3rd November 2026
AI Is Not the Human Replacement People Think It Is
The Hidden Work Behind Artificial Intelligence, Creativity and Getting Things Right
Artificial intelligence (AI) is increasingly presented as a revolutionary tool that can save time, money and effort, transforming the way we work, create and communicate.
We regularly hear about how AI can write books, generate illustrations, produce educational resources and complete tasks that would otherwise require hours of human effort.
The suggestion is that AI makes everything easier, allowing people to achieve professional results with minimal effort.
But there is a rather significant problem with this assumption, particularly when accuracy, consistency and creativity are essential to the finished product.
Anyone who believes AI is an effortless shortcut has probably never tried using it to produce something requiring precise instructions, consistent results and genuine attention to detail.
Because sometimes, getting AI to do something correctly takes considerably more time and patience than simply doing it yourself.
And occasionally, it makes you question whether the artificial intelligence has any intelligence at all.
The Myth of the Five-Minute Masterpiece
One of the most common misconceptions surrounding AI-generated content is that you simply type a few instructions, press a button and receive a beautifully finished result.
Part of this misconception may come from the growing number of AI-generated posters, social media graphics and digital illustrations being produced and shared within minutes of creation.
At first glance, these images can appear impressive and professional, creating the impression that high-quality content can be produced with very little effort.
However, a closer inspection can sometimes reveal incorrect information, spelling mistakes, inconsistent details or visual inaccuracies that have gone unnoticed.
When content is produced quickly and repeatedly, without being properly reviewed, the finished result may look convincing without actually being accurate or suitable.
This can create an unrealistic expectation that AI-generated content is automatically ready to use, when in reality the checking and refining process is often where much of the work begins.
In practice, producing something to a professional standard can be far more complicated, especially when the outcome needs to meet specific requirements.
Take children's book illustration, for example, where maintaining visual continuity is essential to creating a cohesive reading experience.
A character appearing on page one needs to remain recognisably the same character when they appear again on page fifteen.
Their hair colour, facial features, clothing, body proportions and even the smallest details should remain consistent throughout the story.
The illustration style, colour palette, background textures and overall atmosphere must also remain visually connected.
Unfortunately, AI image generation does not always understand that consistency is a requirement, rather than a creative suggestion.
You might request a character with messy, tousled hair, only to discover that the AI has suddenly decided perfectly formed curls would be a much better idea.
Or perhaps a character wearing striped socks inexplicably acquires shoes, despite the instructions explicitly stating otherwise.
The result might look beautiful in isolation, but it becomes completely unsuitable when placed alongside the previously completed illustrations.
And so begins the endless cycle of correcting, regenerating and correcting again.
When the Instructions Are Longer Than the Actual Content
Perhaps one of the greatest ironies of working with AI is the extraordinary amount of human instruction sometimes required to produce a relatively simple outcome.
A single illustrated page might contain less than half a page of written text, yet the instructions needed to generate its accompanying image can extend across several pages.
These instructions may need to specify artistic style, character appearance, exact positioning, background details, typography, formatting, accessibility requirements and publishing specifications.
Every important detail must be carefully explained, because leaving something open to interpretation can result in unexpected changes or unwanted additions.
Even then, detailed instructions do not guarantee accurate results.
You can explicitly state not to change the text, not to alter the characters and not to redesign the illustration, only to receive something that has somehow managed to ignore all three instructions.
What should have been a minor correction becomes an entirely new illustration, requiring another round of checking and adjustments.
The frustrating part is that the AI may have produced something technically impressive, but it has completely missed the purpose of the task.
Because creativity without accuracy is not particularly helpful when accuracy is essential.
When AI Decides It Knows Better
One of the most challenging aspects of AI-assisted creativity is its tendency to reinterpret instructions, even when the user has made their intentions perfectly clear.
Imagine spending considerable time developing a specific illustration, carefully adjusting its composition and details until everything finally looks exactly as intended.
You notice one small spelling mistake or a minor grammatical error, so you request a simple correction.
Rather than changing the single incorrect word, the AI decides to redesign the entire page, alter the character's appearance and introduce a completely different background.
The original mistake might be fixed, but the illustration now contains several new problems that did not previously exist.
Suddenly, a task that should have taken a few moments has turned into another lengthy editing session.
A human illustrator receiving a request to correct one word would generally understand that the remaining artwork should stay unchanged.
AI, however, can treat the same request as an opportunity to reinterpret the entire composition, producing something that may be visually attractive but fundamentally incorrect.
The problem is not necessarily that AI cannot create, but that it does not always recognise which elements must remain untouched.
And when you're working towards a specific professional outcome, that distinction becomes extremely important.
The Invisible Human Work Behind AI
There is a growing assumption that using artificial intelligence somehow removes the need for human knowledge, professional skills and creative judgement.
Yet the reality is often quite the opposite, particularly when producing high-quality educational or creative materials.
AI-generated work still requires someone who can recognise inaccuracies, evaluate suitability and identify potential problems.
Creating an educational resource, for example, involves far more than producing attractive illustrations and well-presented information.
The content must be factually accurate, developmentally appropriate and accessible to its intended audience.
Activities need to reflect different learning needs, individual abilities and appropriate educational expectations.
An illustration might appear perfectly acceptable to someone unfamiliar with the subject, while an experienced practitioner immediately recognises a misleading explanation, an inaccessible activity or an inappropriate expectation.
AI cannot reliably replace the professional judgement, practical experience and individual understanding needed to recognise these issues.
In other words, the human expertise has not disappeared; it has simply become less visible.
Accessibility Is Not an Optional Extra
For those of us creating inclusive educational resources, accessibility is not simply a finishing touch added once the main work has been completed.
It is a fundamental consideration that influences design choices, language, layout and the way information is presented.
Something as seemingly simple as selective bold text can be used to provide visual anchors, helping some readers navigate longer passages of information.
However, these choices need to be made deliberately and consistently, rather than allowing AI to randomly highlight a few keywords.
Similarly, maintaining clear layouts, predictable formatting and consistent visual features can help make resources more accessible to different readers and learners.
These decisions require an understanding of why particular adjustments are useful, who might benefit and how they affect the overall reading experience.
AI may be able to follow specific accessibility instructions, but it does not always apply them consistently or accurately.
And importantly, accessibility is individual, so no single formatting approach will automatically meet every reader's needs or provide a universally accessible solution.
The technology can support inclusive design, but it cannot replace the thoughtful human decisions that make inclusion meaningful.
The Problem With Assuming AI Saves Time
There is no denying that AI can be useful, particularly when generating initial ideas, organising information or helping someone overcome a creative starting point.
For some tasks, it can genuinely reduce workloads, increase productivity and make certain processes more manageable.
But there is an important difference between generating something quickly and producing something that is accurate, consistent and ready to use.
An AI system might generate an illustration in less than a minute, but if that illustration requires six attempts, multiple corrections and careful comparison with previous pages, the original time saving becomes far less impressive.
There is also the issue of usage limits, which can unexpectedly interrupt ongoing creative projects and leave users unable to continue their work.
For someone producing a series of connected illustrations, an interruption can be particularly frustrating when they are trying to maintain creative momentum, consistent design and an organised workflow.
The technology may be remarkably fast at generating individual outputs, but that does not automatically make the entire creative process faster.
Sometimes, the most efficient solution is still to pick up a pencil, open a traditional editing programme or complete the task manually.
How I Use AI in My Own Work
As an author and educational resource creator, I do use artificial intelligence, and I believe it is important to be open about how and why.
I use AI to assist with gathering information, exploring research topics and creating illustrations that support my projects.
However, there is an important distinction between using technology as a tool and allowing it to become the creator of the work itself.
My books, stories, characters, plots and other creative writing are entirely my own original work and ideas.
The stories I tell, worlds I create and words I write come from my own imagination, experiences and creativity.
AI does not invent my storylines, develop my characters or write my books for me.
When I use AI to create illustrations, I am providing the creative direction, character descriptions, scene requirements and visual expectations that guide the finished artwork.
Likewise, when researching topics for educational resources, AI can help me gather and organise information, but the responsibility for checking accuracy, considering accessibility and ensuring educational suitability remains mine.
For me, AI is a supporting resource, not a replacement for creativity or a substitute for professional knowledge.
And I think that distinction is particularly important when people make assumptions about AI-assisted work, authorship and the amount of human effort involved.
AI Is a Tool, Not a Replacement for Human Creativity
Despite these frustrations, I do believe artificial intelligence has a place within creative work, education and many other areas of everyday life.
For independent creators, particularly those working with limited budgets, multiple responsibilities or restricted resources, AI can make certain projects more achievable.
It can also support people who experience executive functioning difficulties, communication barriers or challenges with organising complex tasks.
However, recognising these benefits does not mean we should ignore its limitations, overestimate its abilities or assume that human involvement is unnecessary.
The value of a finished piece of work comes from more than its visual appearance, technical presentation or speed of production.
It comes from the knowledge behind it, the decisions involved and the care taken to ensure it fulfils its intended purpose.
AI can contribute to that process, but it cannot automatically replace the human experience, professional understanding and creative intention that guide it.
The Human Behind the Prompt
Perhaps the most overlooked aspect of AI-generated work is the person responsible for directing the technology, evaluating its output and turning individual results into something meaningful.
When someone sees an AI-assisted children's book, an educational resource collection or a professionally presented project, it can be tempting to assume the technology has completed most of the work.
What they do not necessarily see are the hours spent planning, the carefully constructed instructions, the repeated corrections and the constant attention to detail.
They do not see the professional knowledge required to identify mistakes, the creative decisions that establish consistency or the determination needed to keep refining an imperfect result.
Because using AI does not automatically mean someone has taken the easy option, avoided genuine work or removed the need for skill.
Sometimes, it means they have taken on the additional challenge of managing an unpredictable tool while still maintaining their own professional standards.
Final Thoughts: Artificial Intelligence Still Needs Human Intelligence
AI is undoubtedly changing the way we work, expanding creative possibilities and making certain tasks more accessible.
But the idea that it can simply replace human creativity, professional expertise or careful decision-making is an enormous oversimplification.
Perhaps the most important lesson is that artificial intelligence should support human ability, rather than being treated as a replacement for human understanding.
Because the real skill is not simply knowing how to generate something, but understanding what needs to be created, why it matters and whether the result is actually right.
And until AI can reliably understand the difference between "change this one word" and "redesign absolutely everything", I think human creativity and judgement are relatively safe.
AI might be artificial intelligence, but the patience required to work with it is entirely human.
Vicky
x
27th October 2026
When Everyone Is Expected to Join In: Rethinking Inclusion During Celebrations
Why meaningful participation doesn't always mean doing the same thing as everyone else.
There is something rather lovely about seasonal celebrations and traditions in schools, early years settings and family homes.
The colourful decorations, carefully planned activities and shared excitement can create wonderful opportunities for children to explore traditions, cultures and communities.
As we move through Halloween, Diwali, Bonfire Night and Remembrance Day, children encounter different traditions, sensory experiences and opportunities for learning.
Although these occasions have very different meanings, they share an important consideration: how do we ensure every child feels included, comfortable and respected?
And are we sometimes so focused on encouraging children to join in that we forget to consider what participation actually means to them?
When Participation Becomes an Expectation
We've probably all heard well-intentioned encouragement from adults during group activities.
