Some things can't be measured or awarded at end-of-year assemblies
It’s a familiar scene. Parents are squished into a too-small hall, perched on plastic seats that press you uncomfortably close to a mum you only recognise from awkward waves at the supermarket.
The small air-conditioning system is either working overtime or not at all. The microphone crackles and the assembly begins. It’s end-of-year awards time.
As a kid, I lived for this time of year. I was always chasing an A+ and highly motivated to earn an end-of-year award. Looking back, I wonder why. Once I received a medal or paper certificate, I’d stash it away almost immediately, as though it was just another box to tick.
But as a mum—especially one with a child who has additional needs and learning difficulties—I feel very differently about this time of year.
My eldest daughter finished her schooling this year, and it has been the bumpiest of rides. Not because of her, but because of the relentless bullying she endured. As this chapter closes, I breathe a sigh of relief.
We no longer have to endure the awards season for her—or with her.
The shortcomings of end-of-year awards
End-of-year awards seem to celebrate the cookie-cutter kids. (And I say this comfortably, as I’m also the mum of one of those too—my younger daughter.) These are the kids who fit into school life with ease. They tick the boxes. Their brains align perfectly with the curriculum.
It’s easier to measure success for those kids. Their effort is reflected in their (excellent) results, making it simple to identify and reward.
But awards don’t work for kids like mine. Their 100% effort might look like 40% effort on paper because it doesn’t produce the same results. When your brain or abilities are different, effort itself looks different. Yet awards measure all kids with the same stick, ignoring these differences. It doesn’t make sense.
So, as your Facebook feed fills with photos of shiny awards, proud achievements, and celebratory end-of-year friendship group snaps, I want to say this:
Be gentle.
Be gentle with yourself. As mums of kids with additional needs, our lives are different. Not better, not worse (although sometimes it feels that way)—just different.
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Unseen achievements
Schools don’t see the hours spent in specialist waiting rooms, flipping through the same dog-eared storybooks over and over. They don’t see kids navigating broken pencils and scribbling on recycled paper while appointments run late.
They don’t see how patient your child is during these endless appointments—a huge achievement for busy little bodies and minds that would rather be anywhere else.
They don’t see the emotional toll it takes on your child to be different. To desperately want to fit in and be ‘normal,’ and the extraordinary strength it takes for them to show up every day just as they are.
Most of all, they don’t see the resilience we see—the ability to keep going, to try anyway, despite it all.
But we see it.
Celebrating what school awards don’t
Some things can’t be measured or awarded at end-of-year assemblies. So as your thighs stick to those plastic chairs in the stifling school hall, remember this:
Your kid is amazing. (And so are you, by the way.)
Your child is extraordinary in their own way—a way that might go unrecognised at the end of the year.
You don’t need a piece of paper to tell you that. Or a medal around their neck (although wouldn’t it be nice?).
Your child is amazing just as they are.
No award needed.
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