Zain’s jaw is clenched in fury, his cheeks are crimson and eyes wild as – SLAM – he violently upturns his desk, scattering crayons and pencil shavings in its wake.
Zain* is 11, he has autism and ADHD, and he’s angry because his classmates are out playing on the field and his supervised breaktime with his one-to-one member of staff is later.
From my point of view as head teacher, this upturning of tables is preferable to the time Zain ran from class, climbed a tree and remained there all morning. I was terrified he’d fall, or move higher up the trunk if I tried to get him.
He once also hit me in the face when I stupidly bent to talk to him while he was still in “the red zone” (the angriest mood). “Ow!” I yelped, “that hurt.” At work I kept my cool, but I lost it to my husband later.
Being a primary school head teacher in 2025 is not for the faint-hearted.
Since 2015 I’ve run an Ofsted-rated “good” school in one of the Midlands’ leafiest boroughs. It’s always been hugely rewarding and fitted in well with raising my own family, but especially since Covid it’s become utterly relentless. And the dramatic rise in the number of children with neurodiversity is not insignificant.
It’s worse now than it’s ever been
When I began teaching over 30 years ago, there were children who perhaps struggled socially or were extremely boisterous; “sensitive” or “hyperactive” they might have been called. But less than a handful in every class.
Depending on the severity of their needs, there were more options for autistic children to be educated outside of mainstream education, before the drive to be inclusive became the agenda. Now, according to the National Autistic Society Education Report, 70 per cent attend regular schools.
And ADHD (attention deficit hyperactivity disorder) wasn’t recognised by the National Institute for Health and Care Excellence as a condition in children until 2000, but now globally it’s thought that 5 per cent of children live with it.
The landscape has since changed beyond recognition. Roughly a third of children are neurodiverse across most classes in my school; in other parts of the country there’s probably more. That might mean ADHD, ASD (autism spectrum disorder) or the more general label SEMH (for those with social, emotional and mental health needs).
When I began teaching over 30 years ago, there were children who perhaps struggled socially or were extremely boisterous; “sensitive” or “hyperactive” they might have been called. But less than a handful in every class.
Depending on the severity of their needs, there were more options for autistic children to be educated outside of mainstream education, before the drive to be inclusive became the agenda. Now, according to the National Autistic Society Education Report, 70 per cent attend regular schools.
And ADHD (attention deficit hyperactivity disorder) wasn’t recognised by the National Institute for Health and Care Excellence as a condition in children until 2000, but now globally it’s thought that 5 per cent of children live with it.
The landscape has since changed beyond recognition. Roughly a third of children are neurodiverse across most classes in my school; in other parts of the country there’s probably more. That might mean ADHD, ASD (autism spectrum disorder) or the more general label SEMH (for those with social, emotional and mental health needs).
I am not moaning about neurodiverse children being a problem, or at all suggesting they are not welcome in schools. Certainly, every child deserves the best education we can possibly give them, and as a head teacher I’m passionate about helping to make this happen.
What this means is that I’m spending more of my time firefighting crises, dealing with parents and filling in forms rather than actually leading my school.
We are under-resourced, under-funded and overwhelmed. Of course the children must remain the top priority, always, though it’s making my workload a living nightmare.
Fewer staff, yet more children with additional needs
Zain’s outbursts aren’t uncommon. While the table episode was over quickly – once he’d begun sobbing on the floor and saying “sorry Mrs Turner*” – it still requires more follow-up care.
I had a difficult conversation with his father (who I strongly suspect has AuDHD – both ASD and ADHD – and needs of his own, although he lacks the self awareness to recognise it).
Zain’s teaching assistant – who I pray won’t go off sick again – also had to be offered support.
I’m ashamed to say that some days in this job I return home, walk straight to the fridge and pour myself a large white wine before even saying hello to my husband and teenagers.
And Zain is just one of many pupils who has additional needs in my school of 400.
The short answer to why we are struggling is simply that there are fewer staff and yet more children with additional needs.
Ten years ago I had a full team around me: teaching assistants along with a a bigger senior leadership team, staff who weren’t teaching full-time with enough capacity to manage situations before they spiralled.
In any school – even “nice” primaries like mine where children are fed vegetables and encouraged off their screens – pupil confrontation just happens.
There’s no question that the neurodiversity numbers are increasing. Some of it is better awareness and diagnosis, but there is also a real, noticeable shift towards increasing numbers of children who are sensitive to noise, or cannot cope with change.
Children with ADHD or ASD often struggle with things like turn-taking or losing a game. They thrive on structure and so anything from assemblies and plays to end-of-term discos can completely throw them.
Recommended
I've lived with ADHD and autism all my life – this is what it's like to have both
Some children have stretchy resistance bands tied around their chair legs to kick against – a form of sensory regulation. Others sit on wobble cushions or behind cardboard “study wings” to minimise distraction.
Some wear ear defenders, or have “chew toys” around their necks, because it’s better than them gnawing away on their sleeves.
And in every classroom now there are “calm corners”, where children can quietly decompress with fidget toys.
These strategies were unheard of a decade ago in mainstream schools. Yet they’re not gimmicks but genuinely useful tools which help neurodiverse children function within a mainstream classroom.
As I constantly remind my staff: children with ADHD are not naughty, broken, lacking discipline. They’re just finding their way in a world that often doesn’t make sense to them. Our job is to help them make sense of it, feel safe, calm and therefore capable of learning.
Our Senco (special educational needs co-ordinator) is essential in providing support, advice and training. But again, it all comes down to people. And people cost money. We are not miracle workers, we are educators. Exhausted ones who need support.
I’m not a doctor, and I can only speculate on why neuro diversity is rising – but bad diets, food additives and out-of-control screen time certainly can’t help.
Children today struggle to sit through even a panto – let alone concentrate for a 45-minute lesson – because YouTube has trained their brains for fast dopamine hits. Parents are no better – they arrive at pick-up time clutching mobiles to their cheeks.
The mental load on staff is enormous. We aren’t just teachers any more: we’re social workers, mental health first-aiders, speech and language supporters, and behaviour specialists. We are doing it all with fewer resources, less recognition and endless paperwork.
While I’ve been able to manage my own mental health over the years, I fully understand why colleagues are leaving the profession or taking early retirement. I’m lucky to have a supportive husband and the ability to mostly switch off in the lengthy school holidays, while keeping an eye on emails.
Many teachers quit after five to seven years – they’ve burnt out.
With budgets in crisis, the best, most experienced teachers are now too expensive for schools to afford.
But in all honesty I’m counting down the three years to my retirement now. When I welcome pupils back for the new term this week, at least one thing will put a smile on my face: Zain’s left to go to secondary school.
No comments:
Post a Comment
if you have any doubts, please let me know