“Come on, everyone else is joining in!”
“It's only for a few minutes.”
“You don't want to miss out!”
Adults naturally want children to experience new opportunities, build confidence and feel included.
However, encouragement can sometimes become pressure, particularly when a child is already uncomfortable or overwhelmed.
A Halloween activity involving unexpected costumes, unfamiliar masks or sudden noises may feel unsettling to some children.
A Diwali celebration featuring bright lights, music or busy gatherings may create sensory challenges for others.
Bonfire Night can introduce unpredictable fireworks, loud explosions and flashing lights, while Remembrance commemorations may involve emotionally difficult discussions, unfamiliar assemblies or expectations around silence.
The challenge isn't necessarily the occasion itself, but the expectation that every child should experience it in the same way.
Inclusion Doesn't Mean Identical Participation
Imagine a classroom exploring Diwali through creative activities.
One child is happily decorating a rangoli pattern, while another explores colours and shapes through tactile materials.
A third child is watching quietly from a comfortable space, while another uses communication cards to choose an activity.
Someone else has decided not to participate just yet.
Are all these children included?
Yes, they can be, provided their choices are respected and meaningful opportunities remain available.
The same principle applies to Halloween dressing-up activities, Bonfire Night sensory exploration and Remembrance Day reflection.
One child might enjoy wearing a Halloween costume, while another prefers ordinary clothes or a small themed accessory.
Some children may enjoy creating colourful firework pictures, while others prefer learning about Bonfire Night without experiencing loud sounds.
During Remembrance activities, one child may choose to create a poppy picture, while another listens to a story or reflects quietly.
Meaningful participation can involve watching, listening, exploring, communicating or creating, depending on the child's needs and preferences.
And sometimes, the most inclusive response is accepting that a child would rather not join in.
The Sensory and Emotional Side of Seasonal Events
Seasonal activities can introduce experiences that differ considerably from children's everyday routines.
Halloween may involve darkened rooms, unexpected decorations, costumes and unfamiliar sounds.
Diwali activities might include bright decorations, music, food preparation and different textures.
Bonfire Night can bring loud fireworks, flashing lights, smoke and crowded environments.
Remembrance Day introduces a different consideration, as children may encounter discussions about war, loss, sacrifice and remembrance.
While many children enjoy seasonal activities, what feels exciting or meaningful to one child may feel overwhelming to another.
This is why sensory and emotional accessibility should be considered during planning, rather than only after a child becomes distressed.
Offering quieter spaces, alternative materials, clear explanations or smaller groups can help children access activities more comfortably.
For Remembrance Day, adults may also need to consider children's personal experiences of grief, bereavement or family circumstances, ensuring discussions remain sensitive and age-appropriate.
Small, thoughtful adjustments can make a significant difference without requiring complicated arrangements or expensive resources.
When a Child Doesn't Want to Join In
When a child declines an activity, adults may naturally worry that they're missing an important learning opportunity.
But there is a difference between supporting a child to access an experience and expecting them to participate regardless of their needs.
A child who watches a Halloween activity may still be observing, processing and learning.
A child who listens to a Diwali story without speaking may still be developing understanding and making connections.
A child who explores Bonfire Night through pictures rather than sensory activities is still engaging with the topic in a meaningful way.
And a child who finds Remembrance discussions emotionally difficult may benefit from gentler explanations, additional reassurance or an alternative activity.
Rather than immediately encouraging participation, we can ask what might be making the activity difficult.
Does the child need clearer instructions, communication support or additional processing time?
Would an alternative activity or quieter environment help?
Or is the child simply expressing a personal preference?
Understanding the reason behind a child's response is often more valuable than persuading them to join in.
Different Families, Different Traditions
Inclusion also means recognising and respecting cultural, religious and family differences.
Not every family celebrates Halloween, Diwali or Bonfire Night, and families may approach Remembrance Day in different ways.
Some families enjoy Halloween costumes, decorations and trick-or-treating, while others choose not to participate.
Diwali is observed through different religious traditions and family practices, with celebrations varying between households and communities.
Bonfire Night may involve attending organised displays, enjoying quieter activities at home or choosing not to celebrate.
Remembrance Day may hold personal significance for military families, bereaved families and those affected by conflict, while others may primarily encounter it through school activities.
We should avoid making assumptions about children's experiences or expecting individual children to represent an entire culture or community.
Instead, these occasions provide opportunities to explore differences respectfully, encourage curiosity and develop understanding.
Families can be invited to share their experiences, but contributing should always remain a choice.
Making Seasonal Activities More Accessible
Inclusive planning doesn't have to be complicated, but it does require thought and flexibility.
Before introducing a seasonal activity, consider the following:
Explain what will happen beforehand using pictures, visual schedules or simple explanations.
Offer different ways to participate, including watching, listening, creating or exploring independently.
Consider sensory preferences and needs, including lighting, noise, textures, smells and group sizes.
Provide accessible communication options, such as visual choices, communication cards and additional processing time.
Prepare children for unexpected changes, particularly during Halloween activities, firework-related events or special assemblies.
Approach sensitive subjects carefully, especially when discussing war, loss and remembrance.
Respect family beliefs and traditions, without assuming every child celebrates or participates in the same way.
Allow children to change their minds, including taking a break, choosing an alternative or returning later.
These approaches aren't about removing challenge or avoiding new experiences.
They're about making learning opportunities more accessible without expecting children to ignore their individual needs.
Inclusion Benefits Everyone
One of the most valuable aspects of inclusive practice is that adjustments introduced for one child can benefit many others.
Visual instructions can support children developing language skills, processing information or learning English.
Quieter spaces can help children experiencing sensory sensitivities, anxiety or tiredness.
Flexible activities can encourage independence, creativity and different approaches to learning.
And respecting individual preferences teaches children that different needs, beliefs and experiences are a normal part of life.
Inclusion isn't simply about supporting children with identified additional needs; it's about creating environments where everyone has opportunities to belong.
A Final Thought
Halloween, Diwali, Bonfire Night and Remembrance Day may have very different histories, traditions and meanings, but each offers opportunities to reflect on how we include children.
As we move through this busy season, there is one question worth asking.
Are we planning activities that children must fit into, or experiences that can adapt to the children taking part?
Of course, practical limitations will always exist, particularly when balancing individual needs within group environments.
But inclusive practice doesn't require perfection; it requires thoughtfulness, flexibility and a willingness to make changes.
A child watching quietly isn't necessarily missing out on learning.
A child choosing an alternative isn't necessarily avoiding a new experience.
And a child participating differently is still a valued member of the group.
Because meaningful inclusion isn't about everyone doing the same thing.
It's about ensuring every child is considered, respected and given opportunities to belong.
Vicky
x
18th October 2026
A Week of Learning, Little Milestones and New Beginnings
Sometimes, when we're busy working towards something, it's easy to overlook just how much has happened along the way.
This week has been one of those weeks where I've found myself reflecting on the different parts of my work, the things I've learned, the milestones I've reached and, perhaps most importantly, why I started doing all of this in the first place.
From continuing my professional development and launching a new service to seeing my books officially published, it's certainly been a memorable week!
Learning, Reflecting and Making Improvements
One thing I've always believed is that learning doesn't stop when we finish our formal education or gain a qualification.
There is always something new to discover, another perspective to consider or a different approach that might help us better understand the world around us.
This week, I've undertaken some additional training that has encouraged me to look at the way I design and develop my educational resources from a slightly different perspective.
Accessibility and inclusion have always been important considerations in my work. I want the resources I create to be engaging, meaningful and accessible to as many children and families as possible, recognising that everyone learns, communicates and processes information differently.
However, even with the best intentions, there is always room for improvement.
The training has given me new ideas and practical approaches to consider, some of which I've already started incorporating into my resource development.
These changes might not always be immediately obvious, but they have encouraged me to think more carefully about how information is presented, how activities are structured and how different learners might experience the same resource.
I'm hoping that these developments will make my resources even more accessible than before.
You'll begin to see this updated approach reflected in the new resources being released throughout November.
For me, this is an important reminder that inclusion isn't something we achieve once and then consider finished. It's an ongoing process of listening, learning, reflecting and adapting.
And sometimes, the smallest adjustments can make a meaningful difference.
A New Chapter: Supporting Families
This week also marked the official launch of another important part of my work: my independent SEND consultancy service, offering practical guidance and support to families navigating the often complicated world of Special Educational Needs and Disabilities (SEND).
Having experienced some of these challenges first-hand, and through my professional experience working in education, I understand just how overwhelming, confusing and exhausting the process of securing appropriate support can sometimes become.
Whether it's communicating with schools, understanding what support should be available, or knowing where to begin when something isn't working, families can often find themselves facing an enormous amount of information, paperwork and uncertainty.
My consultancy aims to provide clear information, practical assistance and individualised guidance to parents and carers who may be struggling to navigate these processes.
This includes supporting families who are experiencing difficulties getting their child's educational needs recognised, helping parents understand and prepare Education, Health and Care Plan (EHCP) applications, and providing assistance with Disability Living Allowance (DLA) forms and the supporting evidence needed alongside them.
It's important to me that families feel informed, supported and more confident when advocating for their children.
My role isn't to replace professional assessments or provide legal representation, but to help families understand their options, organise their evidence and communicate their concerns more effectively.
I also recognise that every family's circumstances are different, and that what works for one child may not necessarily be appropriate for another.
That's why I believe support should be individualised, realistic and centred around the needs of the child and their family.
Launching this service feels like a natural extension of the work I've already been doing through my educational resources, inclusion advocacy and ongoing professional development.
Ultimately, whether I'm creating accessible resources, sharing information or supporting families directly, the underlying aim remains the same:
Helping children access the support they need, while ensuring the adults advocating for them feel better informed, understood and supported.
From an Idea to a Published Book
Of course, this week also marked another particularly exciting milestone.
On Thursday 15th October, my first two children's books were officially published!
Seeing The Cardboard Box Adventures: The Missing Spyglass and The Grimoire: The White Unicorn become available to readers has been a rather surreal experience.
Both stories began as ideas, gradually developing into characters, adventures, illustrations and eventually complete books.
There have been plenty of hours spent writing, editing, reviewing illustrations, adjusting layouts and navigating the world of independent publishing.
And now, they're out there in the world!
It's exciting, slightly nerve-racking and rather wonderful all at once.
But one of the loveliest parts of this week wasn't simply seeing the books become available to purchase.
It was having the opportunity to share them with children.
A Different Kind of Book Launch
On Friday, I had the pleasure of holding a small, adapted book launch at a specialist school.
Rather than organising a traditional book launch, the session was designed around the children and their individual needs.
It was an opportunity to introduce the stories in a familiar educational environment, alongside some of the activities and resources I'd created to accompany them.
And it was lovely.
Seeing children engage with the books, explore the activities and interact with the resources was a wonderful reminder of why I enjoy creating them.
Not every child engages with a story in the same way.
Some might enjoy listening, others might prefer looking at illustrations, exploring characters or participating in a related activity.
For some children, engagement might be brief or look quite different from what we traditionally expect.
And that's absolutely fine.
Stories don't have to be experienced in one particular way to be meaningful.
A successful experience isn't necessarily about everyone doing the same thing. Sometimes, it's about creating different opportunities for everyone to participate in a way that works for them.
