietly managing.

There is no right way to do Christmas. There is no perfect version to aim for.

Sometimes the success is simply getting through the day without crisis. Sometimes it’s a walk in the cold air, a shared meal, or a moment of calm. Joy doesn’t always arrive wrapped and loud. Often it’s found in the smallest victories.

I want to offer permission to do it differently. To let go of expectations that don’t fit your family. To stop chasing a version of Christmas that was never designed with you in mind.

I’ve created a guide to a gentler Christmas for families who need a different approach. Next week, I’ll also be sharing a resource you can pass on to family and friends, so you don’t have to keep explaining or justifying your choices.

You’re not failing Christmas by adapting it.

You’re protecting the people you love.

And sometimes, that is more than enough.

Why I Felt Compelled to Write a book About EBSA

People often ask why I chose to write a book about EBSA. The truth is, it didn’t feel like a choice. It felt like something I had to do , after years of witnessing the distress of young people whose lives had been turned upside down by anxiety linked to school. My work as a therapist has given me deep insight into a world that is often misunderstood, minimised, or explained away as “school refusal.” What I see every day is far more complex and far more human than that.

I’ve learned that when a young person reaches the point where they can’t get through the school doors, it’s never about defiance. It’s about a nervous system that is overwhelmed. It’s about trying to fit into an environment that was never designed for their brain. When I first meet many of these young people, they are completely shut down. Burned out. Exhausted from trying to be someone they are not so they can survive a system that doesn’t see them clearly.

What changes things isn’t pressure. It’s being heard.

Deep, careful listening.

Validation.

Giving them the space to work out what feels frightening, confusing, or unsafe. To learn to notice the impact of anxiety on their bodies to understand the physiological changes that occur when we experience anxiety. I help young people to tune into their bodies, their nervous systems. To notice when their heart is pounding, their palms are sweating and their hands are shaking to recognise that this is a normal response to stress. There is nothing wrong with them , their bodies are working perfectly letting them know this environment feels unsafe. These signals are vital to survival and we should not be teaching children to ignore them . Instead we should be teaching them to notice and then ask what is happening in my environment that is causing this . They can then go into work out is it really unsafe or is my body responding to thoughts of what might happen . ‘ am i overwhelmed, do i need to take time out in a safe place to regulate ‘ this learning takes time and patience but when young people are given the tools to recognise their feelings and make sense of them they learn a set of vital skills that will support them throughout their adulthood.

When they feel believed, they start to make sense of their emotions. They begin to name the parts of school that feel too much. They learn to trust themselves again instead of feeling wrong, broken, or difficult.

These young people think and feel deeply. They notice everything. They are the radars, the antennae, the ones who pick up on what isn’t right. And yet we ask them to stay quiet. To mask. To conform. And they usually do… until they simply can’t. None of us can thrive in an environment that goes against our basic needs. Why do we expect children to manage it?

I find myself asking: what if they aren’t the problem?

What if they have it right?

Learning isn’t meant to be a test of who can sit still the longest or memorise the most facts. Real learning starts with understanding yourself, your brain, and what helps you feel safe. But our system teaches children to ignore their instincts and push through. And that puts them at risk.

My own experience of school wasn’t easy. I never felt like I fitted in, though I got good at masking. I used humour, rebellion, and compassion to get by. I was drawn to the kids who sat on the margins because, in a quiet way, I was sitting there too. As an adult, I always gravitated towards working with the most vulnerable. It made sense long before I understood why.

My late ADHD diagnosis finally gave me the missing pieces. The deep feelings. The sensitivity. The pull towards people who are struggling. It all clicked into place.

So yes, it feels inevitable that families with children who don’t “fit” would find their way to my therapy room. And it feels just as inevitable that I would want to write this book. Because these children aren’t broken. They are insightful, intuitive, and often far wiser than we give them credit for.

I wanted to lift the shame off their shoulders.

I wanted parents to feel less alone.

And I wanted to challenge a system that isn’t working for the very children who need the most understanding.

This book is my way of starting that conversation. My hope is that it helps young people move from feeling “wrong” to recognising the unique strengths that make them extraordinary.

If you would like to read more my ebook on EBSA is available here https://www.amazon.co.uk/Compassionate-Approach-School-Related-Anxiety-Educators-ebook/dp/B0FT6D74F3

I ran a 10 km race yesterday with a group of friends from Baildon Runners, and I’ve been thinking a lot about why running has become such an anchor for me. It helps the ADHD brain in a way no other form of exercise ever has. There’s something simple and steady about putting one foot in front of the other. No complicated rules, no fast decision making, no hand-eye coordination to battle with. Just movement, breath, rhythm, and space.

