Behavior as a Stress Reaction

image of a child completely tucked into an orange body sock, no head or arm or leg visible.
student response to looking at their daily schedule

Summer is coming to an end, which means that all of my preschool babies are getting tired. It’s a long school year when you’re 3 or 4 years old. They are so absolutely ready to swim and splash and have their days in the sun. Add transitions and life events and medical issues, and there’s been some visible signs of stress showing up in our day-to-day routines. Work avoidance. Difficulty sharing. Words that won’t come out right. And a million other little ways that they say: “I am done. D. O. N. E. Done.”

I myself have been under a larger amount of stress than is typical this year. I’ve been sick. I’ve had surgery. I’ve had a larger caseload than typical. Graduate school. Financial stress due to those medical bills and graduate school. One child leaving elementary school, one child in her last year of middle school.

My family sees the impacts.

Conversations of more than 3-4 exchanges — not happening. It’s not just that I cannot participate, but I don’t even want to be around them. It’s too much at once. I have reverted to having the vast majority of my longer conversations with my husband via text message, even when we are in the same room. Sensory input that I could typically ignore, like someone patting their legs or singing under their breath sounds like it’s on volume 200. I’ve eaten the same food for dinner for 4-5 nights in a row. My screen time? Way up!

There’s a couple of take-aways… It would be really easy to see me walking away from a conversation or asking people to stop talking as being mean or rude. At best, someone might think I’m lacking some skill or another. Maybe they would see my screen time use and think that I’m a disengaged parent. Basically: there’s a lot of judgements that people could make, and none of them would be right.

Because — none of the above. It’s a stress response. My tank is full. My tank is over-filling. All the neurons and skills that I had for coping with life’s bumps (such as too much sensory input) in more “acceptable” ways are gone. And so I revert to this. Younger children or people under more stress may revert to other things: hitting, screaming, scratching, falling on the floor, and so on.

The other piece: this happens at home. It doesn’t happen during my school day. It doesn’t happen when I’m in a super important meeting with a parent. It happens at home. That doesn’t mean that I’m “doing it on purpose” or that I could just pull it together. And how many times have we thought or said something like that? But the space we have for coping skills is always in flux, sometimes more, sometimes less. And sometimes we choose to use up more of our skills in one place, knowing our safe place will be there for us when our tank is empty.

I get that this is easy to forget. It’s not exactly something our culture prioritizes. But doesn’t it make all the difference?

I think of a student who may disembark the bus screaming. If we focus on “quiet mouth” (ugh!), what do we miss? What if they’re simply hungry and have no way to tell us? What about the student who falls on the floor every time someone comes near them? Do we just enter their space anyways? What if their sensory system is so on fire that the possibility of any sort of imminent touch is sending signals of pain through their body? We are so much better able to support these students if we look to minimize their stressors and support their over-flowing systems.

It comes down to this — can we just remember that our kids are doing the best that they can? Because I think that would change everything else we do, from the tones that we use to the plans that we make.

My own safe space is home. I see in my family the kind of classroom that I want to have. I see in my husband the kind of teacher that I want to be.

Flexible.

Kind.

Accommodating.

And always, always recognizing that I am doing my best.

Can’t we give our kids that same benefit of the doubt?

Me & My Headphones, or why we don’t need to outgrow accommodations.

image of smiling white woman with short dark pink hair, wearing cat ears and over the ear headphones
I went to my first convention of superfans this past week, and it was the BookCon with its 20,000 attendees. That’s a lot of people. Without anything else, that’s a lot. A lot of conversations, a lot of noise, a lot of unwritten social rules, a lot of social navigation.

It could have been a disaster for me, especially on that first day. I didn’t know where anything was. I didn’t know where I should be. I only knew that there were a whole lot of lines, sometimes with clear signs and sometimes not. Lights, sounds, smells, all of it. I would say “I almost ran away from it all” except it’s not almost. I did. I sat in a corner far from the show to eat my lunch in silence. Later, I totally quit the show floor and spend the afternoon listening to panels (a much more sensory-friendly experience for my body). There was lots of running away. There could have been more. I was always able to come back. I was able to find something that meant a lot to me. I was able to have a day that was beautiful and fun and memorable, despite any near breakdowns.

It’s because of accommodations.

I didn’t use any accommodations from BookCon… The one downside to the Con is that there really aren’t very many available accommodations. I created my own. Or, in some cases, my husband thought ahead and created them for me. He packed my headphones. I downloaded audiobooks and music that help me stay centered and calm. Oh, those headphones. They were everything. I could drown out the noise that was making my skin crawl. I could distract myself from the anxiety of losing personal space by listening to a favorite chapter in a favorite audiobook on repeat. I fiddled with wires as if they are a fidget toy. They kept people from talking to me when I was not in a place to chat. Those headphones were everything. It wasn’t all I used, but it was the biggest help. I took breaks! I found quiet spaces with no one around. I found the spaces with dim or natural lighting. I stepped out of line when I needed to. I came late or left early from panels, drop lines, autograph signing.

I share this list, these few examples of a much longer list, to say — I am nearing 34, and I make these adaptations to meet my needs. I was able to have this dream weekend, filled with my number one love, because I don’t feel shame about needing what I need. Yet, all too often, we treat accommodations as if they are something to outgrow. We celebrate when students no longer need chewies, when they don’t wear their headphones anymore, or when they decide to hand write rather than use speech-to-text dictation.

We are celebrating the wrong thing.

It doesn’t matter if someone needs to wear a chew necklace. It doesn’t matter if they need to sit at the table with their shoes off. It doesn’t matter if they need to wear a pressure vest or have a weighted blanket or use a rocking chair or wear headphones. It just doesn’t matter.

It matters if someone is living the life that they want to live. It matters if someone has autonomy. Can they do the things they most want to do? What can they access? What dreams can they pursue? What learning is able to happen? What environments are now available to them? What brilliance and beauty and talents are now able to be shared with the world?

This is what we celebrate. The celebration is not whether I was able to do the second dayimage of white woman with short dark pink hair against a rainbow book backdrop. she has white earbuds slung over her shoulder.
of BookCon with less headphone time… The celebration is this: I was able to access this event that meant so, so much to me. The celebration is not whether someone uses speech or a communication device or sign to convey their message. The celebration is that this person’s voice is now able to be heard in the world.

Accommodations don’t need to be outgrown, though they certainly may morph as people’s needs change. They may even morph from one day to the next. We need to focus our attention on the right things: helping our students have lives that they design and love. Accommodations and assistive technology are not things that leave us bound. They are things that help us fly.

 

On a final note, I was able to create my own accommodations this weekend, but that’s not the case for everyone. Some accommodations really need to be created and provided by the venue, whether it’s through universal design or access to specific needs. Most venues, restaurants, stores, even community parks need to do better. One of the ways that we can make that happen is to acknowledge that these needs exist. They are not signs of weakness or “less”, but valid needs.