We Were Asking for Help — Not to Be Blamed

For years, we screamed out for help.

We begged for support for our son — a little boy with needs that we couldn’t meet on our own. We talked to professionals, asked questions, knocked on every door. But no one really listened. Instead, we watched his world unravel right in front of us.

He was suspended from school almost daily. He struggled with his emotions. He threatened his siblings. And still, the help we needed wasn’t there. It was like screaming into a void.

We hoped it wasn’t our parenting, Because If it was, why weren’t our other children showing the same signs? Why weren’t they struggling in the same way? We were confused, exhausted, and desperate for answers.

We had no choice but to remove him from school when the placement failed. At home, we were trying to keep the pets safe. Trying to protect his siblings. Trying to understand the child we loved — even when he stabbed a fork into his father’s arm. Even when he smashed up the house. We weren’t just overwhelmed — we were drowning.

No one hands you a manual for this. No one prepares you for the worst-case scenario. We reached out in every way we could… except to social services. We tried to avoid that route, because we knew what it could lead to.

But in 2019, for reasons unrelated to our son, everything changed.

There were struggles in our marriage and work life. I hit a wall. Emotionally, I shut down. I broke — completely. That’s a story for another time, but it opened the door to social services coming back into our lives. And with them came every fear I’d tried to keep buried.

They saw my son’s behaviour. They saw my mental health. And then, without asking deeper questions, they decided they had their answer.

They said his behaviour was because of me.
That my breakdown caused his trauma.
That I was to blame for his pain.

They ignored the paperwork we showed them. Ignored the voices that tried to tell the truth. They wrote a version of our story that suited the narrative they needed — one that put us, not the system, at fault.

Years passed. We stayed in the system, being monitored, being judged — but not truly being helped. Every conversation turned back to my mental health, even though I was getting better. We asked again and again for support for our son, and every time, it was as if we were being punished for not having all the answers ourselves.

By 2021, we’d had enough. We were worn down. The blame, the chaos, the lack of support — it was breaking us. Our home life was still unsafe, not just because of our son’s needs, but also because of the toxic environment around us. Neighbors hurled abuse, partied until 1am, and added to the pressure we were already under. So, we made a brave decision.

We moved. New home. Bigger space. New town. Fresh start.

My mental health? Two years clean. We were ready to rebuild.
And then, in what we thought was a logical step, we asked for a Section 20 — not because we wanted to give up on our son, but because we finally accepted he needed more than we could offer alone. One-to-one support. Intensive help. The kind of care we’d begged for years earlier.

He went into foster care. The behaviours continued at first — just like they had with us. But over time, he settled. He found a family who saw him for who he was.

And just when it felt like we were healing — just when our other three children were finally feeling some peace — everything shattered again.

All of our children were taken into care.

Yes, there were concerns. Some things were true. Others were allegations.
But most importantly — we were getting better.
We were working hard. We had changed, grown, survived.

And yet, none of that seemed to matter.

They didn’t want our progress. They didn’t want our truth.
They wanted their version — the one where parents are problems and systems are solutions.

This is why I’m speaking now.
We begged for help and were ignored.
We fought to improve, and were still punished.
We showed change, and were met with silence.

There’s no logic anymore. No fairness.
And so now, I tell my story.

It won’t be perfect. It won’t be in order. But it will be real.

Because enough is enough.