The Back-to-School Feeling That Caught Me By Surprise
Written by an anonymous Interwoven Connections community caregiver
School starts today.
The bags are packed. The lunches are made. Clothes were laid out. Anxious kids were supported through bedtime last night, with the usual combination of reassurance, extra cuddles and reminders that whatever obstacles or challenges come their way, we have their backs. They are not in this alone. We will be there, supporting them, no matter what.
All the ordinary back-to-school things happened.
Except this year, I am not counting down the days until school starts.
I am counting them down because I have to.
And for the first time ever, I am genuinely sad to see summer end.
I have always been one of those parents who is ready for school to start again. I love summer, but by the end of August I am usually craving routine, structure and a little breathing room. I have counted down the days. I have bought the school supplies. I have looked forward to everyone getting back into a rhythm.
This year feels completely different.
Last school year was hard. Not just hard. It was downright traumatizing for our family.
And it took three full weeks of summer before I felt like we had actually started to decompress from it.
Three weeks.
Three weeks of slowly coming down from the constant stress, the meetings, the advocacy, the phone calls, the worry, the dysregulation and the sheer exhaustion of trying to hold everything together.
And just as it felt like we were finally breathing again, the countdown to September started.
The anxiety is already here.
I know that school staff are working within a system that is underfunded and stretched beyond its capacity. I know that teachers and school teams are often doing the best they can with the resources they have.
But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to send your child back into a system that has already caused so much distress.
Because inclusion cannot just mean that a child is physically in the classroom.
And parents cannot be expected to spend every school year fighting to make sure their children are actually supported once they get there.
I am tired.
I am tired of advocating.
I am tired of explaining.
I am tired of wondering whether the right supports will be in place this year, and whether they will stay in place when things get hard.
And most of all, I am tired of knowing that my child is walking into a place where things that seem incredibly small to other kids can take an enormous amount of energy.
My child recently told me they feel lonely at school.
They talked about something as simple as choosing where to sit in a classroom.
Too close to the smart board can mean headaches.
The middle can mean feeling like people are watching or noticing them too much.
The back means they can disappear a little.
A choice that most kids probably don’t think twice about can become a whole calculation.
And as they get older, I can see the gap between their developmental needs and those of their peers becoming more noticeable.
Grade 6 brings its own social complexities. Friendships change. Expectations change. Kids become more independent. The world gets bigger.
And I find myself wondering how much harder that world is going to feel for a child who is already working so hard just to navigate the basics.
I am trying not to get ahead of myself.
I am trying not to catastrophize.
But I also don’t want to pretend that last year didn’t happen.
It did.
It changed us.
So yes, I am dreading today.
I am sad that summer is ending.
I am sad that the place where my child felt safest and most regulated for the last few months is no longer where they will spend most of their day.
And I am scared of what this year might bring.
But there is another feeling sitting alongside all of that.
Hope.
I hope this year is different.
I hope there is a teacher who sees my child before they see the challenges.
I hope there are friendships that feel steady and safe.
I hope school becomes a place where my child can belong instead of constantly feeling like they are trying to keep up.
I hope their nervous system doesn’t spend every day in high alert.
I hope they come home with stories about the good parts of their day, too.
And selfishly, I hope home doesn’t have to be the place where every single hard thing from school gets dumped because there wasn’t anywhere else for it to go.
I don’t know what this year will look like.
I can’t promise my child that everything will be okay.
What I can promise is that whatever happens, we have their back.
We will listen.
We will believe them.
We will advocate.
We will celebrate the wins; however small they might be.
And when things are hard, we will be there for that too.
As an adoptive mom, I have also had to learn to be careful about the stories I tell. My children’s experiences belong to them. Their stories are not mine to tell simply because I am their parent.
So I won’t pretend I know exactly what school feels like for them.
I can only listen when they choose to tell me.
And right now, what I am hearing is that they are nervous. They are tired. They are lonely sometimes.
And they are also hopeful.
So I am trying to hold all of that too.
The dread.
The sadness.
The anger.
The exhaustion.
The hope.
Maybe that is what this year needs to be.
Not pretending everything will be fine.
Not assuming it will be terrible.
Just being willing to meet whatever comes, and making sure my kids know that they will never have to face it alone.
So today, I will do what parents do.
I will pack the bags, make the lunches, help manage the nerves. I will send my kids through those doors, and I will hope, I will advocate, I will listen.
And I will be waiting at home.
The opinions expressed in blogs posted reflect their author and do not represent any official stance of Interwoven Connections. We respect the diversity of opinions within the adoption, kinship and customary care community and hope that these posts will stimulate meaningful conversations.