That was something I wanted to reflect in the book launch itself.
It wasn't about having a large audience, an elaborate event or a perfectly structured presentation.
It was about sharing stories, encouraging imagination and creating opportunities for children to explore something new.
And seeing that happen was incredibly rewarding.
Another Exciting Step: Waterstones!
As if publication week wasn't exciting enough, there's been another development!
Both of my books are now available to order as paperbacks through the Waterstones website.
For someone who has always loved books and bookshops, seeing my own titles listed there is a rather special feeling.
I'm now working towards the next step: getting them into physical Waterstones stores and, hopefully, onto the shelves.
There's still some work to do before that happens, but it's an exciting possibility to be working towards.
In the meantime, the paperback editions are also available through Amazon.
For readers who prefer digital books, both titles are available as eBooks through Kindle and Kobo, with Apple Books hopefully joining the list soon.
Having different formats and purchasing options available is important to me, particularly because reading preferences vary so much between individuals and families.
Some people love the experience of holding a physical book and turning its pages.
Others prefer the convenience of an eReader or the accessibility features that digital reading can provide.
Neither approach is better than the other.
What matters is finding ways for stories to reach the people who want to enjoy them.
Looking Ahead
As I reflect on this week, I keep coming back to the same idea.
Progress doesn't always look the way we expect it to.
Sometimes, it's something quite visible, like publishing a book or reaching a long-awaited milestone.
Other times, it's quieter.
It's completing some training, reconsidering an approach, making a small adjustment or discovering a new way to make something more accessible.
Both are equally valuable.
Over the coming weeks, I'll be continuing to develop new educational resources, preparing November's Nature Hub content and exploring opportunities to introduce my books to more readers.
I'll also be continuing to learn.
Because whether I'm writing stories, developing educational activities or working towards greater inclusion, I don't believe there's ever a point where we should stop questioning, reflecting or trying to improve.
This week has been a lovely reminder of how those different parts of my work connect.
Learning helps me create. Creating gives me opportunities to share. And sharing gives me even more opportunities to learn.
And perhaps that's the most important thing I'll take away from this week.
Not simply that two books have been published or that another milestone has been reached, but that there are always new opportunities to grow, adapt and make a difference.
One story, one resource and one small step at a time.
Vicky xx
12th October 2026
🌈 When a Small Change Makes a Big Difference
Sometimes, the smallest changes, simplest ideas and quietest acts of understanding can make the biggest difference to someone's experience.
Recently, I received some unexpected, heart warming and incredibly meaningful feedback that reminded me exactly why I started creating resources in the first place.
💜 A Little Understanding Goes a Long Way
Earlier this year, I developed a sensory profile document designed to help healthcare professionals better understand the individual needs, sensory preferences and potential challenges of children attending hospital appointments.
The idea was relatively simple: give families an opportunity to share important information, highlight possible difficulties and communicate helpful adjustments before their child enters an unfamiliar environment.
For children who experience sensory sensitivities, communication differences or heightened anxiety, even a routine hospital appointment can become an overwhelming experience.
A little preparation, however, can make an enormous difference.
🌟 A Message That Meant Everything
Recently, my sensory profile document was shared during a meeting at Queen Victoria Hospital, where the possibility of introducing resources more widely across the hospital was being considered.
One of the people who saw it was a colleague of my mum's, who recognised its potential usefulness and decided to try it herself.
She completed the document ahead of her son's hospital appointment, providing staff with information about his individual needs, sensory experiences and helpful adjustments.
Afterwards, she shared some wonderful feedback about how the resource had helped make their hospital experience more positive.
Knowing that something I had created had contributed to greater understanding, more appropriate support and a better experience for a child was incredibly rewarding.
It wasn't about receiving recognition, praise or personal achievement.
It was about knowing that a child had been listened to, understood and supported when it mattered.
✏️ More Than Just Worksheets
When people think about educational resources, children's activities and creative materials, they often imagine worksheets, colouring pages or reading exercises.
While these certainly have their place, I've always believed that resources can serve a much broader purpose.
A visual timetable, sensory profile or communication support might not look particularly exciting, but its value can extend far beyond the paper it's printed on.
Sometimes, the most meaningful resources are those that help someone express their needs, navigate unfamiliar situations or feel a little safer in their surroundings.
This is something that continues to influence my writing, resource development and approach to inclusion.
🌱 Small Changes, Lasting Impact
Creating genuinely inclusive environments doesn't always begin with expensive equipment, major changes or complicated solutions.
Sometimes, it begins with asking the right questions, listening to individual experiences and being willing to adapt.
Of course, meaningful inclusion also requires appropriate training, adequate resources and ongoing support for the people providing care.
But this experience reminded me that even one thoughtful adjustment can have a positive impact.
As I continue developing stories, learning materials and practical support resources, I hope to keep creating things that make everyday experiences a little more accessible.
I'm also looking forward to sharing reviews, testimonials and real-life experiences on my website as feedback becomes available, helping others see how these resources are being used.
📚 Just Three Days to Go!
And while I'm reflecting on the impact of creativity, storytelling and resource development, there's another exciting milestone just around the corner!
Only THREE DAYS remain until the official publication of my first two children's books on 15th October 2026!
The Missing Spyglass, the first adventure in The Cardboard Box Adventures, and The White Unicorn, the first book in The Grimoire series, will both be available in paperback and eBook formats.
After months of writing, illustrating and preparing for publication, it's wonderful to know that these stories will soon be making their way into readers' hands!
💜 A Final Thought
Because sometimes, something as simple as a piece of paper, a little preparation and a willingness to understand can change someone's entire experience.
And that makes every moment spent creating worthwhile. 💜
5th October 2026
From an Idea to Publication: How Two Stories Became Something Much Bigger
Back in March, this all started with an idea and a story.
There was no grand plan for twenty-two books, an expanding resource website, consultancy work or connections with professionals across education and healthcare. I simply wanted to write, create something meaningful, and build an adventure that children could enjoy.
That first little idea became The Cardboard Box Adventures, a series built around the wonderful way children can turn something as ordinary as a cardboard box into something extraordinary through imagination.
The Cardboard Box That Started It All
The first book I wrote was The Cardboard Box Adventures: The Missing Spyglass, following Theo and his adventures aboard his imaginary pirate ship.
The story grew from the kind of imaginative, child-led and wonderfully unpredictable play that can transform an everyday object into an entirely different world.
I wrote it, edited it, polished it and began thinking seriously about whether this little story might actually become a book that other children could enjoy.
There was, however, one fairly immediate critic of my new literary venture who had some thoughts.
My daughter, it turned out, had some rather strong opinions about my new books.
Apparently, there was a significant problem with my new books: they were too Theo, not her, and something needed changing. 😂
She wanted stories that felt like they belonged to her too, with magic, adventure and a completely different world to explore.
And, as frequently happens in this house, a complaint accidentally became another idea.
And Then Came The Grimoire
That one conversation became the beginning of my second series, The Grimoire, starting with The White Unicorn.
Instead of cardboard-box adventures, this series stepped into a world of magic, mystery and fantasy, giving me an entirely different storytelling space to explore.
Suddenly, I wasn't writing one series anymore; I was creating two completely different collections of stories.
I had two series, both developing their own characters, themes and identities.
The stories were written and rewritten, edited and polished, and eventually reached the point where I was ready to do the slightly terrifying thing of sending them out into the publishing world.
Enter the Literary Agents...
My first round of submissions went to a variety of literary agents with carefully prepared manuscripts, synopses and submission materials.
And every single one of them turned me down through that first round.
That is, of course, an entirely normal part of traditional publishing, but knowing something is normal doesn't necessarily make receiving another rejection email particularly exciting.
Still, I wasn't ready to stop trying or give up.
So came round two, with submissions going to more agents and directly to publishers as I explored different routes into traditional publication.
Still no breakthrough, still no publishing deal, and still no luck.
At some point, you have to decide whether repeated rejection means the stories aren't worth telling, or whether you simply need to find a different way of getting them into children's hands.
I chose the second option and decided it was time to change direction and keep going.
Choosing Self-Publication
That decision brought me to self-publication, which has been an enormous learning experience in its own right.
Self-publishing doesn't simply mean uploading a story and pressing a button; it has involved editing, illustration, formatting, print specifications, ISBNs, distribution, metadata and an astonishing amount of checking, correcting and then checking again.
There have certainly been moments when I've wondered how something that began with “I'll write a children's book” managed to evolve into discussions about bleed, interior files and whether something had moved approximately three millimetres. 😂
But while I was navigating publication, something else was quietly happening in the background.
I simply kept writing, kept creating and kept expanding.
Two Books Became Twenty-Two
What began with one cardboard-box adventure and one request from my daughter has now grown into two series, with eleven books currently written in each.
That's twenty-two stories written so far, with plenty more ideas waiting.
Across those books, I've been able to explore a variety of experiences, emotions and situations that children may recognise within their own lives.
Some are simply adventures designed to encourage imagination and enjoyment, while others naturally create opportunities to explore feelings, differences and experiences that aren't always easy to explain.
And somewhere during all of this, the website started changing too.
Quite dramatically, rather unexpectedly, and definitely beyond the original plan.
The Website That Refused to Stay an Author Website
My original plan was relatively simple: create an author website, share my books and provide some additional resources alongside them.
Apparently, I am completely incapable of leaving things there once another idea appears. 😂
That website has gradually developed into what I can probably only describe as a mini resource world, covering education, SEND and family life alongside books, nature and children's interests.
There are now resources covering literacy, maths, sensory needs, neurodiversity, emotional regulation, nature, seasonal learning, celebrations, awareness events and much more.
I've created materials for children from EYFS through to Key Stage 3, while trying to ensure that accessibility remains central rather than becoming an afterthought.
Because children don't all learn, communicate or experience the world in the same way.
And that simple principle has increasingly shaped everything I create.
When Books Become Communication Tools
Along the way, connections have begun forming beyond the website itself, including with schools, education professionals and people within the NHS.
Those conversations have opened new possibilities I hadn't even imagined when I wrote that first story back in March.
The books and resources can be more than something a child reads; they can provide starting points for communication and shared understanding.
For a child who struggles to explain an emotion, experience or need directly, sometimes approaching it through a character, picture or shared activity makes that conversation more accessible.
That has become an increasingly important part of what I'm trying to build and where I hope this work can lead.
And Then Came Consultancy and Advocacy
My work has also expanded in another direction that I hadn't originally planned.
Through my own experiences navigating SEND systems, I've begun providing independent consultancy to help families understand and navigate the EHCP process.
That can include helping families understand paperwork, organise evidence, communicate concerns and challenge situations where children are struggling to access the education, provision and support they need.
It has also become increasingly connected to advocacy, raising awareness and helping people to be heard more broadly.
Some people have very loud voices and can confidently make themselves heard within complicated systems.
Others communicate differently, become overwhelmed by formal systems or simply don't know what they are entitled to ask for or challenge.
Sometimes advocacy means making sure those quieter voices aren't lost amongst paperwork, procedures and professional meetings.
For me, it is about helping ensure people are heard, understood and properly included in decisions affecting their own lives.
Somehow, We Ended Up Here
And now, somehow, it is October, the books are ready, and publication is actually happening.
