What No One Sees on the Hardest School Days
There’s a version of our mornings that no one else ever sees. Not the teachers waiting to take attendance, not the other parents rushing through drop-off, not the people who send casual “Did she make it today?” messages with no idea how loaded that question feels.
No one sees the way the morning can tilt so suddenly.
Some days she wakes up already overwhelmed, though it looks like nothing from the outside. She moves quietly, answers softly, tries to start the routine because she truly wants to. Then something shifts. It might be a sound in the hallway or a thought she can’t shake or the simple realization that the day requires more than she has to give. Her face changes in the smallest way, and I recognize it instantly.
There’s a moment — always a small one — where I have to decide whether to keep moving forward or to stop everything. A moment where I can see her fighting something I can’t reach, something she can’t describe. And this is where school avoidance becomes something far more complicated than refusal. It becomes a child trying to protect themselves from a feeling they don’t have the language to explain.
What people don’t see is the quiet negotiation that happens next. The way she wraps herself in a blanket and stares at the floor. The way her hands tremble. The way I’m trying to stay steady while my mind is already racing ahead to work responsibilities, attendance letters, the opinions of people who have never lived this kind of morning.
What people don’t see is the grief tucked inside these moments. Not the big, dramatic kind. The slow, private grief that comes from wanting so badly for your child to feel safe and knowing you can’t clear the whole world for them. There’s a loneliness in watching a child crumble before the day has even started. Not many people talk about that part.
And still, in the middle of all of this, there’s effort. So much effort. She tries again and again, even on the mornings when trying looks like sitting completely still. I try too. Some days I get it right. Some days I don’t. Some days I stand in the kitchen wondering how something as ordinary as a school morning can take so much strength.
We’re not lazy. We’re not dramatic. We’re not giving up.
We’re navigating something far bigger than a routine.
And on the hardest days — the ones no one sees — we’re still doing the best we can.
rise & try again