I’m homeschooling my 13-year-old. Kid number two out of four.
The one who responds to me the worst.
The one who hasn’t trusted me for over 12 years.
It’s been three months, and it hasn’t been an easy transition.
We’ve tried co-ops, virtual schooling, and project-based learning. They’ve done some work and ignored other work.
Because they left school for a time last year, we were able to start ahead a bit. We know they don’t like it when I’m not immediately available—last year, I tried to work full-time while guiding their education.
We know they need to be nudged into social situations—but only the ones they’re comfortable with. We know that physical activity has never been their strong suit.
And we also know how much of a positive impact leaving school had on their mental and emotional well-being.
After returning to school in the fall, they played a sport. At school.
They made new friends.
They had sleepovers.
They tried new things and maintained a sense of well-being.
But that slowly slipped away again.
School has never been a safe place for them. Even in kindergarten, they asked why adults said school was a safe place. Why would adults claim that strangers were “safe”? Why were they being lied to?
The social anxiety, the constant feeling of being unsafe, the struggle to understand others’ intentions, and having their creativity stifled—not by ill-meaning teachers, but by the structure of school itself—led to self-harm, self-hatred, and high levels of anxiety, alongside OCD and Autism.
We used to call this kid our soda pop—they would mask and hold everything in all day long. On the outside, they were the perfect child, the perfect student, the perfect kid.
But when they came home—home to their safe space and safe people—the top came off.
The explosion happened daily, for years, until we finally got help.
If it weren’t for the pandemic, I don’t know where we’d be today.
Heading into 2020, the behaviors were increasing exponentially. We were actively searching for help at a deeper level. For years, we’d been told that nothing was wrong—that each issue was “just a phase.”
That destroyed my own mental health and my confidence as a parent.
As we started realizing they’d be expected to return to school in the fall of 2021, we remembered where we had left off. We were able to get help more quickly—there was more availability in programs and more attention being given to kids’ mental health and well-being.
Now, we’re in a local therapy program. We have a diagnosis.
We have family support and understanding.
School still failed this kid. But we can approach life without being in a constant state of fight or flight.
So here I am, homeschooling my 13-year-old.
My “difficult” kid—the one who has tested me daily for 13 years.
We’re both growing and learning. But it’s a work in progress.
I’m fortunate that I can work from home and delegate responsibilities, which allows me to be immediately available most of the time.
Just yesterday, we concluded that autonomy needs to be more limited, and I need to implement more structure.
But I’m scared.
Scared that it will lead to more fights. Scared of the push and pull—of demands and demand avoidance.
I’ve gotten good over the years at stepping back—to ignore, to walk away, to allow them autonomy over life’s demands. But this will create a new cycle of learning for both of us.
As I sit here, tired and terrified, I’m also sitting at the zoo—so they can hang out with a new friend they made.
I know—even when their mental health is struggling—it’s a thousand times better than it used to be.
I know this was the right choice because I saw the difference in my kid’s mental state within two days of leaving school.
But, damn, it’s more exhausting and emotionally draining than I ever realized it would be.
The kid who has always demanded the most of my attention, time, and emotional capacity still gets it all. And the other three wait patiently for me to show up.
But I am trying so hard.
That has to mean something.
