My daughter starts high school in September.
And no matter how many times I say it out loud, it still doesn’t quite feel real.
She’s 11. She has ADHD and autism. She’s funny, clever, stubborn, emotional, thoughtful, and completely herself in every possible way. And while part of me looks at her and thinks “you’re ready for this,” another part of me feels absolutely terrified.
Because starting high school is a huge change for any child.
But when your child is neurodivergent, it feels like there are extra layers to think about constantly.
Not just whether she’ll like it or settle in.
But whether she’ll be understood.
Whether people will see the amazing things about her before they notice the struggles.
Whether teachers will recognise the difference between “won’t” and “can’t.”
Whether she’ll feel safe enough to be herself instead of masking all day and coming home exhausted.
And honestly, I think that’s one of the hardest parts of parenting a neurodivergent child sometimes. Knowing how incredible they are while also knowing the world does not always make space for children who experience things differently.
The thing is, she does want to go.
She talks about high school with excitement sometimes. New subjects. Science labs. Independence. Being more grown up. The idea of having her own routine and moving around different classrooms actually suits parts of her personality really well.
And I hold onto that when my own anxiety starts spiralling.
Because this transition is not just happening to me. It’s happening to her too.
And she deserves the chance to feel excited about it.
There are also things that make this transition easier, at least in theory.
Her older sister already goes to the same high school and will be going into Year 9 in September. There’s comfort in that. Comfort in knowing she already knows the building, the layout, the teachers, the routines, and the general feel of the school before she has even officially started.
I think it helps her knowing her sister is there too.
Someone familiar in a place that otherwise feels huge.
Someone who already knows where to go when things feel overwhelming.
Someone to walk with.
And honestly, that part feels huge for me too.
Because alongside all the emotions around her starting high school, there’s also the practical reality of having four children.
Two in high school.
Two still in primary school.
Realistically, she’ll be walking to school with her older sister because I physically cannot be in two places at once every morning. I’ll still be doing primary school drop offs while they head off together into this whole new stage of life.
And if I think about that too hard, I could honestly cry.
Because I still remember holding her hand crossing roads.
I still remember nursery drop offs.
Tiny uniforms.
Tiny shoes.
And now suddenly she’ll be walking to high school with her sister while I wave them off and try not to stand at the window like an emotional wreck every morning.
I think that’s part of what nobody really talks about enough.
The strange grief that comes with your children growing up.
Not because you don’t want them to grow.
Of course you do.
You want them to become independent and confident and capable and ready for the world.
But at the same time, every new stage quietly closes the door on an old one.
And I don’t think parents are ever fully ready for that.
Especially when your child has needed you in ways that other people maybe haven’t always understood.
With ADHD and autism, there has always been extra thinking involved.
Extra preparation.
Extra emotional support.
Extra advocating.
You become so used to helping them navigate situations that the idea of stepping back even slightly feels unnatural.
High school feels like the beginning of that shift.
Not fully, obviously. She still needs me. She always will.
But there’s more independence coming now.
More situations I cannot control.
More moments where she will have to advocate for herself without me standing beside her.
And that is both amazing and terrifying at the exact same time.
I worry about friendships too.
Not because she cannot make friends, because she absolutely can, but because social dynamics become so much more complicated at this age.
Children become less direct.
Less forgiving.
More aware of differences.
And I think every parent of a neurodivergent child carries that quiet fear in the background. The fear that their child will be misunderstood, excluded, or made to feel “too much” simply because they experience the world differently.
I worry about sensory overwhelm.
Busy corridors.
Noise.
Change.
The exhaustion that can come from trying to process everything all day long.
I worry about her coming home completely drained while insisting she’s “fine” because she has spent the entire day holding it together.
But despite all of those fears, there’s another side to this too.
Because when I really stop and look at her, I see someone incredibly capable.
Someone resilient.
Someone funny and bright and deeply thoughtful.
She notices things other people miss. She questions things instead of blindly accepting them. She cares deeply about fairness. She feels emotions intensely. She sees the world differently, and honestly, I think that’s one of the things I love most about her.
She is not broken.
She does not need to become less herself in order to succeed.
And I think that’s what I want her to know most going into high school.
That struggling sometimes does not mean failing.
That needing support is not weakness.
That different is not bad.
And that she deserves to take up space exactly as she is.
I know high school will not always be easy for her.
But if I’m honest, I don’t think high school is easy for most people.
The difference is that neurodivergent children often carry extra weight into those situations while still being expected to cope like everybody else.
So yes, I’m scared.
I’m worried.
I’m emotional about all of it.
But I’m also proud.
So unbelievably proud.
Because she has already overcome things people do not even realise she’s dealing with on a daily basis.
And now we’re standing on the edge of another big change together.
Two daughters still in primary school.
One daughter heading into Year 9.
And one about to walk through those high school gates for the very first time.
And somehow, whether I feel ready or not…
we’re all growing up a little bit.
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