Seven months after that first idea in March, The Cardboard Box Adventures: The Missing Spyglass and The Grimoire: The White Unicorn finally have a publication, release and launch date.
15 October 2026
Both books will be available as paperbacks and eBooks, marking the official beginning of two series that already have many more adventures waiting behind them.
It feels slightly surreal looking back at everything that has happened between March, that first manuscript, and this announcement.
Because this journey hasn't simply produced two books or reached one publication date.
It has produced twenty-two manuscripts, an expanding resource website, new professional connections, SEND resources, consultancy work and an increasingly clear sense of what I want all of this to become.
There have been rejections, spectacular amounts of editing and several moments of wondering why publishing requires quite so many technical specifications.
But there have also been children engaging with the resources, conversations with schools, opportunities I never anticipated and two books that are finally about to become real, physical books that someone can hold.
And perhaps the most important thing I've learned is that the original plan doesn't always have to be the final destination.
Sometimes one idea simply leads to another.
Sometimes one child's complaint creates an entirely new book series.
And sometimes a cardboard box really can become the beginning of a much, much bigger adventure.
The Cardboard Box Adventures: The Missing Spyglass and The Grimoire: The White Unicorn will be published on 15 October 2026.
And this is still only the beginning. 💜📚
27th September 2026
Why ‘Free Time’ Isn’t Always Rest: The Neurodivergent Parent Edition
“Make sure you take some time for yourself.”
It is well-meant advice. It is also sometimes surprisingly difficult to follow.
For many neurodivergent parents, particularly those balancing work, children, appointments, education, household jobs and the endless invisible administration that comes with family life, having free time and actually resting are two very different things.
I can have an evening with absolutely nothing scheduled and somehow find myself three hours later surrounded by half-finished ideas, seventeen browser tabs and a brand-new project that definitely did not exist when I sat down.
Technically, I had free time.
Whether my brain received the memo is another question entirely.
When Relaxing Becomes a Project
One of the interesting things about an ADHD or autistic brain is that activities we enjoy can be genuinely regulating while still requiring quite a lot of mental energy.
I enjoy creating resources, writing, researching and designing things. Those activities can feel relaxing because I have chosen them and I am interested in them. There is no external demand telling me that I have to do them.
Then hyperfocus arrives.
“I'll just finish this one thing” becomes another resource, another page, another adjustment and suddenly several hours have disappeared.
The same thing can happen with hobbies. Reading turns into researching the author and ordering the next three books. A craft requires reorganising the entire craft cupboard first. One interesting question becomes a research expedition.
It can be enjoyable. It can even leave us feeling satisfied.
But enjoyment and rest aren't necessarily the same thing.
The Mental Load Doesn't Clock Out
Parenting also makes genuine downtime complicated.
You might be sitting on the sofa, but part of your brain is still running through tomorrow.
Is the school uniform ready?
Did I reply to that email?
What time is the appointment?
Has everyone eaten?
Do we need anything from the shop?
Where has somebody put the one object they absolutely need tomorrow morning?
For parents of children with additional needs, that background processing can include even more: school communication, appointments, EHCPs, sensory needs, emotional regulation, medication, transport arrangements, upcoming transitions and trying to predict which seemingly tiny change might become tomorrow's enormous problem.
Nobody looking at you would necessarily see any of that.
You are sitting down.
Your brain, however, may still be doing overtime.
Rest Doesn't Have to Mean Doing Nothing
I think this is where traditional ideas about relaxation can become unhelpful.
Rest is often presented as stopping completely: sit quietly, clear your mind and do nothing.
That sounds wonderfully peaceful.
It also sounds like an excellent opportunity for my brain to remember fourteen unrelated tasks.
Neurodivergent rest can look different.
It might be rereading a familiar book because you already know what happens. It could be drawing, gaming, walking, listening to the same playlist repeatedly, spending time outside, having a bath, watching a comfort programme or scrolling through something that requires very little decision-making.
Sometimes it might involve movement rather than stillness.
The important question isn't necessarily, “Am I doing nothing?”
A better question can be, “Is this asking something from me, or is it giving something back?”
When Interests Are Actually Restorative
So how do we tell when an interest is genuinely helping us recover?
Sometimes the answer is easier to spot afterwards.
Do I feel calmer?
More settled?
Recharged?
Or have I forgotten to drink anything for four hours, my shoulders are somewhere near my ears and I'm irritated because somebody interrupted me?
There isn't necessarily a right or wrong activity. The useful part is noticing how we feel and recognising when something restorative has quietly crossed the line into something demanding.
Parents Need Low-Demand Time Too
We often understand the need for recovery instinctively when supporting neurodivergent children.
After school, we might reduce demands, allow access to favourite activities, offer familiar foods or give them time alone. We recognise that coping all day can require recovery afterwards.
Adults aren't magically exempt from that need.
Sometimes the most useful form of self-care isn't adding another activity.
It is removing a demand.
Leaving something until tomorrow.
Choosing the easy dinner.
Ignoring the washing for an evening.
Reading something purely because you want to.
Doing something badly instead of making it perfect.
Or recognising that you don't need to make your free time productive for it to have value.
Learning What Rest Looks Like for You
I am still learning this.
There will undoubtedly continue to be evenings when I intend to relax and accidentally create an entire new project instead. Sometimes that will be exactly what I wanted to do.
Other times, I need to recognise that my brain has been working all day and doesn't need another challenge simply because the challenge happens to be enjoyable.
Rest doesn't have to look peaceful.
It doesn't have to be productive.
It doesn't even have to make sense to anybody else.
For a neurodivergent parent, perhaps the most useful definition of rest is simply this:
Something that asks a little less from you than the rest of your day did.
20th September 2026
Accessibility Isn’t Making Learning Easier — It’s Making Learning Possible
When we talk about accessibility in education, it is easy to think first about the work in front of a child.
Can they read the worksheet? Are the instructions clear? Would visuals help? Is the information broken into manageable sections?
These things matter. I use many of these principles when creating resources myself: shorter sentences, selected bold words, visual support, clear layouts and information broken into smaller sections.
But academic accessibility is only one part of accessibility.
A child can have the most carefully adapted worksheet in the world sitting in front of them, but if their brain is already overwhelmed by the lights, noise, smells, movement or sensations around them, accessing that worksheet may still be incredibly difficult.
Sometimes, before we ask how to make the learning accessible, we need to ask whether the environment is accessible enough for learning to happen at all.
There Is No One “Sensory-Friendly” Classroom
What helps one child may make things harder for another.
Take music.
For one child, background music might compete with the teacher's voice and make concentrating almost impossible. For another, predictable music might provide exactly the stimulation their brain needs to remain focused on the task.
Neither child is wrong.
The same applies to lighting. A seat beside a large, bright window might seem like a lovely place to work. For some children it will be. Another child may be processing the brightness, reflections, movement outside and constantly changing shadows.
Moving that child to the other side of the classroom could make an enormous difference.
Then there is smell.
Perfume, cleaning products, food or art materials may be overwhelming for some children. Yet a familiar smell could be comforting to another because they associate it with home, safety or somebody they trust.
Even within the same sensory system, a person can seek some experiences and avoid others.
That is why accessibility cannot be a universal checklist. It has to begin with the individual.
We Experience the Classroom Through Our Whole Body
We usually learn about five senses: sight, sound, smell, taste and touch.
But sensory processing goes further.
Proprioception helps us understand where our body is and how it is moving. Some children seek this input through pushing, pulling, carrying, squeezing or using pressure.
Our vestibular system processes movement and balance. One child may need regular movement while another finds certain movements uncomfortable or disorientating.
Interoception helps us recognise what is happening inside our body: hunger, thirst, temperature, pain, tiredness or needing the toilet.
These things follow children into the classroom.
A child repeatedly leaving their chair may not simply need to “try harder to sit still.” Movement may actually help them regulate and concentrate.
A child who doesn't ask for a drink may not recognise thirst as clearly as somebody else.
And a child might not realise they are becoming overwhelmed until their body is already shouting about it.
Not every behaviour has a sensory explanation. But sensory needs deserve to be considered.
What Are We Actually Asking the Child to Do?
This is where reasonable adjustments become particularly important.
An adjustment does not automatically mean lowering expectations. Sometimes it simply removes a difficulty that has nothing to do with the skill being taught.
If the lesson objective is understanding fractions, tolerating fluorescent lighting isn't part of the maths curriculum.
If the objective is writing a paragraph, sitting completely still isn't an English skill.
If the objective is listening to an explanation, successfully filtering twenty competing noises isn't evidence of greater understanding.
And if a child understands the science but needs information presented visually as well as verbally, the visual support hasn't somehow made their knowledge less valid.
We need to separate what we actually want a child to learn from the additional demands surrounding that learning.
Otherwise, we can accidentally measure a child's ability to tolerate the environment instead of their ability to understand the curriculum.
Sometimes Adjustments Are Surprisingly Small
Accessibility doesn't always require specialist equipment or enormous changes.
It might mean changing where somebody sits.
Allowing movement while listening.
Reducing unnecessary noise.
Providing headphones or ear defenders.
Changing the lighting.
Offering a quieter space.
Making transitions more predictable.
Writing down an instruction instead of repeatedly saying it.
Allowing extra processing time.
Or simply noticing that something in the environment is becoming difficult.
Individually, these can seem like very small changes.
For the child who needs them, they may be the difference between spending the lesson managing the environment and having enough capacity left to learn.
Help Children Understand What Helps Them
Children themselves also need to be part of conversations about accessibility.
Not every child can explain exactly what their sensory system is doing. They might know that something feels wrong without having the language to tell us why.
Instead of only asking “What's wrong?”, we can make the question easier to answer.
Is it too loud?
Is the light bothering you?
Would another seat feel better?
Do you need to move?
Would headphones help?
Do you need the instructions written down?
Do you need some time?
Visual choices can be particularly useful for children who struggle to identify or communicate what they need.
Over time, this can help build self-advocacy.
This helps me.
This makes things harder.
This is becoming too much.
This is what I need.
Those are valuable skills far beyond school.
A Different Question
When a child repeatedly struggles within an environment, we often ask:
“How do we get this child to cope with the environment?”
Sometimes we need to ask something different:
“What can we change about the environment so the child doesn't have to work so hard just to exist in it?”
That doesn't mean removing every challenge.
Children need opportunities to learn, develop skills, solve problems and become increasingly independent.
But there is a difference between a useful challenge and an unnecessary barrier.
The difficult maths problem might be the challenge.
The unbearable buzzing light above the child's head isn't.
Understanding the Senses
I've been developing a new collection of resources exploring our different sensory systems and the ways children may experience them.
They look at sensory seeking and sensory avoiding, individual preferences and something I think is particularly important: a person doesn't have to fit neatly into one category.
A child can love loud music but hate hand dryers.
They can seek movement but dislike spinning.
They can enjoy some textures and be unable to tolerate others.
Sensory profiles are individual.
I'll be sharing more of these resources later this week, because understanding sensory processing is another part of understanding accessibility as a whole.
Removing the Barrier, Not Lowering the Bar
Accessibility might be a different font or selected words in bold.
But it might also be moving a chair away from a bright window.
Turning the music off.
Or turning the music on.
Allowing someone to move while they learn.
Changing how an instruction is given.
Reducing a sensory demand that serves no educational purpose.
There isn't one perfect accessible classroom because there isn't one type of learner.
