Standing on the Other Side

Published June 13, 2026

Sometimes the Shoe Is on the Other Foot — and Your Child Isn’t the Aggressor. After years of being the family people worried about, our child was the one hurt by another struggling child. And even though our son deserved better, my heart still broke for the other family too.

After many years of managing big behaviours, difficult incidents, and the fallout that can happen when neurodivergent kids become overwhelmed, something unexpected happened recently.For the first time, we found ourselves on the receiving end.My eldest son had recently changed schools and was settling into a new environment. One day, he became involved in an altercation with another student. In the end, his phone was smashed.As parents, we were upset for our son. No one enjoys seeing their child hurt or their belongings destroyed. But underneath the frustration was something else entirely.Relief.Relief that the situation hadn't been worse.Relief that no one had been seriously hurt.Relief that everyone was safe.Because after years of living through meltdowns, crises, suspensions, emergency meetings, and trying to repair relationships, your perspective changes. You understand that things can escalate quickly, and you become grateful for outcomes that other people might consider unacceptable.What struck me most wasn't the broken phone. It was something that happened afterwards.As we were leaving, the head of school suggested that we use the back exit. I remember turning to my son and asking, "Do you think you can keep your calm when you walk past XXX on the way to the car?"The head of school gently corrected me."The concern isn't your son," she said. "We're concerned about the other child."I remember just standing there for a second.It sounds strange, but it genuinely took my brain a moment to process what she had said.For so many years, we have been the family people worried about.We've been the family quietly escorted out.We've been the family having difficult conversations.We've been the parents apologizing.We've been the ones wondering whether our child could stay regulated.And suddenly, for the first time, we weren't.I don't think anyone can understand how strange that feels unless they've lived it.That weekend, I cried.Not because of the phone.Not even because of what happened to my son.I cried for that child.And I cried for his parents.Because I knew.I knew they were probably exhausted.I knew they had likely spent years trying everything they could think of.I knew they were probably replaying the incident over and over in their minds.I knew they would be hurting for their child and wishing desperately that things had gone differently.And I knew that their child was struggling too.You see, my son had joined the school in the middle of the year. In this other child's world, everything had changed. The order of things had been disrupted. His environment, his routines, his expectations—whatever made his world feel predictable and safe—had suddenly shifted.I don't know his diagnosis.I don't know his story.But I know enough.Enough to recognize dysregulation.Enough to recognize fear.Enough to know that children do well when they can, and that sometimes behaviour is simply communication from a nervous system that has become overwhelmed.As special needs parents, we become so accustomed to being fired at that we forget something important.Our children can be on the receiving end too.They can be the victims.They can be hurt.And perhaps because we've spent years being the family everyone else talked about, we instinctively see the humanity on both sides.There are no villains here.Just children with different struggles.Just parents trying their best.Just families carrying burdens that most people never see.My son deserved better that day.The other child deserved support.Both things can be true.Compassion doesn't mean excusing behaviour.And accountability doesn't mean abandoning empathy.What surprised me most was realizing that after all these years, my heart still instinctively went to another family.Not because my own child mattered less.But because I know what it feels like to be them.I know what it feels like to love a child fiercely, to fight endlessly for them, and to wonder whether the world will ever understand what lies beneath the behaviour.Maybe somewhere, another mother cried that weekend too.Maybe she cried because she was embarrassed.Or scared.Or worried about what everyone thought.Maybe she cried because she loves her child just as fiercely as I love mine.Special needs parenting has taught me many things, but perhaps the most important is this:We are all just one difficult moment away from being the family everyone else is talking about.And maybe that's why, even when our own children are hurt, our hearts still break for someone else's.

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