The Reality of SEN Motherhood & Burnout: I'm Not Okay

The truth? I'm completely broken.

Even writing that makes me feel heavy with shame because, as a mum (especially a mum of a child with additional needs), I’m supposed to be “strong.” Patient. Regulated. The calm in the storm.

But lately, I haven't been.

Anthony was away for two nights, and I didn’t realise just how much I rely on having another adult in the house - someone who can step in, take one (or both) of the kids, break up the tension, give me five minutes to breathe - until he wasn’t there.

And everything unravelled.

The Noise That Never Ends

Devan and Alyssa have been at each other’s throats non-stop. If you have multiple children, you’ll know this dynamic… but in our home, it feels constant and relentless.

They fight about everything.

What to watch on TV.
Who gets to sit where on the couch.
Whether the light should be on or off.
Who got more of something.

It doesn’t stop.

No matter how many times I step in, separate them, calm them, reason with them… another argument starts minutes later. And Devan often gets physical with Alyssa. Then Alyssa shrieks.

The noise, the tension, the chaos - it all builds and builds until there is no space left in my body to hold it. I hate to admit this, but there have been moments where I have no sympathy left. Where I'm not understanding or patient. I'm just irritated. Overstimulated. Done.

The kind of done that makes your whole body feel like it’s vibrating with frustration.

The Feedback That Broke My Heart

On top of everything happening at home, I’ve also been getting negative feedback about Devan lately - from school, from his football coach, even from a parent after a playdate.

“He can’t keep his hands to himself.”
“He’s always upsetting the other kids.”
“He’s hurting them.”

Each comment lands like a personal failure. A reminder of the fact that I haven’t been able to teach him how to control or regulate. 

And the worst part? I start blaming myself. I have a temper. I shout sometimes. I get overwhelmed and explode. And even though his aggression is part of his struggles, his overwhelm, his ADHD… I still wonder whether he learned his anger from watching me.

That thought alone is enough to make me feel like a total failure.

My Breaking Point

One evening, I finally snapped.

I screamed. I sobbed. I felt completely out of control, like I was watching another version of myself lose it. I remember thinking, I can’t do this anymore. I’m not cut out for this. I want to run away. And that thought terrified me, because that isn’t who I am.

Afterwards, I cried the kind of cry that comes from somewhere deep in your bones. The kind where you feel emptied out and ashamed and trapped all at once.

Lately work has been tough. Finances constantly sit heavy on my shoulders. My job used to be an escape - now it just feels like another weight I can’t put down. And the reality of having no “village”, no one to call, no one to step in, makes everything feel even more impossible.

I don’t want to be this version of myself. I want to be me again. Happy. Calm. Present. Not the angry, exhausted, overstimulated woman I've become.

The Moment That Brought Me Back

And yet… in the middle of all of this, there was a moment that brought me back to earth.

On the Thursday evening that Ant was away, after one of the massive blowouts, Devan came to sit next to me on the couch. He snuggled into me, grabbed the remote, and put on a reality show about whether things are real or cake.

We both got completely hooked. We laughed together. We tried to guess whether it was cake or not. And in that moment… the anger, the guilt, the frustration all faded away. It was just me and my little boy again.

Not the child everyone complains about.
Not the child who “can’t behave.”
Just my boy. Sitting with me.

And it reminded me of something important: These moments are still here. Beneath the chaos. Beneath the shouting. Beneath the overwhelm. The love hasn’t gone anywhere.

The Truth I’m Finally Saying Out Loud

This is the part we don’t talk about enough as SEN parents.

How hard it is.
How lonely it is.
How much it takes from you.
How sometimes you don’t recognise yourself anymore.
How you love your children more than life itself, and still feel completely trapped by the weight of responsibility.

I am still learning.
Still failing.
Still trying again the next day.

But if you’re reading this and feeling seen - if you’ve had a moment where you shouted, cried, wanted to disappear, or felt like you weren’t enough - please know this:

You are not a monster.
You are not alone.
You are just human in an unbelievably hard season.

And somehow… we are still here. Still standing. Still loving our children, even when it hurts.

And sometimes, that has to be enough.