Growing up, I wasn’t the child who was picked for sports teams. Anything that involved coordination felt impossible. Racquet sports, netball, team games… I always seemed behind everyone else, and PE became a place where that difference was on display. I developed an indifference and a way of mocking myself to hide my shame and sense of not being able to do what others did, But running was the exception. I could sprint, and for the first time I felt like there was something in sport that made sense for me. Running let me show up as myself rather than trying to squeeze into a version of sport that didn’t suit me.

Now, at 60, I’m grateful every time I lace up my shoes. My joints don’t generally give me trouble, and I’ll never take that for granted. The older I get, the more I realise what a privilege it is to move without pain, to feel strength in my legs, and to trust my body to carry me through a challenge.

One of the most fascinating parts of running, especially with a group, is the chemistry behind it. Dopamine plays a big part in why it feels so regulating for the ADHD brain. Steady cardio brings a gentle drip of dopamine that helps me focus, settle, and think clearly. And when you add the social element, the effect becomes even stronger. There’s something ancient in the way humans bond through shared exertion. We were never meant to live or hunt or survive alone. We thrived in tribes. Moving together, working together, celebrating together. Even now, our brains still respond to that sense of togetherness.

Yesterday’s race was a reminder of that. I saw so many different shapes, sizes, ages, and paces. Every single body out there had a story. Some were running for charity. Some were running for people they’ve lost. Some were running to prove something to themselves after illness or heartbreak or burnout. Some just wanted to finish. And every one of those reasons was valid.

I felt really moved by the diversity around me. In a world that pushes perfection and flawless bodies, running events quietly rebel against that. You don’t need to look a certain way. You don’t need to be fast. You need a pair of trainers, a willingness to try, and a heart that keeps showing up.

I always think about the person at the back of the race. They deserve as much celebration as the person crossing the line first. Sometimes even more. Because being last takes a particular kind of courage. You’re out there longer. You have more time with your own thoughts. And you keep going anyway.

What struck me most yesterday was the sense of community. In an era where headlines focus on what divides us, this event brought people together in the most natural way. Volunteers who gave up their Sunday. Spectators out in the cold clapping and cheering for strangers. Local bands performing at the roadside. People who have never met sending waves of encouragement to runners they’ll never see again.

It felt like a reminder of what we’re capable of when we’re kind. When we choose connection. When we recognise that we’re all just humans trying to do our best, carrying our own struggles, and still finding ways to show up for each other.

Running has taught me so much over the years, but yesterday it taught me something simple: community still exists. People still care. And movement, in all its forms, has the power to bring us back to ourselves and to one another.

I’m grateful for that. And I’m grateful for the legs, lungs, and heart that carried me through 10 km yesterday, surrounded by my running tribe who make everything feel a little lighter.

I’ve been thinking a lot this week about how easily we overlook the things that quietly unsettle a neurodivergent young person in school. Not the obvious stressors. Not the big challenges. But the subtle shifts that seem inconsequential to some, yet have a powerful impact on a young person whose nervous system is already working hard to stay regulated.

A recent session brought this into sharp focus.

When a Change in Rhythm Becomes a Change in Safety

This time of year always brings adjustments. Older students sit exams, and the rest of the school bends around them. Lessons move. Break and lunch appear at unusual times. The whole rhythm shifts.

What struck me this week was how something that appears small to some like having break and then lunch less than an hour later created real inner distress. It simply didn’t make sense. And when the day stops making sense, the nervous system responds quickly.

For a neurodivergent young person who depends on structure to feel safe, predictability is more than a preference. It’s a lifeline.

Sensory Overload Isn’t a Minor Detail

One of the most overlooked elements of school is the sensory environment. Corridors after form time are a perfect example. To an adult, they might seem “a bit busy.” But for a young person who is already close to overwhelm, that extra noise, movement, and unpredictability is not small. It’s enough to push their system into shutdown.

For some children, those few minutes in a crowded space can be the moment that determines whether they get through the day or whether their brain pulls the emergency brake.

These moments are not about avoidance. They are about survival.

Helping Young People Understand Their Reactions

In therapy, my first job is to help young people understand why these changes feel so hard. We talk about the amygdala the brain’s smoke detector and how, for some people, it becomes overly sensitive to anything that feels unpredictable.

A timetable change, a sensory-heavy corridor, or a sudden shift in routine can trigger a freeze response long before they’ve had a chance to think it through.

When they realise this isn’t their fault, something loosens. Shame gives way to understanding. And understanding builds confidence.

Educating the Adults: Parents and Schools

The next step is supporting the adults around them. Parents often see things first, but they don’t always have the language to explain what’s happening. Professionals may see the behaviour but miss the cause, especially if the young person masks well.

