When “Boundaries” Blur the Child’s Reality

This morning I received an email reminding me that communication with my son’s specialist teacher should go through school. It was polite, professional, and rooted in policy — but it left me thinking far beyond the message itself. I understand the need for boundaries. I understand why services want clarity and structure. But I also know, both as a parent and as a professional, that children’s needs don’t always fit neatly into organisational lines of communication. And sometimes, those boundaries unintentionally protect the system more than they protect the child.

My son’s EHCP clearly states that he should have 1:1 support at all structured and unstructured times. I have raised this repeatedly with school, who reassure me that he is “fine” at breaktime. And I understand why they see that. He is happy when he is allowed to direct play. He is content when peers follow his lead. On the surface, it looks like success. But underneath, it is one of the hardest parts of his day.

When I emailed the specialist teacher, I explained that unstructured times are a major trigger for him. The last report suggested he no longer needed support at breaktimes, but that simply isn’t true. Much of his dysregulation begins there. He loves playing with other children, but he still needs modelling — how to join in, how to take turns, how to recognise when play is becoming too rough, how to communicate when he’s had enough. He often describes his interactions as “battles”, and once he no longer wants to play, he can’t express that verbally. His way of signalling “I’m done” is to beat his chest or charge, but peers interpret this as part of the game. Play is still very much on his agenda, but the social navigation around it is incredibly complex for him.

There have been many times he has come out of school upset about situations that unfolded during break. There have been reports of him being the last one in, or refusing to come in at all. Staff have had to go and find him. Last week he was hiding in a tunnel because he was overwhelmed by an interaction with a peer. These are not signs of a child who no longer needs support. These are signs of a child who is working incredibly hard to cope in an environment that demands far more social, sensory, and emotional capacity than he has available in that moment.

I’ve done basic spoon theory with him, and he understands it. He tells me that breaktime uses “lots of spoons”. That alone should tell us something. He cannot communicate when he doesn’t want to play anymore. He doesn’t understand that not everyone wants to play the same game repeatedly. He frequently tells me about “battles” he has had. Sometimes he can line up afterwards, and sometimes he simply can’t. That inconsistency isn’t defiance — it’s dysregulation.

What worries me is that because staff often see him regulated, they assume he is coping. They tell me, “He’s so good at coming to tell us,” and he is — when he is calm. But when he isn’t, he can’t manage that. Last Friday, when I was in school delivering my usual interventions, his TA told me he had been really struggling earlier — throwing things, attempting to hit her — but was “fine now” playing outside. When I went out, he was alone, finding bugs, an activity he uses to regulate. His face was blank, his shoulders tight. I could see instantly that he was not okay. Staff, understandably, saw a child quietly playing. The moment he saw me, he shouted, “I am angry.” I am his safe space. He knows I understand. And he stayed angry for the next ten to fifteen minutes.

This is the part that keeps circling in my mind. If I didn’t have the professional background I do, would anyone believe me? If I didn’t know how to articulate his needs, would they be dismissed? If I didn’t push, would his 1:1 support at unstructured times quietly disappear at review because “he seems fine”? What happens to the children whose parents aren’t heard? What happens when school genuinely believes a child is coping, but the child is only coping until they can’t?

I’m not criticising staff. I’m not criticising the specialist teacher. Everyone is doing their best within the constraints of a stretched system. But the system itself needs to ask harder questions about how parent voice is included, how children’s internal experiences are understood, and how easily support can be removed when the signs of struggle are subtle, masked, or misunderstood.

Because the truth is simple: a child can look fine while falling apart inside. A child can play happily while using every spoon they have. A child can appear regulated right up until the moment they aren’t. And if our processes don’t make space for that complexity — if they rely solely on what adults see in a snapshot — then we risk making decisions that don’t reflect the child’s reality at all.

This morning’s email wasn’t about communication protocols. It was a reminder of how fragile support can be when systems prioritise procedure over partnership. And it made me think about all the parents who don’t have the confidence, the language, or the professional insight to challenge decisions that don’t align with what they see at home.

Children need adults who talk to each other. They need systems that listen. They need support that reflects their lived experience, not just their observed behaviour. And they need us — parents, teachers, specialists — to work together, not in parallel lines that never quite meet.