It’s been an interesting 24 hours, the kind that sits heavy and needs to be written out. And since that’s the purpose of this blog, that’s what I’m going to do.

Yesterday, I left work and walked to collect River as usual. I was in a pretty good mood, listening to music, half-scrolling emails. Then I saw one from school. It was from the SENDCo.

I opened it and read the first line. It was formal. Very formal. A request for a meeting to discuss River’s future, following information received from the local authority.

I think I’ve written before about our plan for River, our hope that he’ll stay at his primary school and move into the new specialist unit attached to it, designed to support autistic children. We’ve felt settled about that. Happy, even.

But as I read the email, my eyes filled with tears.

Stop it, I told myself. It’s just a meeting.
But they’d had information from the local authority.

Tears fell anyway.

You don’t even know what the information is, I argued with myself.
There’s no reason to panic.

My chest tightened. My breathing shortened.

I messaged Kike:
“Email from school about River’s future. Can’t stop crying.”

Where are you?
On my way to pick up River.
Calm down. Get home. We’ll talk.

Spoiler alert: I did not calm down.

Red-faced and still crying, I collected River and Summer and walked them home (grateful for the early darkness) nodding along to Summer’s enthusiastic recap of her day while my head spun. We got in. Kike gave them dinner. I showed him the email.

“Send it to me,” he said.

A few seconds passed while he read. Then:
“If you’re ChatGPT-ing that letter, I’m going to be very cross.”

He looked up quickly (he loves using it)
“It just says they want to talk. We don’t know anything else.”

But by then, spiralling had fully taken hold.

I convinced myself River hadn’t been offered a place in the unit. Then, that the school was going to suggest they couldn’t meet his needs. Then, that we’d need to find another school. Cue panic about travel; two children, two schools, no car. Then I swung the other way: He’s staying. They’ll have to support him.
Then cried again because I don’t want River to be somewhere he isn’t wanted.

Messages were sent. My dad helped me dissect the wording. Four hours after receiving the email, Kike suggested a rum and Coke and The Traitors with Summer. (So much for no midweek drinking.)

And actually, I calmed down.

Kike said he’d speak to the headteacher in the morning so we’d have more information before the meeting.

I woke up with puffy eyes and a heavy feeling. No tears but no bounce either. I went to work, set up my classroom and got on with the day.

Then I saw a message from Kike:
Can you talk?

I couldn’t, so he sent a voice note.

“Hey babe. Long story short, it’s good news. It was a misunderstanding. They just want to talk about logistics for next year. The headteacher says sorry for making you cry.”

The relief was instant. Physical. A huge smile, like someone had lifted a weight off my chest.

A flicker of annoyance followed, why couldn’t they have written that in the email? but mostly I felt light again. The rest of the day was good. I laughed with my class. I felt myself again.

At lunchtime, I told a friend, one I’d messaged the night before about what had happened. And that’s when I realised this wasn’t just about an email.

Over the last month, I’ve saturated myself in SEND information. Sensory needs. Regulation. Supporting autistic children. Designing sensory spaces. Writing manuals. Adjusting things at home for River. I’m in online groups, watching summits, listening to doctors and therapists.

Some of it is brilliant. Some of it is heavy.

Because alongside the strategies are the stories: children refusing school, families exhausted, behaviours escalating, fears about the future.

So maybe it’s all been a bit much.

Writing has helped me stay positive, helped me focus on the joy and the progress and the funny bits of our very different family life. But one vague, formal email was enough to knock the whole thing sideways.

It reminded me that positivity doesn’t cancel out exhaustion. Or uncertainty. Or the fact that I’m carrying a lot.

This week’s small battles continue. Rain has made everything harder. River walking home in crocs, no socks, no coat and hating being wet. Morning battles still start with “NO NURSERY.” Clothes remain optional. Umbrellas might be next week’s experiment.

So what have I learned?

Yes, don’t react to emails before you understand them.

But more than that: I need to ease off. SEND information doesn’t need to be daily. I don’t need to absorb every story. A friend recommended a simple mystery novel, nothing educational, nothing emotional. Perfect.

I need to deal with the day-to-day. Focus on what I can control. Keep some energy in reserve.

Things might still not work out the way we hope with River’s schooling. But if there are setbacks, I’m going to need more in the tank to face them.

And sometimes, that means closing the email and the browser and just being here.