Part of my work is helping schools understand the intensity of these moments and how small, thoughtful adjustments can make a huge difference:

• Allowing early exit from form to avoid corridor overwhelm

• Preparing students ahead of time for timetable changes

• Clear explanations to restore predictability

• Building in movement for children who struggle with stillness

• Considering a sensory profile to map unmet needs

These are not dramatic interventions. They’re small acts of attunement that can lower a young person’s stress level almost immediately.

The Bigger Message: Look Beneath the Surface

Often, the most meaningful support isn’t about large-scale strategies. It starts with seeing the invisible load a young person carries.

The young person I met with this week reminded me of that. What appeared small to some a changed timetable, a busy corridor was, in her world, enough to destabilise her day. Yet with empathy, explanation, and a few simple adjustments, she found the words to explain exactly why it mattered.

Her insight was powerful. And it’s a reminder that the smallest changes can feel enormous when your brain is doing its best to keep you safe.

If this resonated…

I write about the lived realities behind school anxiety, neurodivergence, and the quiet challenges young people face every day.

If you’d like to read more, you can follow my Substack to keep up with new posts and resources.

Thank you for caring about the young people who are so often misunderstood.

Why “just make them go to school” isn’t the solution people think it is.

Last week, a local newspaper published a piece about my ebook on school-related anxiety (EBSA). I was grateful for the coverage and touched by the interest. But among the comments was one that stood out:

“Woke clap trap. Just make them go to school.”

It didn’t upset me. Instead, it reminded me of how wide the gap can be between lived experience and outside assumptions. Many people genuinely believe this. They’re not trying to be unkind. They’re speaking from the only framework they’ve ever known.

For some, the old “just get on with it” approach feels familiar. You followed rules. You didn’t question adults. You kept going, even if it meant burying how you felt. So when they hear that a child simply cannot walk into a school building—not won’t, but can’t—it doesn’t make sense to them.

If you’ve never lived with neurodivergence, anxiety, or school trauma, “more discipline” feels like the obvious answer.

But it’s not.

Why my lived experience changed everything

I’m a parent of two neurodivergent young adults. They could not be more different my daughter is bright , sensitive, and deeply reflective, and my son has severe and complex learning disabilities and needs a high level of support. Both are wonderful. Both move through the world in ways that ask others to slow down, listen, and adapt. They are my greatest teachers and show me the mirror on a regular basis.

And the one thing parenting them taught me is this:

There is no single parenting approach that works for every child.

A discipline-first, pressure-based model would have overwhelmed one of my children and completely crushed the other. One needed routine and predictability. The other needed calm, connection, and an environment shaped around his sensory and emotional needs.

Neither responded to pressure.

Neither ever lacked motivation.

But both sometimes lacked capacity.

Their nervous systems were telling the truth long before their behaviour did.

Living beside them,learning, unlearning, advocating, gave me a clear understanding of why “just make them go” is such a dangerous misunderstanding.

What I see every day in the therapy room

Young people with EBSA are not weak, defiant, or manipulative. They are overwhelmed. Their nervous systems are already in survival mode ,breathing faster, heart racing, senses heightened, thinking shut down.

You cannot reason with a child whose body believes they are in danger.

You cannot demand executive function from a brain running on fear.

You cannot force a stressed nervous system into regulation.

So when someone says, “just send them,” what they are really suggesting is:

• ignore their physical distress

• override their internal signals

• disconnect them from their emotions

• teach them that compliance matters more than wellbeing

And that approach doesn’t build strength. It builds shame.

Blind obedience doesn’t protect children it exposes them

Many people believe strict parenting makes children resilient. But when we teach a child to ignore their instincts or discomfort “because an adult said so,” we actually make them more vulnerable.

A child who has learned:

• not to question

• not to express discomfort

• not to trust their internal signals

is a child who is easier for the wrong people to influence.

Confidence grows from connection, not fear.

Resilience grows from safety, not pressure.

A respectful, individualised approach doesn’t make children fragile. It gives them the self-awareness and inner security they need to thrive later in life.

Why “resilience” is often used against struggling young people

Resilience has become a catch-all phrase in schools. But in the EBSA world, it’s often used to dismiss or minimise distress.

“Build resilience.”

“They need to learn to push through.”

“It’s good for them.”

But genuine resilience isn’t built by ignoring needs. It’s built by meeting them.

And for neurodivergent young people, what’s being mislabelled as “lack of resilience” is often the early stages of burnout:

• sensory overload

• emotional exhaustion

• reduced tolerance to demands

• shutdowns or withdrawal

• physical symptoms

• loss of executive function

This is not the same as ordinary stress.

This is a neurological collapse.

Asking a child in this state to “push through” doesn’t toughen them up. It causes harm.

