When I first started high school, I honestly thought things were going to be okay. I went in with a small group of friends from primary school, and the transition didn’t feel as scary as I expected. I got used to the new building, the new routines, the bigger classes. On the outside, it probably looked like I’d settled in well. But underneath all of that, things were getting harder every single day.
Even though my primary school had passed on all the information about my needs, I still struggled to get the support I was supposed to have. I needed a nurture pass, a 5-minute early pass so I could avoid busy corridors, a lift pass, a toilet pass basic things that make school safer for someone like me. But instead of getting them, I felt like I had to constantly explain myself and prove why I needed them. Every day became a battle over something small.
There was a ring stuck on my finger that I couldn’t get off. I’d agreed with staff that I could wear a plaster over it to keep it covered. But every single morning, the teachers at the gate stopped me and made me try to pull it off again, even though they already knew it wouldn’t budge. They even tried themselves. It sounds silly, but it became something I dreaded every day. It made me feel like I was doing something wrong when I wasn’t.
Even when I did have my nurture pass, teachers would stop me and tell me I didn’t “look like” I needed to go. I had permission to go whenever I needed, not just outside the first and last fifteen minutes of a lesson, but hardly any teacher seemed to care. Asking to go in the first place was hard enough when they said no, or questioned me in front of other students, I’d feel embarrassed, overwhelmed, and completely stuck. Then when I did go, students would ask where I’d been or why I was allowed out of class, which just made everything worse.
I missed quite a bit of school because of my health, but when I came back, there was no support to catch up. Most of the time I didn’t know what I was doing or where the class was up to. Noise in lessons clicking pens, pencils dropping, chatter completely threw off my concentration and made it almost impossible to focus. I felt behind. Lost. And honestly, invisible.
Friendships didn’t make things easier. I’d say what I thought, and if the more popular girls didn’t like it, suddenly the whole group stopped speaking to me. Then if one girl decided to be my friend again, everyone else suddenly was too. It showed me that none of it was real. I started eating my lunch in nurture, or hiding away in the quiet room, because I felt awkward and left out.
One of the worst parts was my PE teacher. She once pulled me aside and made me get changed in the disabled toilets by myself. It made me feel different, isolated, like everyone else got to be part of the group but I didn’t. She also helped run the drama and cheer clubs both things I loved but her presence made it hard for me to enjoy them properly. When I fell out with my friends, I ended up quitting drama club because I didn’t want to sit through it feeling uncomfortable and judged.
Things just kept piling up. One day I needed my wheelchair because I couldn’t walk properly, and the lift was broken. Staff told me someone would come to push me across the school. No one showed up. In the end, I had to push myself all the way to the other side of the building. My wheelchair wasn’t even made for self-propelling. By the time I got there, I was exhausted and upset. I felt like no one cared.
My English teacher kept refusing to let me go to nurture even on days when I desperately needed a break. I ended up going to the toilet just to text my mum because I didn’t know what else to do.
Eventually, it got too much. My mum kept me off one day, then another, and before long I wasn’t going back at all. The school said they’d support me, but hardly any work was sent home, and communication barely happened. One lovely lady from nurture called every week just to check in because she genuinely cared but besides her, we heard nothing. They even gave me a robot so I could join lessons from home, but it constantly failed on the school’s end and wouldn’t connect. Instead of helping, it just stressed me out more.
By that point, mainstream school felt impossible. I was drained, anxious, and completely worn down.
But then everything changed when I entered alternative provision.
From the moment I visited, something felt different. The classes were tiny only nine students in the entire school and the teachers cared about the students. Every single teacher was SENCO trained. They understood. They didn’t question my needs. They didn’t make me feel like a problem. I had space, calm, breaks between lessons, and people who listened.
For the first time, I actually felt comfortable enough to raise my hand in lessons. If I get an answer wrong, no one laughs. No one stares. No one makes me feel stupid. I can just be myself the version of me that I didn’t realise school had slowly crushed.
There’s no uniform, the atmosphere is relaxed, and the staff genuinely care about what we need. They even accommodate food preferences if someone only eats a certain brand of pizza, they buy it and keep it stocked. If someone works better with pot noodles, they make sure it’s available. There’s a kitchen where we can make breakfast or snacks. It feels human, not strict and cold like before.
I even get a taxi to and from school now. Fridays are short and chilled. For the first time in a long time, I actually enjoy going to school.
And honestly? I would never go back to mainstream. Not ever.
If you’re thinking about moving to an alternative provision, here’s what I’d say: just be yourself. I know everyone says that, but it’s true. If mainstream school doesn’t feel right, you won’t regret leaving. You’ll find people who genuinely care about you and understand your needs. You’ll finally feel seen.
Changing schools didn’t mean I failed. It meant I found somewhere that finally understood me and that changed everything.
- This blog post was written by a very strong and inspiring young lady who is passionate, driven and none stoppable. I’m so honoured to have had the privilege to discuss this topic with her and for her to be so open and honest about her real life experiences.
Forever grateful for her allowing me to share her experience with others.