Part 1: The Silent Pleas of ADHD
“A behaviour policy that removes necessity and calls it a consequence, is a failure.”
It started, as these things so often do, with a water bottle.
Not thrown.
Not launched.
Not dramatically yeeted across the classroom like a deleted scene from Water Bottles Gone Wild.
It was slid.
A gentle, distracted nudge across a table by a boy whose brain runs at Formula 1 speed while his body is still buffering. A boy with about ten minutes of usable focus. A boy who was regulating. A boy who was, genuinely, doing his best.
And for this crime?
He lost five minutes of his breaktime.
Breaktime.
The sacred window where he can move, reset, stim, breathe.
The small window of freedom that stop the rest of the day collapsing like a badly stacked Jenga tower.
The movement that keeps him regulated enough to learn.
But here’s what no one saw.
That morning, he was already unravelled.
Head down. Shoulders tight. Voice barely audible the kind that makes you lean in because it’s fighting just to exist. He hadn’t slept. Anxiety had him looping all night.
Before we even left the house, he asked me six times to speak to his teacher.
“Will you tell her?”
“Can you explain?”
“Please don’t forget.”
Six quiet pleas from a child desperately trying to stop something bad from happening.
At the school gate, I did what parents like me always do. I advocated on the fly, mid-coats, mid-bags, mid-chaos and passed the message via the TA, who was gate keeping the entrance to speak to the teacher directly, in the name of learning. I explained. I asked for understanding. I trusted it would be heard.
“Behaviour is a sign of an unmet need”
At 12 noon, my phone rang.
It hadn’t been.
The consequence had already been delivered.
The response was brisk. Polite. Dismissive.
He still went outside.
It was only five minutes.
It’s not like it happens all the time.
Each sentence was clearly meant to reassure and somehow managed to do the exact opposite.
I was told cheerfully, confidently that he was fine.
Here’s the thing about neurodivergent kids:
They’re often fine until they’re not.
Fine while masking.
Fine while gripping themselves together with white knuckles and borrowed calm.
Fine right up until the moment they’re absolutely not.
I cut her off.
Not rudely. Not dramatically. Just clearly.
I requested no, insisted on a support plan review meeting. Already overdue. I asked for the SENCO to attend. I named the adjustments already agreed. The support plan. The medical evidence on his Occupational Therapy report. The message passed on that morning and ignored.
Because this was never about five minutes.
The meltdown didn’t happen in class.
It happened when the mask dropped at the side of a busy road on the way home.
Fight response.
Screaming and shouting.
Swinging and launching.
Flight response.
Refusal to walk.
Big sobs. Shaking hands.
Then, the immediate dart towards the oncoming traffic without a moment’s hesitation.
The emotional hangover of a day spent masking, bracing, surviving.
Because losing breaktime wasn’t just losing five minutes.
It was losing safety.
Losing regulation.
Losing trust.
All wrapped up neatly in a five-minute bow labelled: ‘Learning is our priority’.
And this was only the beginning.
Come back next week to read how the meeting where emotions ran high, words failed us, and logic quietly left the room. 👇Love surviving this madness with me? Click the button below to buy me a coffee and help fund a new laptop, so I can keep documenting the chaos, one behaviour policy (and meltdown) at a time.
Love,
Diane x
PS: Still figuring it out, still winging it. Still most definitely traumatised from the time my son’s Year 2 teacher said ‘He still went outside, it’s not like it happens all the time.’ But hey, we’re doing our best! And that’s enough for me.