Compassion isn’t weakness — it’s clarity

A compassionate approach isn’t “woke” or indulgent. It’s grounded in neuroscience, lived experience, and what we consistently see in practice.

It recognises that:

• nervous systems differ

• sensory profiles differ

• stress tolerance differs

• learning needs differ

• and behaviour is communication

Compassion doesn’t remove boundaries.

It removes fear.

It helps young people understand themselves, trust themselves, and eventually advocate for themselves.

That is what leads to confident, capable adults not forced compliance.

What I wish the commenter knew

I wish they knew that most parents dealing with EBSA would love nothing more than for school to be simple. They carry guilt, fear, exhaustion, and heartbreak every day.

I wish they knew that these young people are not weak. Many are deeply sensitive, thoughtful, creative, and capable once their nervous system is supported.

And I wish they knew that “just make them go” is not a shortcut to resilience.

It’s a shortcut to trauma.

Real resilience comes from being understood.

Real strength comes from safety.

Real growth comes from compassion.

If this resonated

If you’re supporting a young person who’s struggling with school anxiety, or you simply want to understand this issue more deeply, you’re welcome to stay connected here. I share weekly posts on EBSA, teenage anxiety, neurodiversity, and the emotional world of parenting sensitive young people.

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It recognises that human brains have always been different from one another, and that this variation is a natural part of humanity. Autism, ADHD, dyslexia and other neurotypes are not errors or defects. They are different ways of thinking, sensing and processing the world.

This concept does not ignore that being neurodivergent can be complex and challenging. It absolutely can be. But the difficulty is often amplified by the way society defines “normal.” If we shifted that lens and recognised that diversity and differences are part of being human, we would see more people feeling able to be open about their needs instead of hiding them. We would create space for honesty, dignity and adjustment without shame.

I see this every day in the young people I support. And I see it in myself too. As someone who was diagnosed with ADHD later in life, I am only just finding the confidence to say, “I need this done differently” or “this environment does not support how my brain works.” That level of self advocacy takes time when the world has trained you to blend in and cope quietly.

Many of the young people I support carry deep weight from trying to fit in. They mask who they are to blend, to avoid judgement, to keep up. They push themselves to comply with expectations that exhaust them. And underneath this effort sits a painful belief:

I am wrong. I need to hide who I am.

Over time, this erodes confidence, self esteem and identity. It also leads to burnout and anxiety, especially when masking becomes a daily survival strategy.

The truth is far kinder. Neurodivergent brains have always existed, and they bring strengths that are hugely valuable.

For example:

• Deep empathy and emotional sensitivity

• The ability to hyperfocus and develop specialist knowledge

• Creative and unconventional thinking

• Strong pattern recognition and problem solving

• Loyalty, honesty and passion in the things they care about

None of these traits are faulty. They are part of human variation, and when supported rather than suppressed, they can thrive.

Our role, whether as parents, educators or professionals, is not to mould young people into one version of “normal,” but to help them understand themselves, feel safe in who they are, and build environments that allow them to flourish.

The more we recognise neurodiversity as a natural part of humanity, the more young people can grow up believing something that is true and life changing:

There is nothing wrong with you. The world just has not fully made space for you yet.

In my work as a psychotherapist supporting young people, I am seeing a significant and worrying rise in teenage anxiety. This is not the kind of stress that settles with a weekend off or a few early nights. I am talking about young people who are overwhelmed, burnt out and struggling to cope. For some, this looks like self harm or withdrawing from life. For others, it shows up as panic, extreme school anxiety or restricted eating. These are not small signs. They are cries for help.

A pattern I cannot ignore is how often school pressure sits at the centre of this distress. We are living in a time where school attendance is treated as a key measure of success and responsibility. Attendance matters, yes, but not at the cost of a young person’s mental health. The current narrative makes many families feel blamed when their child cannot cope with the demands of school. That pressure leaks into the nervous systems of young people who are already vulnerable.

This pressure hits neurodivergent young people the hardest. Many are undiagnosed or unsupported due to long assessment waiting lists. They are navigating environments that are not built with their needs in mind, and too often their distress is misunderstood as defiance or avoidance. I see the toll this takes. They do not need more pressure. They need safety, flexibility and adults who understand what is happening beneath the behaviour.

I worry for this generation. Not because they are weak, but because they are carrying too much without enough compassion or understanding around them. We cannot shame children into coping. We cannot push families into crisis and call it resilience.

The answer is not blame. It is curiosity, compassion and a willingness to look beneath the surface. Teachers, commissioners, families and communities all need the right knowledge and support to respond in a trauma informed and neuro affirming way.

These young people are telling us they are struggling. It is our responsibility to listen.

Reflection: How can ensure teenage mental health is protected in a society that values academic achievement over wellbeing ?