As the parent of a kid with special needs, the back to school anxiety is something I’ve gotten used to. It comes around every year, consumes my thoughts and feelings for several days, and sometimes doesn’t fade until we’re well into the new school year.
This year it started in July, which is early, even for me.
Last year was chaotic for him. I’m not sure why, but since it was chaotic for him, it was chaotic for me by association. Just as we started to sort things out, summer came. And now- we’re starting over with new teachers, new schedule, new expectations. Enter earlier than ever back to school anxiety.
He’s been in therapy since he was 18 months old. Speech, Occupational therapy, ABA (don’t @ me, it was the biggest game changer for us), even physical therapy for a hot second. Every therapist, every therapy has brought something different to the table, a fresh perspective and a new approach to working through the challenges that tend to accompany an autism diagnosis.
But no therapy can fully prepare him for school.
School is loud, chaotic, unpredictable, and built for kids who can float in the current. For Seton, it feels like being thrown into the deep end without floaties, and he is still expected to swim laps. He does it, because he’s stubborn and determined, but it takes everything he’s got.
Imagine spending your whole life trying to exist in a place where things don’t make sense, where rules aren’t written in a way you can follow, where communication is already complicated and then the words you do get out aren’t understood. It’s not just a miscommunication. It’s another reminder that the world isn’t built for you.
And watching it happen shatters my heart into a million pieces. Because at the end of the day, isn’t that what we all want? To be understood? To be seen without having to translate ourselves a thousand times?
So yeah, my back to school anxiety is here and it’s in full force. So yeah. My back-to-school anxiety is here in full force. I picture him walking those hallways, bracing himself for the noise, the changes, the looks of confusion when he tries to say something. And I want to bubble-wrap him, or sit next to him all day as a translator, or just make the world slow down and meet him where he’s at.
But I can’t.
What I can do is remind him that his voice matters. That being understood is worth fighting for. That he belongs, even when the world feels like it wasn’t made for him. And I can remind myself that his strength runs deeper than my worry. That every time I think he won’t make it through something, he proves me wrong.
Maybe that’s the real back-to-school ritual around here: me panicking, him showing up anyway, and us figuring it out together, one stubborn, beautiful, exhausting step at a time.
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