I had such a unique job, in that it’s not one many people understand unless you’ve done it yourself. I worked as a teaching assistant and SEND (Special Educational Needs) assistant for 5 years in local secondary schools. This support role meant I was more free to build bonds with the students I worked with, because I didn’t need to adhere to a strict curriculum like teachers do.
Leaving behind these students has been very difficult for me.
I am someone who feels very deeply. Someone who cares. Even though I moaned about my job and those kids many (MANY) times, I loved it. I cared about them. I spent more time with those kids than the staff. I spent time laughing with them, lecturing them, holding space for them. I tended to their cut knees, their headaches, their failures, their losses. Their first periods or periods sent from hell. Their first crushes and their breakups. Their coming out stories. I shared in it all. I gave endless high-fives of success and triumph, and pep talks before tests. I told them “you’ll get it next time” every time they fell short. I believed in them.
I was like a surrogate parent for those 8 hours they were in those schools.
Drastic? Simplified? Maybe. But only in leaving and feeling the ache of this loss, do I understand that I was a trusted adult who provided so much for them over the years. And isn’t that what a parent does?
Then I left. Walked out of their lives. And of course, I can never see them again (unless serendipity allows).
How uniquely cruel?
To spend so much time and care and dare I say it, love, on these students to then have no contact whatsoever. Am I supposed to just forget CW’s favourite football team? Not care that KB is terrified of tests and is entering her first year of exams? Not worry about CM’s relationship drama anymore? Not enjoy the coy way AF cared but tried not to show it because it wasn’t cool? Not be there for LH when she falls back into self-harming tendencies around the pressures of year 11 exams?
I can’t switch off my heart. Can’t quiet the memories. Can’t just walk away and never think about them or the time we shared. How many whacky conversations we had. The things they taught me. The smile on their face when they left my office, knowing someone cared about them. Perhaps being the only one who did.
Because the children I worked with were complex. Not just because of neurodiversity, but sometimes also turbulent home lives. I helped many of them receive diagnoses that have changed their lives and experience of school. Fought for them to get support when teachers or senior staff wouldn’t listen or couldn’t understand. I sympathised, empathised, listened and protected them against harm suffered at home or out in public.
I tried to make their lives a little easier when they saw me. That’s what I wanted to do every day, and I hope I achieved that.
At my last workplace, we had the motto “Heart Speaks to Heart” and that is what I felt. My heart spoke to theirs. And now, that link has been severed forever.
This is so hard to explain. It’s not normal, right? Not many other jobs are like this, where the people you worked with are suddenly kept from you. A door shut in your face. Lives carrying on without you. Memories being made that override the ones you had. A new employee who takes your place as caregiver. You no longer know how they are, what they’re doing, and who they are anymore.
Don’t get me wrong, please, I know why! I’m not some creep! I know that children should be kept safe in these institutions and that having a relationship with them outside that controlled place of safety isn’t right. I’m not saying I want this, either. I’m simply saying that knowing this doesn’t stop it from hurting. Doesn’t stop it from feeling wrong that I no longer see these people I spent so much time with.
The year group I worked most closely with is in year 11, their final year of senior school. I suffered a great internal conflict about leaving, knowing I could maybe try to stay one more year just to end it with them. But I chose to put my mental health first. I chose to leave because the school system wasn’t what I believed in anymore. But that meant leaving them in the very hands I did not trust any longer. And that was very hard.
Now, I have been told I can’t celebrate with them when they finish school (at the school-manned events with other staff), and this has been the final blow to prove that schools don’t care as much as they used to. And that is deeply upsetting.
If you are a parent, I hope your children are cared for by the staff at their schools. I hope the system can find it’s way back to putting the children and relationships and humanity above rigid structures and results. I hope the people still working with my surrogate children are taking care of them for me (for the most part, I’m sure they are). I hope my year 11’s (well, not mine anymore, perhaps never were) have an amazing last year and can feel free and happy in their lives post-school. I know a few parents who have said they can’t wait for their children to leave, for their mental health, which speaks volumes.
In conclusion, I just feel left behind. Out of the loop. Jealous of my ex-colleagues who still get to partake in their lives. Feel an ache at times; a mourning for time gone by. I wish I savoured those times while I was there, instead of rushing home or ushering them out of the office. The kids I worked with were full of personality and heart and energy. I enjoyed my time with them. I hope they did, too.
All I can do is wish them well from afar and hope we bump into each other as adults and get a chance to reminisce about the good old days…
Sincerely,
S. xx
S. R. Crawford 