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