The aim isn't to remove learning, challenge or ambition.
It is to recognise what is actually standing between the child and those things.
Accessibility isn't about lowering the bar.
It's about identifying the unnecessary barriers between the child and the bar, moving them where possible.
Vicky
x
“But He Did It Last Week…”
When the Same Activity Suddenly Becomes Too Much
Last weekend, my son went to a go-karting birthday party.
He loved it.
It was one of the highlights of his week. He drove the go-karts, enjoyed himself and came away having had a genuinely positive experience.
This weekend, he was invited to another birthday party.
Also go-karting.
Same child.
Same activity.
Completely different experience.
This time, it was too much.
And I think that little contradiction explains something incredibly important about neurodivergence, anxiety and EBSA:
Being able to cope with something once doesn't mean a child will always be able to cope with it.
“But you did it last time”
It's an easy conclusion to reach.
If a child happily attended a birthday party last Saturday, surely they can attend another one this Saturday?
If they managed a full day at school yesterday, surely they can do it again today?
If they walked through the door without support last week, why can't they do that now?
From the outside, it can look inconsistent.
But when we look at everything surrounding the activity, the inconsistency begins to make much more sense.
The first go-karting party was at a smaller venue.
The second was somewhere different.
It was bigger.
It was noisier.
The go-karts were faster and more powerful.
There was more sensory information to process and more uncertainty to manage.
And perhaps most importantly, this party came at the end of his first week back at school.
Those differences matter.
The activity isn't the whole demand
We often describe activities using one simple label.
School.
Swimming.
Birthday party.
Go-karting.
But the label tells us very little about what the child actually has to manage.
Two go-karting venues aren't necessarily the same experience.
One might have fewer people, quieter surroundings and slower vehicles. Another might have louder engines, a larger unfamiliar space, faster movement, more people and more things happening at once.
Even two visits to exactly the same place can feel completely different depending on how busy it is, who is there, what happened beforehand and how much capacity the child has left.
So perhaps instead of asking:
“Why can't you do it? You did it last week.”
we need to ask:
“What's different this time?”
Capacity changes
This week has been a big one in our house.
Returning to school when school itself has become associated with anxiety takes an enormous amount of effort.
Getting through the door is effort.
Separating from a parent is effort.
Managing uncertainty is effort.
Communicating with adults is effort.
Coping with sensory input is effort.
Regulating emotions is effort.
And sometimes a child manages all of that remarkably well.
But managing it doesn't mean it cost them nothing.
By the weekend, the capacity available for something they would ordinarily enjoy may simply be smaller.
That's one of the difficult things about EBSA.
We naturally focus on whether the child attended school.
But attendance doesn't necessarily tell us how much energy it took to achieve it.
Enjoyment doesn't automatically create capacity
This is another misconception I think is worth talking about.
A child can desperately want to do something and still be unable to manage it.
Fun activities aren't magically demand-free.
Birthday parties contain noise, people, expectations, transitions, unfamiliar environments, waiting, excitement and unpredictability.
Go-karting adds engines, helmets, movement, instructions and physical sensations.
Something can be exciting and overwhelming at exactly the same time.
And a child choosing not to continue doesn't necessarily mean:
“I don't like this anymore.”
It might simply mean:
“I don't have enough capacity for this today.”
Those are very different things.
Success doesn't have to mean staying
This is perhaps the bit I want to remember most.
The second party wasn't a failure.
He tried.
He entered a different environment.
He experienced it.
He recognised that it was too much.
And ultimately, we responded to what his body and behaviour were telling us.
Last week's success doesn't become less meaningful because this week's experience was different.
And this week's experience doesn't erase the fact that he loves go-karting.
Both things can be true.
Progress isn't consistency
I've been thinking about this a lot while navigating EBSA.
We naturally want progress to look like this:
Monday → Tuesday → Wednesday → Thursday → Friday
Each day slightly easier than the one before.
But children aren't graphs.
Progress can look more like:
Managed it.
Couldn't manage it.
Needed more support.
Tried again.
Managed something new.
Needed to leave.
Recovered.
Tried again another day.
That is still progress.
A difficult day doesn't cancel the easier one that came before it.
Look at the whole picture
So when a child suddenly can't manage something they successfully did before, perhaps the question isn't:
“Why are they refusing now?”
Maybe it's:
What changed?
Is the environment different?
Is it louder?
Busier?
Less predictable?
Are the people different?
Did something happen earlier?
Have they slept well?
Have they already spent the entire week managing demands?
Are they hungry, overwhelmed or exhausted?
How much capacity did they have when they woke up today?
Because behaviour doesn't happen in isolation.
Context matters.
Environment matters.
Sensory demands matter.
And capacity matters.
My son loved go-karting last week.
This week, go-karting was too much.
Neither experience contradicts the other.
They simply tell us something about what he could manage in that environment, with the capacity he had available, on that particular day.
And perhaps that's something worth remembering the next time we're tempted to say:
“But you managed it last time.”
Instead, we could try:
“Something feels harder today. Let's work out what changed.”
That small shift doesn't lower expectations.
It helps us understand what support might make trying again possible.
6th September 2026
The End-of-Summer Reset: Can I Just Have One Hot Cup of Tea?
September has arrived.
One child has returned to school, two haven't quite yet, and apparently this means it is time for me to look around my house and wonder exactly what happened here during the summer holidays.
I'm not looking for perfection.
I'm not expecting a spotless, beautifully organised house where every object has a carefully labelled home and nobody ever leaves a cup beside their bed.
I would simply like to achieve a vague level of organisation before school life properly begins again.
That doesn't sound unreasonable.
And yet, somehow, the end-of-summer reset feels like an enormous undertaking.
Where did all this stuff come from?
Six weeks of having children at home leaves evidence.
Lots of evidence.
The garden still contains the remains of summer. Pool toys need drying and putting away. The pool itself needs emptying. Beach toys that have travelled backwards and forwards on various summer adventures need gathering together and returning to the shed ready for next year — unless, of course, Britain decides to throw another random heatwave at us and I have to get everything back out again.
Inside isn't much better.
The house has received plenty of quick tidies over the summer, but there's a considerable difference between "I've quickly hoovered the living room" and properly hoovering the living room.
The latter involves moving things.
It involves edges.
It involves underneath things.
And it involves discovering the small pieces of Lego that have apparently been slowly migrating towards the edges of the room to establish their own independent civilisation.
Then there's the kitchen.
Or, more specifically, the mysterious disappearance of the kitchen.
At some point I opened the cupboards and realised we appeared to own considerably fewer cups, plates, bowls and items of cutlery than I remembered purchasing.
I hadn't accidentally decluttered them.
They were in the children's bedrooms.
So part of my end-of-summer reset has involved dragging my kitchen back downstairs.
Apparently "take your plate down when you've finished" has been interpreted throughout the summer as more of an optional lifestyle suggestion than an actual instruction.
But "tidy your room" is a very big instruction
Then there are the bedrooms themselves.
In a neurodivergent household, saying "go and tidy your bedroom" can be almost useless.
Executive functioning includes skills involved in organising, prioritising and sequencing everyday tasks, and these can be difficult for some autistic people. The National Autistic Society suggests strategies including visual supports and breaking activities into smaller steps.
That is something we know very well in our house.
A bedroom might objectively be one room, but "tidy your bedroom" isn't really one task.
It's:
Pick up the rubbish.
Find the dirty washing.
Gather the cups and plates.
Put away the clean clothes.
Find the toys.
Put the books back.
Clear the floor.
Sort the things that don't have an obvious home.
And somewhere around step three, discover something interesting that hasn't been seen for six months and completely forget that tidying was happening.
A traditional task list doesn't necessarily solve the problem either. For us, a long list can simply turn one overwhelming demand into ten smaller demands conveniently displayed together.
That is one of the reasons I designed my room/bedroom tidy resource differently.
Instead of presenting "clean your room" as one enormous job, it breaks the room down into manageable chunks that can be approached separately. The aim isn't to create another demanding checklist that must be completed from top to bottom. It is to make the invisible steps within a large task more visible, so a child can see one manageable thing to do next.
Breaking larger tasks into smaller components is also recognised as a useful support for executive-function difficulties.
Sometimes accessibility isn't about expecting somebody to try harder.
Sometimes it's about changing the way the task is presented.
You can find my supportive resources on my website, including resources designed with neurodivergence, executive-function needs and low-demand approaches in mind.
I'm not trying to create a perfect home
There is another reason I'm doing all of this now.
Home needs to become home again.
School takes a lot from children, particularly children who are dealing with sensory input, social expectations, transitions, communication demands, learning demands and simply holding themselves together through the day.
When they come home, I want there to be somewhere they can decompress.
That doesn't require a show home.
It does help, however, if we can find the sofa.
It helps if the things they need are roughly where they expect them to be. It helps if school clothes can be located in the morning without launching a household-wide search operation. It helps if we're not trying to find a missing shoe three minutes before we need to leave.
The reset isn't about making our home look impressive.
It's about making everyday life slightly easier.
And perhaps that is where my own reset needs to come into the conversation too.
Who resets the parent?
Parents hear a lot about self-care.
Make time for yourself.
Take a break.
Practise mindfulness.
Have a relaxing bath.
Read a book.
Do something you enjoy.
All perfectly reasonable suggestions.
But sometimes I think parental self-care needs to begin considerably smaller.
Sometimes I would simply like to make a cup of tea and drink the entire thing while it's still hot.
I'd quite like to watch one television programme the first time around without later realising that I've missed several important scenes because somebody needed food, somebody couldn't find something, somebody needed help, somebody wanted to tell me something incredibly important at precisely that moment, or two siblings suddenly required an independent mediator.
Sometimes I don't need another self-care activity to add to my list.
I need fewer demands for twenty minutes.
And I don't think that's unreasonable.
Today's "reset"
Today has actually been one of those household catch-up days.
The washing has been going. Bedsheets are being changed. The living room has been dragged back into something considerably more organised than it has been for the past few weeks.
Children have been allocated jobs.
Notice I said allocated.
I didn't say those jobs were necessarily completed exactly as anticipated.
I've already taken over washing-up that wasn't originally my job and finished the sections of hoovering that apparently fell outside somebody else's contractual obligations.
There has also been a sibling dispute requiring intervention.
All I really wanted was a cup of tea.
And perhaps that sums up the whole end-of-summer reset rather nicely.
We're resetting bedrooms.
We're resetting routines.
We're putting away the physical remains of summer.
We're retrieving our crockery from strange locations.
We're preparing school clothes and trying to restore enough order that the transition back into school life doesn't feel even harder than it needs to.
But the adults who have carried everyone through those six weeks need a reset too.
That doesn't necessarily mean booking a spa day or finding several uninterrupted hours that simply don't exist.
Maybe it's recognising that our needs count within the household as well.
Maybe it's sitting down before every job is finished.
Maybe it's accepting that "better than it was" is enough for today.
Maybe the house can remain vaguely imperfect while we have a bath, read a chapter of a book or watch something we actually want to watch.
Or perhaps it's something even smaller.
Maybe it's making a cup of tea...
...and, just once, getting to the bottom of it before it's cold.
I'll let you know if I ever manage it.
30th September 2026
Finding Balance: Work, Family and the Return to School
Balance is something I have thought about a lot over the last month.
