Some days, it feels like I’m screaming into a void.
I’m Zoe, Bibetta & Care Design's Social Media Manager, and mother to a brilliant, hilarious, deeply feeling boy with AuDHD—a blend of autism and ADHD. A beautiful, chaotic mix of sensory overwhelm, fierce intelligence, creative explosions, and meltdowns that aren’t defiance, but exhaustion. Frustration. The result of being constantly misunderstood, of trying so desperately to fit in.
And I am tired.
Not of him—never of him.
But of fighting.
Fighting a school system that wants compliance, not curiosity. That punishes the way his brain works instead of supporting it. That pulls me aside to discuss the challenges they've faced with him that day. Not ever thinking 'what does he need?'
Fighting a diagnosis and support system that tells me, “Let’s wait and see,” while he struggles not to burnout.
Fighting GP's who shrug. SEND leads who delay or provide only basic inconsistent support. Fighting for referrals, for assessments, for accommodations that are his legal right, but treated like I'm asking for favours.
Every conversation is a negotiation. Every meeting, a battleground.
“He’s too emotional. Too sensitive.”
“He needs to learn to self-regulate. To organise himself. To socialise better.”
He is a child.
He is not broken.
He is overwhelmed.
The world is too loud, too bright, too fast, too confusing—and still, he gets up every day and tries again.
And I sit in meeting after meeting explaining that he isn’t difficult — he’s dysregulated. That when he zones out or fidgets, it’s not disinterest. It’s his brain trying to cope with sensory input like it’s a tidal wave crashing over him.
I shouldn’t have to be the translator between my son and the world. But I am.
I’ve become a walking encyclopaedia of autism and ADHD. I know the laws, the research, the right tone to take to be heard—but not dismissed. I know the scripts to avoid being labelled “that mum.” And still, I am that mum.
The one who shows up to every meeting with notes, printouts, evidence—who won’t let “He’s doing fine academically” erase everything else.
And still, so many don’t see him.
They don’t see how his face lights up when he talks about badgers, Egyptians, astronomy, politics. They don’t see the intricate drawings he spends hours creating. They don’t see how hard he tries to hold it all together—only to collapse in tears at home because he’s had to mask every second of the day.
They see:
“Refuses to comply.”
“Questions everything.”
“Struggles with friendships.”
I see:
A boy trying so hard to survive in a world not built for him.
He doesn’t need to change.
The systems and support for him and many others need to change.
I’ll keep showing up. Keep calling, writing, pushing, learning, advocating.
Because my son deserves to be seen.
To be understood.
To be supported.
To be celebrated—not just tolerated.
I am sharing this because I know there are other parents sitting in cars after school drop-offs, worrying how their child's day is going to go. Parents lying awake at night replaying meetings, wondering if they said the wrong thing, if they’re asking for too much, if they’re failing their child somehow.
If that’s you, I want you to know—you’re not alone. You’re not imagining the struggle. And you’re not “too much” for advocating for your child.
I’m sharing this because so often these experiences of being a SEND parent happen quietly, behind closed doors, leaving parents isolated and doubting themselves. If this feels familiar, then this blog has done what I hoped it would: helped you feel seen.
What I have learned since writing this blog: is that when the right support does show up—when a teacher listens, when a professional truly understands neurodivergence, when adjustments are made without judgement—it changes everything. Not overnight. Not perfectly. But meaningfully.
So if you’re in the thick of it right now, please hear this: keep going. Keep trusting what you see in your child. Keep asking the uncomfortable questions. The right people do exist, even if it takes far too long to find them.
