Transitions are hard. Whether small, like sitting down for a meal after playing a game, or bigger, like going from home to work or school, or the large but infrequent ones, like starting a new school year with a new teacher or even going to a new school.
When I was younger, I didn’t think much about transitions. I was usually excited for them, even while being anxious. I liked new places, new experiences. But having three children who each struggled with transition in different ways made me think about them more.
My oldest son enjoyed new places and new experiences, much like me. His trouble was more with transitioning from something enjoyable to something less enjoyable, like stopping a game to eat. My daughter was the one who challenged my own experience of transitions and made me rethink how I responded to transitions and how to set her up for success.
Maddy would get excited for new things, but excitement always came with a large wave of anxiety close behind. If the place was somewhat familiar, like school, she would go on the first day after weeks of anxiety focusing on what she didn’t know: what the teacher was like, whether friends were in her class, whether the work would be hard. She was excited and anxious about that first day, all at once. What happened after wasn’t what I expected. Once the first day or two of school was over, she would often melt down. She’d say she hated her teacher, her class, the people. At first, like the mother I’ve worked to be, I trusted her experience. I even believed her, sometimes, that it was terrible. Sometimes there were legitimate issues with teachers or friends, and we dealt with those as they came. But over time I’ve come to realize that Maddy really struggles with change, even when she’s excited about it going in. She gets very negative about a new teacher. She doesn’t like her schedule changing, or something being canceled because of unforeseen circumstances. I’ve watched this pattern for years, and last year I finally learned my lesson on how to deal with it.
Last year, Maddy had a student teacher she said was mean to her, didn’t like her, and didn’t consider her dyslexia or ADHD when he made comments or when she asked for help. At first, I took what she said at face value and told her I’d follow up with the teacher supervising him. One of Maddy’s main concerns was the pressure to finish a group project in a short window, while also knowing she had a dance competition that same week and would miss school. When I asked if she’d explained this to the student teacher, she said she had, and that he didn’t care.
A little context: Maddy, like a lot of neurodivergent girls, struggles with perfectionism. It’s something she’s been working on, so the thought that she might not finish a project on time, especially with friends relying on her as part of their group, was very stressful. She was extremely upset. I emailed the class teacher to ask her to clarify the deadline and to explain the conflict with dance. The teacher assured me Maddy’s group would have more time and that it would be okay. I told Maddy, and she moved forward with the project, apprehensive and anxious.
Weeks later, my son Wesley came home from a work event, “Your student teacher is one of my good colleagues at the shows. He’s a great guy.” Maddy said, “Yeah, I know, I like him now.” I stood there, confused. When I asked what changed her mind, she said, “He’s nice, and he’s good at teaching me math.” Wesley gave his sister a bit of a talk, pointing out how hard she’d been on this student teacher. Maddy wasn’t fazed at all.
I learned something in that moment. I was proud of myself for only asking the teacher to clarify the due date and address the absence and not going further than that. But I’d still spent real time and energy upset that this student teacher was treating my daughter “poorly.” I realized then that this is part of the pattern: once Maddy gets used to the new thing, feels like she has a voice, and builds a relationship, she regulates, and things change.
This school year, a similar thing happened after the first day. But instead of jumping in or worrying about whether she’d landed with a teacher who’d make her hate school or fail to support her, I took a beat. I gave her hugs that night as she cried. Her friend from class came over and hung out. Maddy was self-aware enough to say, “I know I hate change, but this is different…” That night, when she was upset and searching for ways to “fix it,” I told her I thought she just needed to feel her feelings, have a big cuddle, and go to sleep. That she wasn’t in a space for solutions right now, and that was fine. The second day, she came home and said things were better, and that she hoped they’d keep getting better.
What I’ve learned is how easily I can get wrapped up in my children’s anxiety especially as a highly sensitive person myself. I feel what Maddy feels. However, I have to step away emotionally to remember this is hers, not mine, and I need to stay out of the rabbit hole of my own anxiety alongside her. I need to be the safe space she can talk to, to validate that these transitions are genuinely hard for her, and to understand that new places, people, and environments can be difficult for someone highly sensitive and neurodivergent. I can help her when she needs it. But I also need to give her time to adjust, to get comfortable, to build relationships, and to regulate my own anxiety so I can help her.
Melissa Fellin MSW, RSW, MA, PhD, CPT 