Parenting isn’t supposed to feel like walking a tightrope in the dark, especially as a wheelchair user, but that’s where I’ve found myself with James. He’s a teenager now. He’s bright, creative, fearless, funny, sensitive, and fiercely himself. He is also carrying more pain and struggles than most people realise. We’re navigating a storm of school trauma, mental health struggles, risky behaviour, and a young person trying to work out who he is in a world that keeps demanding things from him.
James has always been different—in the best and hardest ways. Fearless as a child, climbing anything he could grip, leaping before looking, always involved in everything, the one caught red‑handed when everyone else had done the same thing. His impulsivity never came from defiance; it came from a brain wired to feel everything intensely and immediately. He lives life in the present tense, experiencing the world like lightning—sudden, consuming, impossible to ignore. By the time it needs dealing with, he's moved on while the rest of us are scratching our heads what to do. Any challenge is pointless. Its done. He's moved on to a new present.
Over the years, we’ve seen traits of autism, ADHD, and possibly CD or PDA, but cracks in assessments and support have swallowed him. Identified with SEN needs in Year 6, he was passed between services until he aged out of one and was placed on a multi‑year waiting list for another. A new referral following this added even more years. By the time he reaches the top, he’ll be an adult facing another long wait. All the while, he’s expected to cope and regulate without the much needed scaffolding. As someone who experienced that, I worry he'll hit later life and struggle. One small win, however, came through Right to Choose: Psicon diagnosed him with ADHD this month, something we hope helps him.
School has been the sharpest edge. James has always identified simply as “James.” No categories fit him. Some see it as phases, but it’s expression, identity, exploration. When he walked into an all‑boys school in Year 7, expressing himself, he was mocked, beaten, and targeted—mostly outside school grounds. Staff did very little. Being himself came with a cost, a lost of trust in the system. We moved him.
The next school repeated the pattern: reacting instead of understanding. Disciplining instead of listening. Teachers ignored SEN strategies and punished him for traits he couldn’t control. Removing him safeguarded him, but it also meant he never saw adults stand up for him, that it was their problem, not his, and that he definitely wasn't the problem.
His current school began the same way: The same damage was done. Promises were broken. Plans weren’t followed. Emails went unanswered. Each failure confirmed that adults say the right things but rarely follow through. We fought and were acknowledged with phrases like "we missed opportunities" and "this is not the best practice we strive for." Never real accountability. Their new promises took three weeks of this academic year to prove to be paper-thin. Each new action, confirmed that adults don't follow through and shouldn't be respected. Respect is mutually shared, not hierarchically pushed, reinforced with punishments, and demanded. The more I push to find workable routes, the more he sees me pushing him into an environment that is built to punish him.
He now refuses school. Anxiety, anger, panic, or shutting down hits. He can't face it. His attendance has dropped to 47%. Then holidays bring back the happy James; school shuts him down again. He's been isolated, detained, and blamed so often that he no longer believes any adult in school is on his side—and honestly, after years of being failed, who could blame him? They need him in school to rebuild trust. James, and I can't disagree, believes they've had enough chances over the last 16 months.
At home, the pressure spills over. He lashes out, says things he does and doesn’t mean, and pushes us away. Other times, he’s funny, engaging, and entirely himself. Yet, between all this, he’s been caught in situations far beyond his maturity—things no parent wants. Despite his belief or bravado, he struggles seeing why we think he's vulnerable. When he does open up, usually late at night through text messages when everyone else is asleep, it's heartbreaking: a child struggling to be him.
He's always had friends, but struggles to maintain them. He gravitates toward peers who live as he does, because they make him feel less alone. They give him moments of happiness that he struggles finding elsewhere. His new friends aren't bad kids—just more people like him. I'm glad he has some happiness, despite everything else.
We’ve tried counselling, Early Help, MIND, B.R.A.V.E., parenting courses, boundaries, structure, and freedom. Some things help briefly. Some backfire. Some aren’t enough. Still, we keep trying. Giving up is not an option. Well, it's not for me. Even when he pushes me away.
James just wants to be happy, to have friends, explore who he is, and feel safe in his own skin. He isn’t a problem to solve. He’s a child repeatedly failed by systems that should have protected him.
Home-schooling may be the best option again, but I won’t do it until I’ve fought this school and ensured his story is properly recorded. He deserves a record that tells the truth—not the version written by those who misunderstood him.
This doesn’t yet have a tidy ending. It’s messy. Telling it so the world can't reduce James to something he's not. He deserves better than that. He always has.
*PLEASE NOTE: I asked James' permission to post this*
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