Sam’s Story: It Takes a Village not to Lose a Child

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Introduction:

This book is about the injustices of our education system, particularly for those of us whose neurobiology and trauma history leave us struggling within its rigid structures. Though we didn't have the language for it then, this is ultimately a story about neurodivergent minds—brilliant, intense, uncompromising minds that see the world differently—trying to survive in systems built for neurotypical conformity. It explores the profound shame of not belonging—how we're forced either to change ourselves to fit what's offered, sometimes at devastating personal cost, or face exclusion and judgement.

More deeply, this memoir examines the lasting damage inflicted when educational institutions fail to meet children's needs—damage that echoes throughout their lives and sometimes, tragically, contributes to shortening them.

Writing this book required something I didn't have for over twenty years: a heart peaceful enough to hold both my grief over losing my son Sam and the pain of the story itself. For many years, I wrestled with forgiveness—both for myself and for others who shared responsibility for what went wrong for Sam—when it all felt so fundamentally inexcusable.

The understanding came gradually: there is nothing to forgive. We were all doing what we thought was right, using the only tools we had. Yet Sam was still harmed.

So, I'm asking you to recognise your own piece of this larger story—or similar stories playing out right now. Not to burden yourself with guilt, but to examine your role thoughtfully. Then choose differently as you move through your life, your work, your everyday decisions. This might mean questioning why a child is struggling instead of assuming they're defiant. It might mean advocating for the student who doesn't fit the mould rather than pushing them towards compliance. It might mean recognising that a child's 'difficult behaviour' is often communication about unmet needs. Most importantly, it means asking 'What do you need to thrive?' instead of 'How can we make you fit?' Especially when those choices ripple into other people's lives.

When my children were small, I believed I could shape them and teach them to thrive. I thought the right educational choices, the right interventions, the right guidance would ensure their success. Much was beyond my reach, and much was beyond my understanding.

Now I see that shaping and teaching weren't the point. The point was meeting my children exactly where they were and are—valuing them as perfectly formed individuals—and asking, “What do you need in order to thrive?” Only this has the power to transform trauma and support their natural unfolding: compassion that is both gentle and fierce—gentle and responsive in meeting children where they are, fierce in the courageous creation of new systems where diverse children can grow into their authentic selves and bring their unique gifts into the world.

Sam's story reveals how many opportunities were missed—by me, by teachers, by mental health professionals, by the education system itself—to show him there was nothing wrong with him and to ask that essential question. His life illuminates how our educational institutions fail neurodivergent children, and how that failure ripples outward with consequences none of us can fully predict.

Throughout my life, I've experienced moments when I felt compelled to do what I sensed was right, regardless of the cost, and other moments when I succumbed to pressure to conform. Both approaches shaped my journey as someone navigating educational systems that weren't designed for minds like mine or my son's.

I encourage you to tune into your intuition regarding yourself, your children, and all our children. Rather than looking outside for answers, especially about educational decisions, try this: pause, set aside your past pain and future fears, and listen inward. From that quiet place, you will begin to see clearly what is kind, what is compassionate, what your child needs to thrive, and how our systems need to respond so that all children can receive what they need.

This begins with my own journey through a system that failed me long before it failed my son. At nine years old, I stood facing a classroom wall for an entire afternoon, shamed for grasping maths concepts too quickly. At fifteen, I was told by my headmistress that in a school of a thousand students, 'sometimes a few fall by the wayside'—and that I was one of them. I learnt early that being different meant being disposable. Decades later, I watched the same machinery of shame and exclusion grinding towards my son, and I finally understood: the system wasn't broken—it was working exactly as designed, just not for minds like ours.

The shame I carried from my school years shaped how I initially responded to Sam's struggles—desperately trying to help him succeed within the same systems that had rejected me. I didn't yet understand that the problem wasn't with us; it was with systems that mistake difference for defiance, intensity for disruption, and authentic self-expression for wilful non-compliance. Breaking this cycle required learning to trust my instincts over institutional authority—a lesson I was still learning when he moved beyond my reach.

I moved from a mother struggling to carry the aftermath of her own shame of not belonging to learning how to be my son's unwavering loyal sanctuary when he is told he doesn't belong. To become that sanctuary I needed to learn to trust my own intuition, find a fast track to forgiveness, understand his behaviour as communication, and to be willing to act with both gentle and fierce compassion.

