What Happens When the Other Shoe Doesn’t Drop?

For years, we leave work, take leaves, and fiercely advocate for our neurodivergent children to receive an equal piece of the pie… that doesn’t exist. The deck is stacked against them, and against you, in the public school system. They just don’t have the resources.

For my daughter, it was five long years of being told she wasn’t measuring up, that she was explosive, reactive, not at grade level… 

“She hit her peer today.” 

“She cried all day.” 

“She threw belongings.” 

“Can you come pick her up.” 

“Can you come pick her up.” 

“Come pick her up!”

I would call in sick again, filled with immense sadness and despair, crying in my bed, wondering what the next step was. This bright, beautiful being just didn’t fit in mainstream, and it was slowly breaking her spirit and mine.

We pulled her from public school and brought her to Oak Bridge Academy.

It was a difficult transition, working alongside my explosive little angel. She was now in the hands of my colleagues. She was loud, reactive, and pushed every button she could find. But they were calm, kind, and patient. She learned to regulate. She learned to love herself again. She learned resilience.

After four months at OBA, her spirit was back. There was this realization that other people, beyond her mom and dad, loved her and saw her magic. Then, we made the decision to try a small private school closer to home in Hamilton.

The summer was filled with what-ifs and constant anxiety for both of us. The school doesn’t specialize in behaviour. It isn’t within their capacity. So if she explodes, that door will close.

In September, I waited anxiously for the school to call every day

“Come pick her up.” 

“She isn’t fitting in.” 

“This is not the place for her.”

But the call never came. Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into today, where they accept her, encourage her, and hold her accountable in a safe space.

But what did this mean for me?

I had to learn how to live in this new life. The life I had only dreamed about. The one I had been quietly envious of in other families. Why can’t I just breathe?

The word “trauma” is thrown around so often these days, but we don’t always recognize that as parents of neurodiverse children, we are living in it. We collect it daily while advocating, pushing, and sometimes begging for our kids to be accepted for who they are.

I see how great she is. Why can’t others?

And then, suddenly, we made it. She is happy. We are no longer holding our breath.

OBA healed our family in a way I had only ever seen from the outside. The calls we get now are just, “Did you see the field trip form?” Not negative. Not heavy. No letdown.

On the other side of a long and sometimes very dark journey, we sleep more soundly. We breathe more calmly. We are no longer waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I know many parents are still waiting for that shoe. But sometimes, it doesn’t drop.

And that is when a different kind of work begins.

Our own healing.

Brick by brick, we start to repair. We begin to trust. We learn how to exhale again while watching our children be successful, happy, and included.