
18/07/2025
Two photos: Blake on his first day of junior school, and today his last. One marks the beginning of a world he would come to know intimately; the other, a quiet goodbye to it.
This transition is significant. Not just for parents and teachers, but most of all for the children who often don’t have the language to name what’s happening, but feel it viscerally.
All week, when asked how he felt about the end, Blake shrugged: “I couldn’t care less.” A response that read more like defence than indifference.
Then this morning, it shifted. “I don’t want you to come,” he said, with an edge of something more activated. His body showed signs of anxiety. He didn’t say much more, but I didn’t need him to. This wasn’t about me though the projection briefly tried to land there.
I didn’t correct it. I didn’t make it about how I felt. I named internally what was happening: loss, change, overwhelm , not just cognitive, but deeply embodied.
Because this school has been his world. The structure. The rhythm. The relationships. He’s spent more time here than anywhere else over the past few years. It makes perfect sense that the goodbye would come out sideways.
Not all endings look like tears. Some look like disconnection. Irritability. Distance. Sarcasm. Silence.
Whatever form it took for your child today it may well have been a defence against something much more tender underneath.
Thank you to the school for being the container for these early years. You mattered.
Forever proud of our boy x