It has now been just over a month since I launched this website, and when I look at how much it has grown in that short space of time, I am incredibly proud.
There are now resources covering numerous areas of learning and development, monthly Nature Hub highlights, neurodiversity and additional-needs support resources, activities, information pages and these weekly blogs. Alongside that, I have continued working on my children's books, each of which explores themes surrounding neurodiversity, understanding and belonging, while hoping that I might hear some positive news from a publisher soon.
There is a lot happening.
But perhaps what I am most proud of is that I have managed to do all of this without allowing it to completely take over.
Balance doesn't always mean equal
Launching a website during the summer holidays was perhaps an interesting choice!
My children are home. They want entertaining. They need feeding. They need lifts, conversations, reassurance, help finding things that are apparently invisible until Mum looks for them, and generally a considerable amount of my input.
Like many parents, I have had to find a way to balance work and home.
But I have also realised that balance isn't necessarily about dividing everything equally.
Some days I have worked for hours.
Other days I have done very little.
We have had days out, visited friends, gone swimming, been camping and simply spent time at home.
Sometimes what my children need has to come first.
But I've also become increasingly aware that what I need matters too.
Sometimes that means having a bath.
Sometimes it means reading my book.
Sometimes it means disappearing into my bedroom for five minutes because everybody has needed something from me simultaneously and I need a moment where absolutely nobody says, "Mum?"
That counts too.
Looking after yourself isn't separate from maintaining balance. It is part of it.
Around all of that, I have found time to create resources that I hope will help other people — whether they home educate, use alternative education, teach within a school, support a neurodivergent child or simply need accessible information and support.
It hasn't required every day to be perfectly organised.
It has required flexibility.
Different children need different things
Balance has also been particularly noticeable within my own neurodiverse household.
My youngest is very much a stay-at-home person.
Going out can be difficult for him. Home is predictable, familiar and safe, and he would quite happily spend considerably more time there.
My older two are almost the opposite.
They frequently want to go somewhere and do something.
That creates its own balancing act.
I have had to support my youngest in managing the fears and difficulties he experiences around going out, while also helping his siblings understand that not everybody experiences activities in the same way.
Something that feels exciting to one child can feel exhausting or overwhelming to another.
Something one child desperately wants to do may be something another child needs significant support to tolerate.
The answer cannot always be that one child's needs automatically outweigh everybody else's.
Instead, we adapt.
We compromise.
We prepare.
Sometimes somebody has to stretch their comfort zone a little. Sometimes everybody else has to slow down.
Fair doesn't always mean everybody getting exactly the same thing.
Sometimes fair means everybody getting what they need.
And now we're returning to school...
Next week, children across the country will begin returning to school for a new academic year.
For many parents, there may be some relief.
Six weeks is a long time.
But returning to "normal" doesn't necessarily mean everything immediately becomes easier.
For some children, particularly neurodivergent children, six weeks away from school may have been desperately needed.
School can require enormous amounts of energy.
Children may spend their days managing sensory environments, social expectations, transitions, demands, communication, learning and emotional regulation.
Six weeks away can provide space to recover.
But that same six-week break can also make returning incredibly dysregulating.
The routine they eventually became accustomed to during the holidays suddenly changes again.
There may be a new teacher.
A new classroom.
A new school.
Different timings.
Different classmates.
Different expectations.
Different journeys.
Different sensory environments.
Even children returning to somewhere familiar may discover that familiar doesn't feel quite as familiar as it did six weeks ago.
Behaviour is communication
During this transition, parents and schools may notice changes.
A child who normally communicates well might become quieter.
Communication might become shorter or more difficult.
A child might become more irritable.
They might sleep differently.
They may need more reassurance or proximity to trusted adults.
There may be more meltdowns, shutdowns, avoidance or emotional outbursts.
Things they previously managed might suddenly seem difficult again.
It can be tempting to look at this and think:
"But they managed this before the holidays."
They probably did.
But capacity changes.
Returning to school places new demands on a child's nervous system, and sometimes something has to give while they adjust.
Behaviour doesn't exist in isolation.
Behaviour communicates something.
Our job is to remain curious enough to ask what.
Finding the balance between expectation and support
Children need boundaries.
They need opportunities to learn, develop independence and experience things that sometimes feel difficult.
There are also legal responsibilities surrounding education that parents and schools have to navigate.
But alongside expectation there must be understanding.
That is where balance becomes important.
Balance can mean recognising the difference between a child who won't and a child who currently can't.
It can mean reducing a demand today so that a child has enough capacity to attempt it tomorrow.
It can mean providing additional processing time.
It might mean a quieter arrival, a trusted adult, a safe space, visual information or simply knowing somebody believes them when they say something is too much.
Sometimes balance means going at the child's pace rather than forcing progress because adults have decided where that child should be.
Because forcing somethingtoday can sometimes make it considerably harder tomorrow.
Support doesn't mean removing every boundary or expectation.
And boundaries don't have to mean withdrawing compassion.
Balance is boundaries filled with love, care and understanding.
Being their voice
Perhaps one of the hardest balances as a parent is knowing when to encourage your child to speak for themselves and when you need to step forward and speak for them.
We want our children to develop self-advocacy.
We want them to recognise their needs, communicate boundaries and become increasingly independent.
But there will be times when they cannot.
There will be environments where their communication disappears.
There will be moments when they don't have the words, don't understand what is happening or simply don't have enough capacity left to explain.
At those times, they still deserve to be heard.
Sometimes being your child's voice means making sure their own voice isn't lost simply because they cannot use it in the way other people expect.
Balance will keep changing
I don't think balance is something we achieve once and then keep forever.
What worked yesterday might not work tomorrow.
What one child needs may be completely different from what their sibling needs.
A routine that works brilliantly during the holidays may fall apart once school begins.
A child who needs encouragement one day might need considerably more space the next.
And an adult who can give endlessly for a while will eventually need time to recharge too.
Over this first month of building my website, I have learned that I don't have to choose between being present for my children and creating something that matters to me.
I can work hard and still stop.
I can be a parent and still need five minutes alone.
My children can be supported while still being challenged.
We can have boundaries while remaining compassionate.
And as we head into another school year, perhaps that is something worth remembering.
Balance isn't about making everything equal.
It is about noticing what is needed, recognising when those needs change, and being willing to adapt.
For our children.
For our families.
And for ourselves.
Vicky
xx
24th August 2026
When Support Becomes Another Demand
When a child is struggling, our instinct as adults is often to help.
We ask what is wrong. We offer choices. We suggest strategies. We remind them about the tools they can use. We encourage them to talk to us so that we can understand.
It all comes from a good place.
But sometimes, help can accidentally become another demand.
For a child who is already anxious, overwhelmed or struggling to regulate, answering a question requires processing. Making a choice requires processing. Explaining a feeling requires processing. Even being asked to use a strategy can require more cognitive and emotional energy than they have available.
Imagine being completely overwhelmed and hearing:
What's wrong?
What happened?
Do you want to talk about it?
Would your headphones help?
Do you want to go to your safe space?
None of those questions are unkind. In another moment, they might be exactly what that child needs.
But when their nervous system is already overloaded, five helpful questions can still feel like five demands.
Sometimes support needs to become quieter
Low-demand support doesn't mean doing nothing.
It can mean reducing the amount a child needs to respond to.
Instead of repeatedly asking what they need, we might make familiar supports available and allow them to choose them without speaking.
Instead of saying, “You need to calm down,” we can provide the conditions in which regulation is more likely to happen.
Instead of asking for an explanation immediately, we can let communication come later.
And sometimes the most supportive thing we can offer is simply:
time, space, safety and connection.
The conversation can wait.
Even our resources can create demand
This is something I've been thinking about particularly this week while working on some of my EBSA and anxiety resources.
I love creating resources that are warm, engaging and visually interesting. For some children, those illustrations and details make a resource feel welcoming rather than clinical.
But accessibility can never mean creating one accessible version and assuming it will work for everybody.
A page filled with illustrations, colours, choices and information may be engaging for one child and completely overwhelming for another.
So I've been creating alternative low-demand versions.
They use paler, more neutral colours, simpler illustrations, more white space and less visual information. The purpose of the resource hasn't changed. The way the child is being invited to interact with it has.
Neither version is the "better" version.
They're simply different ways in.
And I think that's an important principle far beyond printable resources.
The same child may need different things tomorrow
We sometimes talk about accommodations as though a child has one fixed set of needs.
Real life isn't quite that tidy.
A child might happily complete a colourful visual activity one day and find the same page overwhelming the next.
They might talk freely about school on Tuesday and communicate entirely through gestures on Wednesday.
They might manage a busy classroom in the morning but need complete quiet after lunch.
That doesn't mean the support has stopped working.
It means their capacity has changed.
Sleep, sensory input, anxiety, hunger, illness, social experiences, transitions and countless other things can affect how much a nervous system can manage.
Support therefore needs some flexibility too.
Low demand doesn't mean no boundaries
Reducing demands is sometimes misunderstood as allowing children to do whatever they want.
It isn't.
A low-demand approach is about recognising which demands are necessary right now and which can wait.
Safety still matters. Other people's needs still matter. Boundaries can still exist.
But perhaps the worksheet doesn't need completing today.
Perhaps we don't need an explanation immediately.
Perhaps "I don't know" is enough.
Perhaps pointing is enough.
Perhaps sitting quietly beside someone is enough.
And perhaps a child who cannot manage something today isn't saying they will never manage it.
They may simply be telling us:
"I can't manage this right now."
There is a considerable difference between the two.
Before adding support, sometimes we can subtract
When something isn't working, our instinct is often to add another strategy.
Another visual.
Another reward.
Another conversation.
Another intervention.
Another plan.
But occasionally the question worth asking is:
What could we remove?
Could we remove some language?
Could we remove unnecessary choices?
Could we remove time pressure?
Could we remove some visual information?
Could we remove the expectation to speak?
Could we remove the need to explain?
Could we remove the pressure to "get it right"?
Support doesn't always need to be something we add.
Sometimes support is creating enough space for a child to breathe.
And when a child is experiencing anxiety, demand avoidance or emotionally based school avoidance, that quieter form of support can be incredibly powerful.
Even choosing a colour can be a demand
This thinking also influences some of the much simpler resources I create.
On my Nature Hub pages, for example, I often include both a traditional colouring page and a colour-by-number version. At first glance, that might seem like two versions of essentially the same activity, but there is a reason for offering both.
For some children, a blank colouring picture represents freedom and creativity. They can choose whichever colours they like, experiment and make the picture completely their own.
For another child, however, "Choose a colour" is still a demand.
Which colour should I use?
Is there a correct colour?
What if I choose the wrong one?
Where should I start?
What colour comes next?
An activity intended to be calming can suddenly involve a surprising amount of decision-making and cognitive processing.
A colour-by-number removes many of those decisions. The colour has already been chosen. The child doesn't have to decide what comes next; they can simply follow the key if that feels easier.
Equally, another child might dislike being told which colours to use and find the colour-by-number version more demanding. For them, the completely open colouring page may be the low-demand option.
That's why I offer both.
Low-demand support isn't about deciding that one particular type of resource is accessible. It's about providing different routes into the same activity and allowing the individual to use the one that asks the least of them at that moment.
Sometimes accessibility is a major accommodation.
