Solo Parenting Through School Anxiety

When the System Fails

Every morning since the return to school after Christmas break has felt like moving through thick fog—my chest tight, blurred vision, heart racing before I’ve even stepped out of bed. My mind looping every possible solution before the day has even begun. Sleep doesn’t come easily when your body is exhausted, but your brain refuses to quiet. It’s like being trapped in survival mode, every muscle tensed, bracing for the next wave. Because the next wave always comes—before I’ve had a chance to catch my breath.

My son is, by nature, a happy, carefree little boy—unburdened by worries, relaxed, content in his world. But every evening for months now, there’s been a shift; a moment when that lightness dims. It’s when he suddenly remembers: when he wakes up tomorrow, he has to go to school. And that’s when the panic sets in.

He’ll quietly start scanning for an excuse—grasping for any sign of sickness that might give him a way out. "If I’m sick tomorrow, Mama… I won’t have to go to school, right?" He checks again at bedtime, eyes wide, voice tentative—searching for a loophole, a lifeline. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, something will save him from facing the next day.

It’s heartbreaking to watch night after night—and even more so to know it didn’t have to be this way. If someone at school had recognized those early signs, if real support had been offered, his anxiety never had to spiral into something so overwhelming. It could have been caught. It could have been eased. Instead, it was left to escalate. And now, he’s left with a trauma that will take time and effort to heal.

But keeping him home isn’t an option—not here. In Sweden, school attendance is mandatory by law. Skolplikt—the legal obligation to attend—gets repeated often, even directly to J. He doesn’t need to be faced with shame or fear, and I already understand the law. But understanding it isn’t the same as watching your child unravel under it. If the system is going to insist he shows up every day, why isn’t it just as much a priority to make school a place he feels safe showing up to?

Some mornings, he’d try to make himself throw up, begging to stay home. And even when I reassured him, keeping calm, permeated with love, I could feel his little heart pounding fast beneath his jacket, his grip tightening on my hand as we approached school. He’d stop mid-step, tugging on my arm, whispering through panic, "Mama, can’t we just go home?"

And then, the worst days—the ones etched into my bones—he bolts after me, socks on, no jacket, in the freezing cold, desperate, clinging onto me like he’s drowning. Tears streaming, his voice letting out wails so guttural your heart freezes, grabbing onto my bag, my coat, anything to stop me from leaving.

So most mornings, I stayed. Sat cross-legged on the hallway floor, holding him close while teachers walked by, offering polite smiles or tired glances, but never really stepping in. There was no one he felt safe enough with to bridge the gap. Or at least, not one offered. No trusted adult to take my place. So it was me—always me—sitting on cold floors, holding his panic while forcing myself to stay grounded through my own. The stress didn’t vanish—it settled into my breathing, into my muscles, into the exhaustion that clung to me day after day. It’s a lonely place to be. But I had no choice.

The Cost of Carrying It Alone

That loneliness. It is heavy. And it is hollow.

This isn’t the polished version of single motherhood, where there’s a village or a co-parent stepping in every other weekend. It’s me. Only me. Working, cooking, paying bills, trying to figure out how to keep my head above water while also trying to keep J’s world from collapsing.

Family has offered check-ins, kind messages. My dad, bless his heart, calls me dozens of times a day, feeling the weight and trying to be a lifeline in his way. But no one else is in the trenches at drop-off. No one else is sitting on that school hallway floor. No one else is shouldering the heavy load of responsibility—and the mental drain that gnaws at you, running on a loop, 24/7.

Then there’s the invisible weight—the looming threat that hung over us for months. The meetings where I was told, gently but firmly, that if my son didn’t adapt, they’d involve child protective services. As if my exhaustion, my unwavering support, my late-night research for solutions, my sleepless nights—none of it counted. Because what mattered was getting the end result without too much effort, or God forbid: cost. And I was simply being too soft.

I can’t describe the isolation of sitting in those meetings, being talked at like a case file rather than a mother desperate to help her child feel safe. It’s suffocating. The stress is so heavy it seeps into every fiber of your being. You don’t even realize how tense your body is until your chest tightens, your heart skips, and you catch yourself wondering how much longer you can carry it all without breaking.

I don’t share this for sympathy—I share it because parenting alone through moments like these can be incredibly isolating, and I know there are others carrying this same weight quietly. If even one parent feels less alone reading this, then it’s worth sharing.

The System’s Solutions: Short-Term Band-Aids, Long-Term Harm

What made it unbearable wasn’t just the anxiety J was drowning in—it was the way the school responded. Checklists. Ultimatums. Quick fixes that ignored everything I knew about my son’s needs—and disregarded the core principle of attachment, the very thing that can make or break a child’s ability to feel safe, to trust, to thrive. They offered temporary support—two weeks here, a reward chart there—but no one willing to build the steady, trusting connection he so clearly needed.

And every time they sat me down to outline their latest “solution,” they reminded me again: He has to be here. It’s the law. As if repeating skolplikt would somehow make him less afraid, or me less exhausted.

But compliance without care doesn’t fix fear. It doesn’t rebuild trust. If he’s legally obligated to show up, shouldn’t they be equally obligated to make school a place worth showing up to?

For a fleeting moment, there was one adult he trusted—a staff member from the after-school program who made him feel safe. They promised she’d be there in the mornings. He asked for her. She was the bright spot. And then, without warning, they pulled her away. No alternative. One more promise broken. One more reason for J to retreat further from the trust that could’ve set him free.

Moving On

After months of being blamed, of cold looks, of carrying the crushing weight of navigating this alone—I knew we had to go.

For weeks, I researched other schools, sought out recommendations from people I trust, put in formal applications, emailed and called to see if there were spots available. I reached out to support groups, connecting with other parents walking the same lonely road. I gathered advice from psychologists and other professionals and turned over every stone I could to find real solutions for my son.

I’ve done everything in my power to pull us out of this mess. But without consistent, competent support—support grounded in experience, real understanding, and above all, genuine care—it mattered little.

And then Friday afternoon, we got the email. They had a spot available immediately at a renowned school in the area I had reached out to. With tears streaming down my face, I cried out so loud when I read it, I scared J out of his mind. And then we hugged and laughed through the tears. At last, tears of joy.

For the first time in months, I have hope. The tone of communication has been warm, open, welcoming. It feels like maybe, finally, J will be seen. Still, I won’t pretend it’s all solved. A new hill stands ahead—new routines, new faces, new fears. For a child who craves safety and predictability, change will always be hard.

But here’s the difference: This time, I’m not walking into it burdened by a system that chose blame over support.

I’ll always be carrying my son—but now, maybe, just maybe, we can both breathe a little easier.