September: The First Day Photo I Couldn't Take
The month of new uniforms, shiny shoes, oversized school bags and photographs. So many photographs. Children standing outside their front doors, proudly showing off their new year group. Parents smiling behind the camera. A quick picture before they head off through the school gates.
“First day of Year 3.” “First day of secondary school.” “Look how much they've grown.”
I love those photographs. But I also know there are families who aren't taking one.
And I know exactly why…
Because sometimes, when your child struggles with school, there is no smiling photograph. There is no standing neatly outside the front door. There is no “cheese”. There is just a child who is overwhelmed by what is coming, and a parent desperately trying to get them through the morning. And sometimes, the biggest achievement of the day is simply getting dressed.
Or getting into the car.
Or getting to the school gates.
Or, on some days, just managing to visit the school building at all.
I know this because I am living it. I am an ex-teacher. I tutor children who struggle with school. And I am a mum to a child who struggled enormously with primary school while masking almost every single day.
Three different perspectives.
Three different voices in my head.
And sometimes they all scream at me at once.
I Still Feel Like I'm Sending Him Into the Lions' Den
There is a feeling I know all too well; That feeling in the pit of your stomach when you are taking your child to school and you know they don't want to go. I used to describe it as feeling like I was sending Evan into the lions' den. And, if I'm completely honest, sometimes I still feel it.
He is older now. He understands more. We understand him more.
We know so much more about autism, anxiety, masking and what helps him.
His current school is the right place for him.
I genuinely believe that.
And yet September still brings those feelings. Because new things are difficult for Evan. Change is difficult. Uncertainty is difficult. New routines, new expectations, new people, new classrooms and new teachers, even when all of those things are ultimately positive, can still feel enormous.
So this year, I find myself having the same conversations with myself that I've had before. Am I pushing too hard? Am I not pushing enough? Should I listen to the anxiety? Should I challenge it? Am I helping him? Am I making things worse?
It is exhausting.
Then comes the moment I have to leave him. I walk him to the gate. I make sure he's okay. I say goodbye. It doesn't mean I smile. I tell him he'll be alright. And then I walk away. And sometimes I cry.
I've cried after dropping him off. I've got back to the car, shut the door, taken a breath and just cried. Because sometimes you hold it together for your child, and the moment they are safely inside, it all comes out. And you know what?
That's okay. It's normal.
It doesn't mean I don't believe in him. It doesn't mean I don't believe in his school. It doesn't mean I think I've made the wrong decision. It doesn't mean I'm weak.
It means I'm his mum. It means I love him. It means I've spent the journey worrying about how he is going to cope, and when I finally know he's inside, the emotion I’ve been holding back has somewhere to go. I think we put so much pressure on parents to be the strong ones.
To smile. To reassure. To say, “You'll be fine!” To walk away confidently.
But sometimes we're anything but fine. Sometimes we get to the car and cry. Sometimes we sit there for ten minutes before we can drive away. Sometimes we ring someone and say, “He's gone in, but I'm not okay.”
That doesn't make us less capable parents. It makes us human. Because sending your child into something that you know is difficult for them is hard. Even when you know it's the right thing. Even when you know they are safe. Even when you trust the school. Even when you know, logically, that they will probably be okay. Your heart doesn't always listen to logic. Mine certainly doesn't when it comes to Evan.
The teacher in me can understand all the reasons why he needs to be there. The tutor in me can understand why gently pushing through anxiety can be important. But the mum in me still stands there watching him walk away and thinks:
Please be okay. Please cope. Please let today be a good day.
And sometimes I cry. And that's okay.
Perhaps we need to give parents permission to have feelings about school too. We spend so much time talking about whether our children are coping that we forget to ask whether their parents are. Sometimes the parent needs a moment too.
A moment to breathe. A moment to cry. A moment to gather themselves. And then, when they're ready, to get on with the day. Because tomorrow morning, we'll probably do it all again. We'll get dressed. We'll find the shoes. We'll have the conversations. We'll reassure. We'll worry. We'll walk through the gates. And we'll let go. Because that's what we do. Not because it isn't hard. But because we love them enough to keep trying.
I Know That Attendance Matters
The teacher in me knows that being in school matters. I know the benefits of routine. I know how important relationships with teachers can be. I know how much children can gain from being part of a classroom. I know that missing school can create gaps in learning and can sometimes make anxiety around returning even bigger. I understand why attendance is monitored. I understand why schools want children in. I haven't forgotten any of that just because I became a parent.
But then I look at my child.
Suddenly the word “attendance” feels very different.
“My child isn’t a percentage. He isn’t a number on a register.”
He isn't a missed morning. He is a child who can be genuinely frightened by change. A child who can find new situations overwhelming. A child who has spent years masking. And a child who can look like he is coping when, internally, he is working incredibly hard just to get through the day.