And sometimes it's as small as recognising that choosing between the red and the blue pencil might already be one decision too many today.
Support doesn't always need to be something we add.
Sometimes support is creating enough space for a child to breathe.
Less pressure doesn't mean less support.
Sometimes, less pressure is exactly what makes support accessible. 💜
17th August 2026
A World Every Child Can Enter
One thing I have learnt through my own children is just how important stories, imagination and magical worlds can be.
Children love to escape.
They love worlds filled with magic, adventure, strange creatures, beautiful places and possibilities that don't exist within everyday life. Stories can offer somewhere to retreat to when the real world feels difficult, overwhelming or simply a little too much.
But what happens when the escape itself is difficult to access?
For many children, opening a book doesn't automatically mean entering another world. Before they can get there, they may first have to navigate large blocks of text, unfamiliar vocabulary, crowded pages and long chapters. They may be expected to concentrate for extended periods, remember information from several pages ago or process a story while simultaneously working hard to decode the words.
Suddenly, something that is supposed to be enjoyable has become another demand.
Through my own children, I have seen the difference between loving stories and loving reading.
They adore being read to. When someone else is doing the reading, much of the expectation disappears. They can listen, imagine, look at the pictures, ask questions or simply enjoy what is happening.
The demands are less.
That distinction has influenced almost everything I create.
Accessibility isn't an extra
When I began creating my books and resources, I didn't want accessibility to be something added afterwards.
I wanted it woven through them from the beginning.
That is why pictures play such a large role in my work. Illustrations aren't simply there to make a page look pretty. They help tell the story, provide context and give the reader another way of understanding what is happening.
I use shorter sentences and manageable sections of text, creating regular stopping points without constantly interrupting the flow of the story.
I use bolded words throughout text to give the page visual anchors and make lines of writing easier to navigate.
I use soft colours, coloured text and gentle backgrounds rather than relying solely on harsh black writing against brilliant white pages.
And the imagery itself is deliberately gentle.
Whether I am creating a magical story, a nature resource, a reading comprehension or something designed to support everyday life, I want the page to feel inviting rather than overwhelming.
Different shouldn't mean less
Making something accessible doesn't mean removing imagination.
It doesn't mean children need simpler worlds, less interesting characters or stories without depth.
Sometimes they simply need a different doorway into them.
A child who struggles to read a dense page of text can still imagine dragons.
A child who finds concentrating difficult can still become completely fascinated by folklore.
A child who needs pictures to support their understanding can still disappear into an enchanted forest.
A child who finds reading exhausting still deserves the experience of wondering what happens next.
That philosophy has gradually spread beyond my books and into the resources on my website too.
The subjects might change, from nature and wildlife to emotions, communication, routines or learning, but the thinking behind them remains the same:
How can I make this easier to enter?
Not easier because I expect less from the child, but easier because unnecessary barriers shouldn't be the thing preventing them from taking part.
Creating for the children who experience the world differently
My own children have taught me an enormous amount about how differently people can experience exactly the same thing.
Something one child barely notices can completely overwhelm another.
Something that looks simple from the outside can require a huge amount of concentration, processing or emotional energy.
And something that doesn't work in one format can suddenly become accessible when it is presented differently.
That is why everything I create is made with neurodivergent minds and learning difficulties in mind.
Not because neurodivergent children need their worlds made smaller.
Quite the opposite.
They deserve worlds every bit as enormous, magical, exciting and beautiful as everyone else.
Sometimes, we just need to make the doorway a little easier to walk through.
Because every child should have somewhere they can escape for a while.
Somewhere the stresses, expectations and struggles of everyday life can become quieter.
Somewhere they can explore, imagine and wonder.
And sometimes, that place begins with nothing more than a picture, a few gentle words and the turn of a page.
10th August 2026
Making the World More Accessible, Not Making the Child Fit
This week has been a mixture of fun and struggles.
With the summer holidays well underway, we have been out doing different activities as a family. For most families, that might sound fairly straightforward. Pick somewhere to go, pack what you need, get everyone into the car and off you go.
For our family, and many other neurodivergent families, there can be a little more to it than that.
My youngest doesn't particularly enjoy leaving the house. After a long period of anxiety and burnout, home has become his safe place. Unfortunately for him, having siblings means that sometimes the rest of the family wants to go somewhere!
So this week he has found himself being dragged along with the rest of us on most days.
That doesn't mean I've simply forced him through activities while ignoring how difficult they are for him. Quite the opposite.
Some days have meant staying somewhere for less time than we otherwise might. Sometimes it has meant lots of co-regulation. Sometimes we've needed to find a quiet space, an escape route or simply somewhere he can hide away from everything for a while.
And sometimes it has involved me carrying what feels like the entire contents of my house around in a bag, just in case.
But that's okay.
Because participation doesn't have to look the same for everybody.
A Neurodivergent Child at the Beach?!
On Wednesday, we spent most of the day at the beach.
Yes.
The beach.
I can already hear some sensory parents recoiling.
Was there sand?!
Oh yes.
Sand.
The stuff that sticks to your feet, gets between your toes, appears inside clothing despite nobody knowing how it possibly got there and somehow follows you home.
The sensory horror!
For a child who doesn't like the feeling of sand, an entire day at the beach could easily have become miserable.
But instead of deciding that meant he couldn't come, we thought about how he could experience the beach in a way that worked for him.
We positioned ourselves on a pebbly section with a stretch of sand directly in front of us. That meant the people who wanted to play in the sand could do so without moving away from our main family space, while he could remain comfortably on the pebbles.
We arranged our chairs beside one of the wooden groynes to create a little den-like area. He could sit between them, tucked away from other people and feeling much less visible.
He wore beach shoes whenever he went down to the sea, meaning his bare feet never needed to touch the sand.
Of course, sand being sand, some inevitably managed to get onto him anyway.
So I had a sand-removing mitt and SandAway ready.
Sand appeared.
Sand disappeared.
Crisis avoided.
At the end of the beach portion of the day, we headed to the splash pad. Everyone got to play while any final irritating grains of sand were conveniently washed away.
We finished with some crab fishing in the little pond near the harbour.
And everyone had enjoyed the day.
Not because my youngest suddenly decided he liked sand.
He still doesn't like sand.
It worked because we didn't require him to experience the beach in exactly the same way as everybody else.
“I'm Not Going to London!”
Then came Friday night.
My eldest excitedly announced that he couldn't wait to see the drone show in London.
Cue immediate panic from my youngest.
“I'm not going!”
He hates London with a passion, and the mere suggestion that we were going there was enough to send his anxiety shooting upwards.
There was absolutely no point trying to reason with him while he was already panicking.
Eventually, once he was calm enough, we could talk.
We looked at a map together.
I showed him exactly where we were going and explained that, although the postcode technically had a London code, we weren't actually going into central London.
That distinction mattered to him.
Eventually, he agreed to come.
Just about.
Then he promptly fell asleep for most of the journey there—which, given his tendency towards travel sickness, was actually a fairly excellent solution!
Once we arrived at the racecourse, we didn't simply walk straight into the busiest area.
We scoped it out.
We found somewhere to sit that wasn't likely to become overly crowded and where we could get out reasonably quickly if everything became too much.
Then we settled down and watched the London skyline slowly beginning to light up as evening turned into night.
And because experience has taught me never to assume something will be fine simply because it might be fine, my bag contained pretty much everything.
Ear defenders?
Of course.
Jumper with a hood?
Yep.
Safe snacks?
Definitely.
Drinks?
Obviously.
Fidgets?
Naturally.
You name it, I probably had it.
Then the drone show began.
And he watched.
When it finished, he turned to me and said:
“That was awesome.”
And then he told me he was glad he'd come.
The crowds afterwards?
Not awesome.
The twenty-minute queue trying to get out of the venue car park?
Definitely not awesome.
But the thing we'd actually gone there to experience?
Success.
So What Made the Difference?
It wasn't because I convinced him that there was nothing to worry about.
There were things that worried him.
It wasn't because he suddenly became comfortable with crowds.
He didn't.
It wasn't because his sensory differences disappeared for the day.
They certainly didn't.
And it wasn't because I simply refused to let him say no.
It worked because we made accommodations.
We talked about what was worrying him.
We gave him information.
We showed him where we were going.
We found spaces that worked for him.
We had escape routes.
We brought sensory supports.
We reduced demands where we could.
And, importantly, he was involved.
I didn't want fear and anxiety to make his world progressively smaller. But equally, expanding that world couldn't mean dragging him through experiences that left him overwhelmed and distressed.
There is a huge space between those two extremes.
That's the space where support lives.
Maybe the Person Isn't the Problem
I think this is something society still gets wrong far too often when talking about neurodivergence and disability.
We look at somebody who cannot cope with a particular environment and conclude:
They can't do it.
They can't manage school.
They can't go to the beach.
They can't attend events.
They can't tolerate crowds.
They can't join in.
But perhaps the better question is:
What is making this inaccessible?
And then:
What could we change?
Sometimes the answer might be sensory.
Sometimes it might be communication.
Sometimes it might be reducing the amount of time spent somewhere.
It could be having a quiet room, knowing where the exit is, wearing headphones, being allowed to move around, having familiar food available, seeing photographs beforehand, using visual information or simply having someone nearby who understands what is happening.
The accommodation doesn't have to make the difficult thing disappear.
My son still disliked the sand.
He still disliked the crowds.
He still disliked waiting to leave.
The accommodation simply meant those difficult things didn't have to overwhelm the entire experience.
And that distinction matters.
Six Months Can Change a Lot
When I look at my youngest now compared with six months ago, the difference is enormous.
Six months ago, he was in full burnout.
He couldn't attend school.
Leaving the house was incredibly difficult.
He had already experienced around eighteen months of extremely low attendance or non-attendance.
His world had become very small.
Now?
He's slowly leaving the house more and more.
He's beginning to talk more with people he knows again.
And perhaps most importantly, he now attends a school that he wants to attend and that he is actually able to attend.
That hasn't happened because somebody finally became strict enough with him.
It hasn't happened because we removed all of his accommodations.
And it certainly hasn't happened because his neurodivergence disappeared.
It has happened as his anxiety has reduced and the environment around him has become more appropriate for his needs.
His selective mutism is also slowly improving.
Although that's another blog post entirely because, seriously...
Who decided to call it “selective” mutism?!
When exactly is the inability to speak because your nervous system has essentially slammed the communication door shut selective?
But I'll save that particular rant for another week!
What matters here is that as his anxiety reduces, we're seeing more of him again.
Not a less autistic version of him.
Not a child who has finally learned to tolerate things that hurt or overwhelm him.
Him.
More confident.
More communicative.
More willing to explore.
And gradually able to make his world bigger again.
Inclusion Isn't Just Being Allowed Through the Door
Real inclusion isn't simply saying:
“Of course you're welcome here.”
It's making sure somebody can actually participate once they arrive.
It's recognising that equality doesn't always mean everybody doing exactly the same thing in exactly the same way.
Sometimes inclusion looks like sitting on the pebbles while everybody else plays in the sand.
Sometimes it looks like beach shoes.
Sometimes it's a makeshift den between some chairs.
Sometimes it's studying a map before agreeing to leave the house.
Sometimes it's ear defenders and safe snacks stuffed into an already overflowing bag.
