We didn't see this coming

Part 2 - Through the Lens of Hindsight

Part 2, Part 1.

When my son started secondary school, I was as worried as any parent would be. To get there, he had to catch a bus from the bottom of our road. I wanted to walk all the way down with him, just to make sure he was okay. But he didn’t want me to.

In the end, we compromised, he let me walk part of the way. I said goodbye, watched him walk off alone, and then turned around and cried the whole way back home.

In his first year of secondary school, he started talking about a new friend he’d made, a boy who like him, was a little bit different. His friend was autistic, and they seemed to understand each other in a way that felt easy and genuine. I was in touch with the boy’s mum, and before long, they were spending time together outside of school. He even stayed overnight at his friend’s house. For his birthday, they went coasteering together. He was still very much an outdoor boy at heart.

I have photos from that time: him climbing, laughing, soaking up the adventure. He was still finding joy in the world. That same year, he went on his first trip away from home with Scouts, a Jamboree in Holland. It felt like a milestone, like he was growing into independence, one step at a time.

Little did I know that this would be the beginning of a series of letdowns and the slow unraveling of his friendship groups. Towards the end of that first year, his friend, the one he’d grown close to, had to move away.

I tried to talk to my son about how he felt, but he shut down. I gently said he must be feeling sad and asked if they were going to keep in touch, but he gave me nothing to work with. From that point on, it was as if a door had quietly started to close between us.

He stopped sharing who his friends were. Instead of names, he’d mention “friend one” or “friend two” and I was left to guess who he meant.

It was around this time that something in him began to shift. He would sometimes explode in sudden rages over things that seemed small and then break down in uncontrollable tears. Afterward, he’d retreat into silence, shutting off all communication.

As parents, we’d always tried to protect and guide him with intention. We didn’t give him a phone until his second year of secondary school. We wanted to hold off as long as we could. He had a Kano computer at home, which he used for programming and creative play. We encouraged him to explore the digital world through curiosity and imagination, not social pressure. We had a no screens in bedrooms rule and tried to limit time online. Above all, we wanted him outside, in nature, where we enjoyed spending time together as a family.

But despite our efforts, something was clearly wrong. On the rare occasions I managed to reach through the silence, he’d reveal glimpses of what was going on, just enough for me to understand that he was being bullied at school. He wouldn’t tell me what was being said, and he wouldn’t let us intervene. It was as if he was trying to carry the weight of it all alone, even as it slowly wore him down.

In 2019, we had a beautiful family holiday climbing in France. We took him and his younger brother to Fontainebleau and the Ardèche on a climbing trip, and they both loved it. It was the kind of experience we had always dreamed of giving them, adventure, nature, time together outdoors.

Of course, there were still moments, occasional bursts of frustration when he couldn’t climb as well as he wanted to, but overall, it was a joyful trip, full of laughter, shared challenges, and connection. It went so well that we immediately booked to return the following April.

But the world, as it turned out, had other plans.