It all began in Year 8 when my daughter Ottoline, then just 13, discovered that attending school was not a necessity. Like many children, she spent a significant portion of that year learning from home due to lockdowns. However, upon her return, she quickly decided that school was no longer for her. While her brothers resumed their classes without hesitation, Ottoline transitioned from attending five days a week to just three, then two. By the time she faced her GCSEs, she was averaging about one-and-a-half days a week at school.
Current statistics reveal that she is far from alone in this struggle. Alarmingly, a record number of children are now absent from school, with new research indicating that one in six children faced persistent absence during this academic year. Bridget Phillipson, the Education Secretary, has issued a stark warning: Britain is confronting an “epidemic” of school refusal.
The reasons behind this phenomenon are multifaceted and complex. The education system, rooted in the Victorian era, has failed to evolve adequately to meet the needs of today’s children. Many lessons simply do not resonate with students, leading to disengagement. Furthermore, as more children are diagnosed with various forms of neurodivergence, the school environment often lacks the resources and understanding to cater to their unique needs. This was particularly true for Ottoline. In hindsight, I recognize how genuinely challenging her experience was. Now that she is 18 and has stepped away from traditional schooling, I can reflect on those times with a clearer perspective.
It’s Important to Share the Struggle
Let me be clear: navigating a child’s refusal to attend school is an exhausting and overwhelming experience. It places immense stress on everyone involved—the child, the parents, the school staff, and the teachers. This situation becomes a desperate struggle for all parties. One of the hardest parts for me was the fear of judgment from others. I often felt that people would label me as a “slack” parent, and I began to internalize that belief.
Each morning, as I climbed the stairs to wake Ottoline, I would do so with a sense of trepidation. I never knew how she would react, and I often found myself thinking that if I could just be stronger or firmer, she would willingly go to school. I frequently blamed myself for her refusal, grappling with the weight of being a single parent responsible for my four children, both financially and emotionally. My own needs were consistently pushed to the bottom of the list.
As Ottoline’s struggles intensified, I couldn’t help but feel guilty. I believed that if I had more time, if I weren’t constantly under pressure, or if I could manage my own stress better, she would be fine and attend school like her peers. For a time, I truly believed this narrative.
When friends suggested that I just needed to be tougher with her, or implied she was simply trying to manipulate me, I wanted to scream in frustration. With time, I’ve gained a deeper understanding of her situation. It is a misconception that children who refuse school come solely from single-parent households; many stable, happily married families face similar challenges.
In reality, Ottoline had detested school from her very first day at age four. The only educational environment she truly enjoyed was a small local church school she attended for a couple of years before transitioning to secondary education. Eventually, she was diagnosed with autistic spectrum disorder (ASD) and later with dyslexia, dyscalculia, and ADHD. What this meant was that she, like many children with similar diagnoses, struggled to learn in a conventional manner. Unfortunately, most schools are not currently equipped to educate neurodivergent students in a way that resonates with them. As a result, she spent her days feeling anxious, isolated, and, as she often put it, “stupid.” She struggled to comprehend lessons; the texts were incomprehensible, and she felt lost.
While she voiced her feelings to me, I realize now that I didn’t fully grasp the depth of her distress. It’s challenging to understand a struggle when you haven’t personally experienced it. Additionally, her brothers had navigated school successfully, so I had no prior experience to draw upon. My fears that if she didn’t attend school, she would fall behind in life only intensified my anxiety. I worried that she wouldn’t acquire an education, wouldn’t achieve any qualifications, and would lead a life marked by loneliness and sadness. This toxic combination of her anxiety and my own created a cycle where little changed for either of us.
Her school made every effort to support her. I maintained open communication with the staff, often visiting to share my own feelings of despair over a cup of tea. They understood that neither Ottoline nor I was being obstructive; we were simply navigating an incredibly difficult situation. I was fortunate to receive a significant amount of support.
Additionally, I discovered online communities like Not Fine In School on Facebook, which provided invaluable assistance. Whenever I felt despondent, I would post there and receive an outpouring of encouragement. The knowledge that I was not alone in this struggle was profoundly comforting.
Somehow, we managed to get through her GCSEs. She was granted permission to drop one subject, a decision that made perfect sense to me. I questioned the logic of requiring a child with such pronounced neurodivergence to sit for eight GCSEs. Her results were sufficient to allow her to enroll in college, where she pursued a Level 3 Health and Safety qualification, excelling in her studies. However, I wish I could say the journey was smooth sailing; it was anything but. Her anxiety resurfaced, manifesting in physical symptoms like vomiting every morning before college. I spent countless hours liaising with the pastoral care department and advocating for her needs. I lost count of how many times I pleaded with others to give her a chance and explained how challenging her circumstances were.
What I do know is that many individuals listened to my pleas, offered support, and provided Ottoline with the opportunities she needed to thrive. Her survival is largely due to the kindness and commitment of those around her who chose to see her potential rather than just her challenging behavior. I will forever be grateful to the friends and even strangers who reached out with offers of assistance.
Ultimately, one of those kind individuals contacted me and suggested that my daughter would be a great fit for a position at our local school. Ottoline interviewed and was offered the job. To my amazement, she loves it.
Now, she helps care for children in Reception and Year One, occasionally working with students who have special educational needs. She shines in this role, feeling useful and appreciated. Each day, she comes home filled with stories about the little ones she adores, and this experience has been transformative for both her and me.
If someone had told me two years ago that she would wake up excited for work, neatly packed bag in hand, and thriving in a school environment, I would have found it hard to believe.
While we are not entirely out of the woods yet, life has changed remarkably for the better. It feels crucial to share our story, to highlight that there is indeed a life beyond school refusal.
