How We Manage Meltdowns

Let’s get one thing clear:
This is not a guide for perfect parenting.
This is a letter from the messy middle—from one parent to another—written between a school run and a meltdown over the wrong-coloured spoon.

Because if you’re here, you probably know what I mean when I say meltdowns aren’t tantrums.
They’re not about getting their way.
They’re not “bad behaviour.”
They’re what happens when the world gets too loud, too fast, too itchy, too everything—and our kids can’t hold it in anymore.

So, here’s how we handle them in our house. Or try to. Or at least how we get through them without collapsing into a heap next to the snack cupboard.

We stay calm. Or at least we try.

Internally? Chaos. Externally? Attempting yoga-breathing and projecting calm.
Meltdowns need safety, not shouting. So we remind ourselves: he’s not trying to push us away—he’s trying to find his way back to himself.

Cue deep breath, softer voice, unclenched shoulders. Repeat as needed.

We ditch the detective work (in the moment).

“What’s wrong?”
“Why are you crying?”
“Can you use your words?”

Nope. Not helpful mid-meltdown.

Instead, we skip the questions and just be there. Nearby. Calm. Non-demanding. It’s not time for answers—it’s time for anchoring.

We soften the space.

Lights down. Volume down. Expectations way down.
Maybe it’s a dark room, a familiar blanket, a retreat under the kitchen table.
We don’t judge it. We make the space safer—more bearable—in whatever way we can.

We don’t punish the fallout.

Meltdowns aren’t misbehaviour. They’re a response.
To being brave all day.
To being misunderstood.
To trying to fit into a world that doesn’t bend.

So no timeouts. No lectures. No “You need to calm down.”
Instead, we offer kindness—even if our patience is running on fumes.

We learn after, not during.

When things are calm again, we piece it together—gently.
Did he hold it together all day at school?
Was there a shift in routine?
Did we miss an early sign?

We’re not trying to avoid meltdowns forever (spoiler: not possible).
But learning helps us support next time with a little more grace.

We recover too.

Meltdowns are hard. For them, and for us.
Afterward, we all need a moment. Or an hour. Or a family-sized packet of crisps.

Sometimes it’s cuddles. Sometimes silence. Sometimes Bluey and a biscuit.

We take the time. No rush. No pressure to “bounce back.” This isn’t about productivity—it’s about healing.

We forgive ourselves. Often.

Because guess what? We mess up. We raise our voice. We misread the moment.
Then we feel awful. Then we spiral. Then we repair.

This is not a straight path—it’s a messy, human one.
We get it wrong. We say sorry. We keep showing up.

And always—always—we believe our kids.

Even when the school says they’re “fine.”
Even when the meltdown happens after the classroom is gone.
Even when others can’t see what we live.

We believe them.
Because masking is exhausting.
Because invisible disabilities are still disabilities.
Because home is where they fall apart—because it’s where they feel safest.

So if you’re managing meltdowns too, welcome.
You’re not alone. You’re not doing it wrong. You’re not weak for being tired or emotional or eating snacks in the bathroom for a moment of peace.

You’re raising a child who sees and feels the world deeply.

That’s not failure. That’s fierce, loving, extraordinary parenting.

We’re in this together.