This is not just Sam's story or my story. It's about transforming how we understand education, belonging, and the true meaning of meeting every child's needs.

Prologue:

Small crowds of rooks had congregated in the high branches of the trees at the back of the Cornish field and were sporadically commenting to each other. The rough grass lay mostly hidden beneath a fluid layer of low-lying mist. Smoke rose from the old grey mill-house chimney with an air of nonchalance. Sam, my son, had his own room here and we were gathering to see him today.

When I arrived, despite the October chill, Sam was wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt, black with a brown stripe around the chest – no label – he wasn’t into big label clothes. His tanned skin was visible through a rip in the right knee of his jeans. The long-sleeved black t-shirt I was wearing was one I had borrowed from him. I thought he might be cold so I stripped it off and handed it over so that he could have it to keep warm. His music had been playing all night and right now Franz Ferdinand were playing.

Sam’s room was a small stone outbuilding with a dark grey painted ledge and brace door leading into a square flag-stoned space. It was lit by a small window that opened into the moss-covered yard and some tealights were dotted about in little lanterns. There was a friendly, faded armchair and a pale cotton rug on the floor. An England flag and a couple of Sam’s Arsenal shirts were displayed on the wall and his collection of Reading festival wristbands hung on a hook by the window. The white teddy from his first Christmas was there too, his little red and white jumper emblazoned with “Ho! Ho! Ho!”.

We crowded into the space. I opened a bottle of Mumm champagne which I was sharing with Sam’s little sister, Jess. His younger brother, Josh, and best friend, Joe, were rolling spliffs from homegrown bud and cracking open cans of Sam’s preferred beer, Stella. We had all the makings of a small party. “Not a party, Mother, a gathering.” as Sam always said.

I sat on the floor, leaning into the ancient strength of the cool stone wall. Jess was making good headway with the champagne whilst the boys shared stories and sang along with the music. I stood up and, breathing in deeply, I walked over to Sam. He looked content and had his eyes shut, as if chilling out stoned, and with one part of my psyche I could see his chest moving as he breathed. With another, perhaps more scientific, aspect of my mind, I knew that this was an illusion. I stroked his cheek with the back of my index finger—ever so gently—so that I wouldn’t feel the cold and allowed the tears to course down my face unhindered.

The song reached its crescendo, and then the guitar faded into silence.

Chapter One:

“Hold on,” I lifted the smoking frying pan away from the gas ring as I grabbed the phone. I was in the middle of preparing eggy bread for lunch. From the sitting room came the sound of something being dragged across the floor, followed by muffled giggling. “Can you two stop that?” I called out, putting the receiver properly to my ear. “Hello. Sorry about that.”

“Mrs Gaston?” The school secretary, ordinarily unduly friendly, sounded officious and uneasy. “This is Cookham Dean School. There’s been another incident with Samuel. Mrs Badger would like to see you at two o'clock to talk about it.”

I rang Jane and asked if she could have Jessie and Josh for an hour. Jane lived amid broccoli trees, plastic swords and Lego bricks. She was one of the kindest and most devoted mothers I knew. When I visited, adding my three to her three, her house became complete chaos.

The February rain was relentless and bitingly cold as I unbuckled my younger two children from their car seats and guided them to Jane’s front door. She gathered them in and waved me off. I drove the few miles to Cookham Dean and parked my aged Sierra next to the black-painted railings, entangled with wintering brambles, opposite the school. As I turned off the engine the wipers creaked to a stop. It seemed I was continually asking for favours from my friends and rarely free to reciprocate– “Daffodils,” I thought, “I’ll buy Jane some daffodils on the way back.” I took a deep breath and climbed out of the car, thankful that none of the other mothers were there to witness my walk of shame.

Crossing the lane to the school, I opened the heavy door into the cloakroom. The warm fug of school dinners and sweaty feet hit me and I could hear children reciting the six times table behind a classroom door. An overalled assistant was pinning some of the children’s paintings onto a display board in the corridor. She didn’t ask why I was there but glanced and motioned towards the office where the door sat open.

Mrs Badger was busily scribbling at a desk laden with piles of paper. I tapped on the door to attract her attention, and she gestured me towards a chair next to the desk. As I sat and waited for her to say something a marzipan smell of school glue wafted in from the corridor…

(C) COPYRIGHT: Davina Robertson 2025