Sometimes it's knowing exactly where the exit is before you've even sat down.
Those things don't spoil an experience.
They're what make the experience possible.
Whether we're talking about family days out, hospitals, community activities or schools, the principle is much the same.
Instead of asking:
“Why can't this person cope?”
perhaps we need to ask more often:
“What would help this person cope?”
Because this week my son went to the beach.
He went to an evening event.
He watched a drone show.
And afterwards, he told me he was glad he'd gone.
Not because we made him fit the environment.
Because, wherever we could, we made the environment fit him.
And sometimes that is where inclusion really begins. 💜
3rd August 2026
Finding Magic in the Seasons: Lughnasadh, Nature and Why Every Child Deserves to Belong
As both an author and an advocate, people often ask me where my ideas come from.
The honest answer is... everywhere.
They come from woodland walks, muddy boots, quiet moments watching wildlife, conversations with my children, changing seasons and the small moments that many people walk straight past.
This weekend was Lughnasadh (Lammas), celebrated on 1st August, the first of the traditional harvest festivals and one of the festivals of the Wheel of the Year. It marks the beginning of the harvest season, celebrating gratitude, abundance, hard work and the gifts that nature quietly provides throughout the year.
For me, Lughnasadh has become much more than a date on the calendar.
It is an opportunity to slow down.
To notice.
To reconnect.
A Weekend of Gratitude
This year's celebrations were wonderfully simple, but incredibly meaningful.
We spent time with family, enjoyed a walk around a local National Trust as part of their Summer of Fun activities, picked blackberries, baked together, lit the fire pit, reflected on the year so far and finished the weekend with a Lughnasadh tarot reading beneath a peaceful evening sky.
One of my favourite moments came on the final evening.
My eldest son, who doesn't always join in with my seasonal celebrations, chose to sit with us as we wrote down our intentions for the months ahead, reflected on things we wanted to release and then burned sprigs of rosemary together in the fire.
It was a small moment.
But sometimes the smallest moments become the ones you treasure the most.
As I climbed into bed later that evening…. showered, fresh sheets, windows open to the cool night air, I realised just how refreshed I felt.
Sometimes celebrating isn't about grand ceremonies.
Sometimes it's simply about giving yourself permission to pause.
Nature Shapes Everything I Write
If you've spent any time exploring my website, you've probably noticed that nature quietly weaves its way through almost everything I create.
The changing seasons influence my books.
They inspire my educational resources.
They guide my monthly Nature Hub articles.
They even influence the activities I make for children.
When elderflowers bloom, I find myself writing about magic and woodland adventures.
When salmon begin their journeys upstream, I think about perseverance and courage.
Lavender fields inspire calming sensory activities.
Blackberries become family baking memories.
Flying ants become fascinating science lessons.
Nature never stops teaching us.
Every season has its own story waiting to be discovered.
As someone who follows the Wheel of the Year, I find these seasonal rhythms grounding. They encourage me to look outside rather than rush past, to notice what is changing and to let those observations naturally shape my creativity.
Perhaps that's why my stories always seem to begin with curiosity.
A Walk That Stayed With Me
During our walk around the National Trust property this weekend, something happened that has stayed with me.
My daughter is now 12 years old.
She still loves dolls.
She enjoys taking her reborn baby out for walks in its pram.
She talks to it.
Cares for it.
Creates stories.
To me, that's something beautiful.
She's nurturing.
Creative.
Imaginative.
She's still finding joy in play.
Yet whenever she wants to take her doll out in public, we often make sure she has her Sunflower lanyard or disability tag visible.
Not because she should have to.
But because without it, people stare.
People look.
People judge.
The lanyard seems to give silent permission for others to accept something that should never have needed explaining in the first place.
There is another challenge too—one I never expected.
Finding a doll's pushchair that's suitable for an older child is incredibly difficult. The toy industry largely seems to assume that dolls and toy prams are only for children aged around three to five years old. Once children grow taller, the options almost disappear.
We're now reaching the point where our next purchase may genuinely have to be a real pushchair, simply because there are so few toy versions made for older children or teenagers.
That says a lot about the expectations society places on childhood.
It quietly suggests that imaginative play has an expiry date.
But who decides when that should be?
When did it become wrong for a twelve-year-old to still play with dolls?
Who decided there was an age limit on imagination?
Why do we celebrate adults collecting action figures, building LEGO, painting miniatures or enjoying hobbies, yet question children who simply continue to play?
For many neurodivergent children, imaginative play isn't something they simply "grow out of." It can provide comfort, emotional regulation, a safe way to explore social situations and a chance to process the world around them. Those benefits don't suddenly disappear because a child reaches secondary school.
In fact, I'd much rather see a twelve-year-old happily pushing a doll in a pram, immersed in imaginative play, than feeling pressured to grow up before they're ready simply because society expects them to.
Every Child Deserves to Feel Accepted
This is one of the reasons I care so deeply about advocacy.
Not because every child is the same.
But because they aren't.
Some children wear ear defenders.
Some communicate differently.
Some flap when they're excited.
Some avoid eye contact.
Some collect rocks.
Some adore trains.
Some need routine.
Some carry comfort items.
Some still push dolls in prams.
None of these things reduce who they are.
They simply tell part of their story.
The more children see differences accepted, the more likely they are to grow into adults who don't judge someone for being different.
Inclusion isn't created by asking everyone to fit the same mould.
It grows when we allow people to be themselves without needing to justify why.
This is why I advocate so passionately through my books, my educational resources and this website.
Because if one child feels able to be themselves without fear of judgement…
If one parent feels less alone…
If one teacher sees a different perspective…
Then every conversation has been worthwhile.
Normalising neurodiversity isn't about asking for special treatment.
It's about recognising that there is no single "right" way to experience childhood.
Every child deserves to feel seen.
Every child deserves to feel accepted.
Every child deserves the freedom to play, learn and grow in the way that is right for them.
Why I Keep Writing
Every book I write and every resource I create carries the same hope.
That somewhere, a child will recognise themselves.
That a parent will feel understood.
That a teacher might see things from a different perspective.
That someone who has always felt "different" realises they were never the problem.
The world simply wasn't designed with enough room for difference.
Thankfully, that's changing.
Slowly.
One conversation.
One classroom.
One family.
One story at a time.
Looking Ahead
As Lughnasadh draws to a close and summer slowly begins its gentle journey towards autumn, I'm returning to my desk feeling inspired once again.
The changing seasons will continue to shape my writing, just as they always have.
Nature will continue to provide endless stories.
And I will continue doing what I believe matters most.
Creating stories where children feel seen.
Creating educational resources that encourage curiosity, understanding and belonging.
Helping people understand neurodiversity through storytelling.
And continuing to advocate for a world where differences are understood rather than judged.
Because every child deserves to belong exactly as they are.
Whether they're climbing trees…
Collecting bugs…
Building fairy houses…
Watching bees dance between lavender flowers…
Or proudly pushing a doll around a National Trust garden.
And personally…
I hope they never stop imagining.
Vicky
x
Sunday 26th July 2026
More Than Just Stories – The Journey Behind My Books
When people ask me why I started writing children's books, the answer is never a simple one.
The truth is, these stories grew from years of lived experience.
I'm an AuDHD parent raising three wonderful neurodivergent children, each with their own unique strengths, challenges and ways of seeing the world. Like many families, we've experienced our fair share of school meetings, endless paperwork, referrals, assessments, advocacy, EHCP processes, and trying to find educational settings where our children could truly thrive rather than simply cope.
Alongside all of that, I was also studying for my BA (Honours) in English Language and Literature with The Open University. Many evenings that could have been spent relaxing were instead divided between university assignments,researching additional needs, attending meetings, writing emails, and, somehow, finding time to write stories.
Looking back now, I'm still not entirely sure how it all fitted into the same twenty-four hours.
Finding Stories in Everyday Life
Although my books are fictional, many of the feelings within them are very real.
I've watched children become overwhelmed in busy environments.
I've seen the exhaustion that comes after masking all day.
I've experienced the uncertainty of school refusal and Emotionally Based School Avoidance (EBSA), and the emotional toll it takes on the whole family.
I've also witnessed incredible courage.
The determination children show every single day often goes unnoticed because they're simply trying to get through situations that others find easy.
Those moments deserved to be reflected in stories.
Not stories about being "fixed."
Not stories where neurodivergence is treated as something that needs to disappear.
Just adventures where children happen to think differently, feel deeply, solve problems creatively and discover that being themselves is enough.
Creating Books That Feel Different
As my ideas grew, I realised I wasn't just writing one book.
I was creating two completely different worlds.
The Cardboard Box Adventures follows Theo as an ordinary cardboard box becomes a doorway to extraordinary adventures. Designed for younger readers, the series combinesexciting journeys with gentle exploration of themes like sensory differences, flexible thinking, emotional regulation, confidence and friendship.
Alongside that, The Grimoire Series grew into a magical fantasy world for slightly older readers. Through enchanted forests, ancient magic and unforgettable creatures, these stories explore anxiety, belonging, resilience, change, self-belief and discovering the courage already within not only Amber, but also ourselves.
While the settings may be magical, the emotions are grounded in real experiences that many children—and adults—will recognise.
Making Reading More Accessible
One idea became more important than any other.
Accessibility.
As both a parent and someone who is neurodivergent myself, I know that reading isn't always easy. Long chapters, crowded pages and overwhelming layouts can become barriers before a story has even begun.
I wanted to remove as many of those barriers as possible.
That's why every book has been carefully designed with accessibility in mind.
The stories use chapter-free layouts, generous spacing, dyslexia-friendly formatting, regular illustrations, manageable amounts of text and consistent visual design to help reduce cognitive overload.
The aim isn't simply to make books easier to read.
It's to make them easier to enjoy.
I also wanted children to find characters who felt familiar.
Characters who sometimes become overwhelmed.
Characters who need a different approach.
Characters who solve problems in their own way.
Most importantly, characters who never need to stop being themselves in order to become the hero.
Because every child deserves to see themselves reflected positively in a story.
The Website That Grew Alongside the Books
Originally, this website was simply going to showcase my books.
That was the plan.
A homepage, a few book pages and somewhere people could contact me.
But the more I worked on it, the more I realised that families, teachers and professionals often need far more than a story.
They need practical resources.
They need activities.
They need information that is easy to understand.
They need ideas they can take into the classroom, into their homes or into conversations with children.
So the website grew.
Now, alongside the books, you'll find educational resources, seasonal activities, Wheel of the Year learning, awareness pages, colouring sheets, word searches, discussion prompts and materials designed to support curiosity, inclusion and understanding.
Some resources are inspired directly by the books.
Others come from the experiences I've had as a parent navigating the world of additional needs.
Looking Ahead
At the time of writing, both book series are currently being considered by literary agents and publishers.
It's an exciting—and sometimes nerve-wracking—time.
Whether the next chapter comes through traditional publishing or another path, one thing won't change.
I'll continue creating stories that celebrate imagination, belonging and inclusion.
I'll continue developing resources that help children, families and educators.
And I'll continue believing that books can do something incredibly powerful.
They can help children feel understood.
If even one child finishes one of my stories feeling a little moreconfident, a little more accepted, or a little less alone, then every late night, every draft and every challenge along the way will have been worth it.
Thank you for joining me on this journey.
Victoria Martin
Children's Author