That is where the battle starts. Because I absolutely believe in encouraging children to attend school. But I also believe that pushing a child beyond their limitations can be incredibly damaging. There is a difference between supporting a child through something difficult and pushing them so far that they become completely overwhelmed.
There is a difference between: “I know this is scary, but I'm here, and we’ll do it together.”
and:
“You're going. You'll be fine.”
One acknowledges the fear. The other dismisses it. And for a child who is already struggling, that distinction can be huge.
Evan Is Very Good at Looking Okay
One of the hardest things about Evan's experience at primary school is that he masked. He masked every day. He went in. He did what he was expected to do. He followed the rules. He appeared to cope. And then he came home. And the child who walked through our front door wasn't necessarily the child his teachers had seen that day. The exhaustion came out. The overwhelm came out. The emotional dysregulation came out. And I was left wondering how many people understood what it had taken for him to hold everything together.
That is the danger of masking.
“We see the child who is managing. We don’t always see the cost of managing.”
And I think that is something that parents of children who struggle with school carry around with them all the time. That constant feeling of:
You don't see what I see. You don't see what happens when he gets home. You don't see how hard this actually is. You don't see how much energy this takes.
This September, I am still very conscious of that. Because just because Evan is older doesn't mean those difficulties disappear. He still has the same fears around change and new things that so many autistic children experience. He still worries. He still needs reassurance. He still needs preparation. And sometimes he still needs me to push him.
Yes, I Am Happy to Push Him
This is perhaps the most complicated part for me to explain. Because I don't want anyone to read this and think that I believe the answer is simply to let children avoid anything that scares them.
I don't.
I don't want anxiety to become the thing that dictates the size of Evan's world. I don't want him to miss out on opportunities because something feels frightening initially. And I don't want to reinforce the idea that“I'm scared” automatically means “I can't.”
So, yes, I push him.
I am happy to push Evan through some of those worries. Because I believe his current school is the right place for him. I believe in the people there. I believe in what they can offer him. And I believe in him.
But pushing him doesn't mean ignoring how he feels.
It means acknowledging it. It means saying:
“I know you're worried.” “I know this feels different.” “I know you don't like change.” “But I'm here.” “We'll do this together.”
Sometimes he needs me to hold his hand. Sometimes he needs me to give him a little push. And sometimes he needs me to recognise that today, the push would simply be too much.
Knowing which one he needs is the difficult bit.
Parents and Friends Have Been Messaging Me
This September, I have already had parents I know contact me because their children haven't made it into the classroom.
Some haven’t managed to leave the house. Some have got to school. Some have got through the gates. But the classroom has been the step too far.
And I completely understand the panic that can come with that because when your child doesn't make it into school, it is so easy to immediately think:
What now? What will school think? Have I made things worse? Am I giving in? What if they don't go tomorrow either?
And sometimes the answer isn't to demand more. Sometimes it is to make the next step smaller. One of the things that can help is a visit at the end of the school day. The school is quieter. The pressure is gone. There aren't hundreds of children moving around. There isn't the expectation that they have to sit down and immediately become “a pupil”.
They can simply go in. Look around. See the classroom. Meet someone familiar. Become a little more comfortable with the environment. And that small visit can make tomorrow feel slightly less frightening.
It doesn't solve everything. It doesn't magically remove the anxiety, but it can turn something completely unknown into something that has been seen before. Sometimes that is enough.
Then There Are the Photographs
This is the bit I really want people to think about because when September arrives, social media becomes a sea of first-day photographs. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that. I love seeing them. But there is a whole group of parents scrolling through those photographs who aren't posting one.
Because their child simply wouldn't cope with it. Maybe their child is crying. Maybe they are already overwhelmed. Maybe they have spent the entire morning trying to get dressed. Maybe getting through the front door is all that matters. Maybe the parent knows that asking them to stand outside and smile for a photograph could be the final straw. So they don't take one.
And I know how that feels. I know how it feels to sit there looking at everyone's beautiful photographs when your own morning has been anything but beautiful. I know how easy it is to feel like everyone else is managing. Like everyone else's child is excited. Like everyone else's family has got this September thing sorted. And mine hasn't.
I want those parents to know something.
“You haven’t failed because you don’t have a first-day photograph.”
Your child doesn't need to smile beside the front door to prove that they are brave. You don't need a photograph to prove that you are proud and your child doesn't need to perform happiness for social media when they are already using every ounce of energy they have just to cope.
Maybe your first-day photograph is one that never gets taken. Maybe your photograph is the image in your mind of your child finally walking through the classroom door. Maybe it is the memory of them standing at the school gates, terrified, but taking one step forward. Maybe it is the text you send someone afterwards saying: “They made it.” Those are the moments that matter too.
The Parent Nobody Sees
I think about the parents I speak to through my tutoring work. I think about the parents who message me because their child hasn't gone in. The parents who are exhausted before the school day has even started. The parents who feel judged. The parents who have tried rewards, consequences, reassurance, bribes, routines, charts, conversations and everything else they can think of. The parents who are terrified of getting it wrong.
