The loneliness of parents


The sometimes heart-breaking reality of bringing up a child with SEN

We are at a party. The children are running around, just this side of chaos. My daughter Rose holds my hand, wobbly on her feet. If I let go, she will fall. The other parents stand together, chatting and smiling over their cups of tea. But Rose is happy by the pond, so there we are, on our own.

We are on a steam train in the country park, waiting to depart. As the driver passes our carriage, I sign to my daughter, saying clearly “Man walking” – no more than two words, the speech therapist has said. We are in the two-word club. The other families are in the full-sentence club. We haven’t got entry to that yet. The door’s shut.

Being the parent of a child who doesn’t fit can have an unexpected consequence: you don’t fit either. As other mums celebrated their babies’ milestones, I waited and, eventually, I realised I was waiting alone. I didn’t know, until it happened to me, how lonely that place could be. The fact that anyone walks or talks is, I now know, a miracle. And it is a miracle which most parents take for granted. But if your child can’t share in it, you cannot enter that world either, and you are standing on the other side of an invisible door.

There were, thankfully, those who reached across the threshold – people for whom that door of separation didn’t matter quite so much: the mum who noticed us stuck in the corner, and would bring over a cup of tea and stay for a chat, or the neighbour to whom I would turn after particularly painful encounters with medical professionals. But at times, the feeling of being separate, of leading a life that others couldn’t quite understand, would overcome me, and there came a point when something was cracking inside me. My husband told other mothers how I was feeling and things started to shift. There were knocks on the door. We received an offer of a weekly babysit, so that we could go for an evening walk together. A few people – enough, though – reached out.

The lonely moments still happen. That threshold between their world and ours is still there, and probably always will be, but we feel the separation less acutely these days. For right or wrong, this is partly because, little by little, our daughter has, like a flower opening in slow motion, gradually, painfully and joyfully moved into a place that is more bearable to the world – that causes less fear, and confusion. No longer dependent entirely on the support of an adult to get around, she can now walk on even ground with a frame or sticks, and is beginning to explore independent walking. She can talk, not entirely comprehensibly to others but she is striving all the time to express herself. I no longer need to spend all my time organising appointments and contacting therapists, and have emerged into something that feels like sunlight, like a mole reaching the end of hibernation. And I have developed a close friendship with another mother whose children have a disability. Thanks to her, I now have companionship. That shadowy door is known to her too, and that in itself is a comfort.

The fact is that every human being knows what it is to feel loss. It is sometimes hard to admit it, but if your child is disabled or has a chronic illness, you – the parents – have suffered a loss of the life you expected to have as a family, of the ability to take health or developmental milestones for granted, and of the assumption that your child will grow up and fly the nest and do their own thing. It is the loss, dare I say, of normality. Your perspective on everything is altered and nothing is quite the same again. Some people can go there with you and some people can’t. Thank goodness for those who can.


Judith Hooper
Author: Judith Hooper

Point of View 1 parent

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Point of View 1


  1. oh boyyyyy, this bought it all back to me…. those painful, lonely, desperate early years of my son’s life … I feel the pain less now, although some days it still stabs unexpectedly … but those early years, of birthday parties when he wasn’t walking, or talking, and all the others were rushing around, the standing in the playground, with one of the only children not included in a sports activity, because he couldn’t … I could go on an on … so if anyone reads this and knows someone with a child with special needs, do stop for a while, slow down, and walk with them, walk their walk, and their speed … and you will change their week!

  2. It is exactly as you describe. An aching loneliness that can at its worst can consume and later can spurt a river of tears. For them – our children – for us their parents, for our marriages and our relationships with family members. Precious friends make it possible to go on. Our children’s progress sustains us. Empathy, support and understanding from those who actually – and unfortunately – do understand, helps us along the way. May we help each other too.

  3. So beautifully written and so true. The realisation that other children the same age were walking, running jumping and talking made me feel quite isolated from other mothers. I should have been sharing the same experiences. Instead I was saying to my friend “So has your wee man been talking much?” Secretly hoping the answer would be “Oh not that much”. Instead the reply was “Oh yes! We have conversations now”. My son wasn’t saying anything! My best friend was awesome. I think others didn’t know what to say so just ignored the problem or thought he was just shy. It would have been nice if someone had said “Are you concerned? Do you want to talk about it?” It was like normal life hadn’t stopped for everyone else.

  4. I thought I was hiding my emotions well. That mask we wear day in day out. Trying to see get through the day. My son is quiet and likes his own company. We are the minority sad but true. People do not know what to say. Me I love hugs. Put love in your heart and forward


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