The Battle: A Parent’s Perspective on School Anxiety

The first time it happened, I told myself it was just a bad morning. A rough night’s sleep, a passing worry, maybe a reaction to something small. But this is not the first time, nor the second. This has been my experience for some time. It comes in waves, some days better than others. But then there are the days when my son is pleading, tears rolling down his face, his small hands gripping mine as if I could somehow shield him from the world.

“Please, Mummy. Don’t make me go, I don't want to go to school.”

His voice breaks. His body shakes. I meet his eyes, the fear in them so raw, so overwhelming, that I feel the familiar ache in my chest. The logical part of me, the professional, the SENDCo who works with children just like him every day, tells me to breathe, to validate, to reassure. But the mother in me wants to gather him up, to protect him from whatever it is that makes school feel like such a terrifying place.

I’ve heard it too many times in meetings, in whispered conversations, in dismissive remarks:

“Parents are making excuses for their children.”

“They just don’t want to go to school.”

“They need firmer boundaries.”

And yet, until you have stood in front of your child, watching their entire body shake with anxiety, their voice hoarse from pleading, their sleep broken by nightmares of the place they are meant to feel safe, you cannot possibly understand the emotional toll. It is unimaginable. It is indescribable.

My son is autistic. He also has ADHD. The world does not move at his pace. It is too loud, too fast, too unpredictable. School is full of challenges that most children navigate without a second thought, unstructured times, social demands, changes to routine. For him, they are mountains. Some days, he can climb them. Other days, he is paralysed at the base, unable to take a single step.

EBSNA, Emotionally Based School Non-Attendance. I have seen the term debated, dismissed, downplayed.

“It’s not a diagnosis, just a phrase.”

But when it is your child, when you see the avoidance creeping in, the distress growing, the safe place of home becoming the only refuge, it is real. Painfully, devastatingly real.

The hardest part is knowing that as a SENDCo, I am meant to have the answers. I advocate for other children, I fight for the right support, I reassure parents that we will work together to find a way forward. But when it is your own child, the answers don’t come so easily. The fight is lonelier. The guilt is heavier.

Yesterday, my son made it to school. Today I don’t know. But what I do know is that I will listen. I will believe him. And I will never dismiss the pain of another parent who is standing where I stand. Because this is not just a bad morning. This is not an excuse. This is our reality, and it deserves to be understood.