I know that parent.
I've been that parent.
And sometimes I still am that parent.
There are mornings when I question myself. There are still moments when I wonder whether I'm being too soft. There are moments when I wonder whether I'm being too hard. That is the reality nobody tells you about. There isn't always a clear line. There isn't a magic formula.
There is just your child. And you. And your best attempt to work out what they need today.
I Wish I Could Tell the Mum I Was Then What I Know Now
When I think about Evan at primary school, I sometimes want to go back and hug the version of myself who was standing at those school gates.
I want to tell her: You aren't failing. You're not a bad mum. You're not making excuses for him. You aren't letting him win. You are trying to understand your child.
I want to tell her that the fact he could walk into school didn't mean it was easy. That the fact he could mask didn't mean he wasn't struggling. That sometimes the behaviour at home was the evidence of how hard he'd worked all day to keep it together. I want to tell her that it is okay to have complicated feelings about school.
Because I still do.
I Am Still Walking That Line
This September, I am still walking that line between accepting anxiety, protecting and pushing. Between listening and challenging. Between accepting anxiety and not allowing anxiety to take over. Between being his mum and being the ex-teacher who knows how important school can be.
I don't have it all worked out. I don't think any parent does.
But I know Evan.
And I know that he needs both things from me. He needs me to understand when something is genuinely too much. He needs me to believe in him when fear is telling him he can't.
So yes, I will push him.
Not because I don't care about his anxiety, because I do. Not because I think he should just “get over it”. I absolutely don't. I will push him because I know that sometimes the kindest thing I can do is stand beside him while he does something difficult.
I will say: “I know you're scared.” “I know you don't like this.” “I know it's new.” “But you're safe.” “And I'm here.”
And then, when he is ready, we'll take the next step.
September Isn't the Same for Every Child
I think that's what I want people to remember this September. Not every child is starting from the same place. For some children, September is exciting. For some, it is a relief. For some, it is a chance to see friends again. For some children, it is terrifying. And for some autistic children, the sheer amount of change involved can feel completely overwhelming.
We can't always see that. We might see a child standing quietly in a classroom and think they're okay. We might see a child who has attended every day and assume everything is fine. We might see a parent whose child is struggling to attend and assume they're not pushing hard enough. We might see a missing first-day photograph and never know the battle that happened behind the scenes.
We don't know.
And perhaps we need to be a little kinder because of that.
So, if your child has walked happily through the school gates this September, celebrate it.
If they have walked through crying, celebrate that too. Even though you’re probably crying too!
If they haven't made it into the classroom, don't give up. Make the next step smaller. Visit at the end of the day. Meet the teacher. Walk around the building. Try again.
And if you are the parent who hasn't taken that first-day photograph because your child simply couldn’t cope with it, please know you haven't missed the moment.
You are living the moment. You're just living a different version of it.
And if you're sitting in your car after another difficult school morning, wondering whether you're doing the right thing, I want you to know that I understand. I am still there too. I am still the mum who sometimes feels like she is sending her child into the lions' den. I am still the ex-teacher who knows how important attendance can be. I am still the tutor who sees how desperately some children struggle to access school. I am still trying to balance all three.
But perhaps that's the thing.
“Maybe good attendance isn’t simply about getting a child through a school gate at any cost.”
Maybe it is about helping them get through that gate in a way that means they can come back tomorrow. Maybe it is about making school a place they can eventually feel safe in. Maybe it is about understanding that resilience isn't built by breaking a child. It is built by helping them discover that they can do hard things, with the right support around them.
And so this September, there may not be a perfect photograph. There may not be a perfect first day. There may be tears. There may be missed classrooms. There may be visits at the end of the day. There may be parents crying in cars. There may be children who need to try again tomorrow.
But there will also be courage. Quiet, invisible courage. The kind nobody photographs. The kind that happens when a frightened child takes one more step.
And sometimes, that one step is everything.
Getting through the school gate isn't always the achievement.
Sometimes getting to the point where a child feels safe enough to walk through it is the biggest achievement of them all.
Connect with Holly
If Holly’s story has struck a chord, you can find out more about her work through her tutoring business, Holly Booth Tutoring.
As a former teacher and a mum who understands the challenges that school can bring, Holly brings a thoughtful, individual approach to her tutoring. She takes the time to get to know each child, understand what makes them tick, and help them build confidence in their own way.
Whether a child is finding school difficult, needs a little extra support with learning, or simply needs someone who sees beyond the surface, Holly is passionate about helping them feel understood, capable and valued.
Find out more on Facebook: @Holly Booth Tutoring
Or search Holly Booth Tutoring to connect directly.
Thank you, Holly, for sharing your family’s story so honestly and openly. 💙
If Holly’s story has made you think about your own experiences, or you’d like to share how you create safe spaces for children, we’d love to hear from you.
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