Homeschooling Isn't as Scary as You Think!

I never set out to be a homeschooling parent. Like many families, we trusted the traditional path, assuming school would be a place where our child’s curiosity could flourish. But when the system that was supposed to nurture him began to break him down instead, we had to find another way. What started as an emergency decision became a journey that reshaped how I think about learning, childhood, and trust.

When people ask when I decided to homeschool my twice-exceptional, brilliant, messy, challenging, sweet teenager, I usually say, “We pulled him out during COVID.” Which is true, but not the whole truth.

The real decision came the day I got a call from the school psychologist. My son was nine. She told me the school had activated its self-harm protocol after he’d had a meltdown in math class. They were learning addition, and he really, really didn’t enjoy the frustration of recalling math facts. He’d been sent into the hallway to calm down, where he began hitting his head and shouting, “I hate my brain!” When he didn’t settle, they moved him to the quiet room.

That’s where my second grader—the most joyful, curious, full-of-life kid you could imagine—said he wished he were dead. When they asked the protocol questions, including whether he had a plan, he mentioned a particularly sharp Japanese knife I use for cooking. The psychologist told me, “We don’t think he actually wants to kill himself, but I’d hide your knives just in case.”

It was March 12, 2020. I called my husband immediately: “We need to pull him out of school.” Coincidentally, the next day, a message came from the district announcing that schools would close indefinitely because of COVID. The decision had been made.

A lot had led up to that moment. Having just relocated to California from the east coast, my son was already stressed. He didn’t have any friends yet, which didn’t bother him—but it worried the school. They were concerned that he preferred to stare at the sky or play in the dirt during recess instead of joining games of tag or climbing the jungle gym. They tried to “encourage” him—pairing him with buddies, assigning adult support, organizing structured activities. But he just wanted to watch birds and talk about them. “Did you know…?” he’d begin, and the other kids would run off before he could finish explaining the breeding habits of the Northern Cardinal.

That year taught me one of my first lessons: sometimes a child’s way of engaging with the world looks different, but that doesn’t make it wrong. Curiosity doesn’t always fit neatly inside group activities or lesson plans—and when we try to force it to, we risk breaking the very thing we should be protecting.

In class, the teacher taped a square on the rug where he had to sit during circle time. “He has trouble controlling his body, so we have to set clear boundaries,” they explained. They assigned him an aide, which only heightened his anxiety, having an adult monitor his every move. They placed him in social skills groups where he was taught to “follow the group plan” and practice “whole-body listening”—both excruciating for him.

At his IEP meeting, the speech pathologist cited his excitement when I came to volunteer. “That’s unexpected behavior,” she said. “Most kids don’t react that way when their parents come to school.” The “behavior” was my son calling out to me and running over for a hug.

That moment reminded me that connection is not a distraction from learning, it’s the foundation of it. When kids feel seen, they engage. When they feel policed, they retreat.

Academically, he was fine—at or above grade level in all subjects—but I could see that the work didn’t reflect his true strengths. He was constantly stressed, crying every day after school, dimming a little more each week. Pulling him out that day wasn’t a hard decision.

It wasn’t the first time I’d done it. When he was three, his preschool teacher told me he spent too much time in solo imaginary play. He loved wearing costumes and would fully inhabit a character for the entire play period instead of rotating through group activities. I told her he wore superhero costumes all the time at home, and we were fine with that. She clucked her tongue and suggested I use a timer to limit how long he could stay in-character. “No thanks,” I said and withdrew him the next day.

That was another early lesson: if your child’s joy is being treated as a problem, it’s time to change the environment, not the child.

When we pulled him out of school during COVID, we decided to get a full neuropsych evaluation. We wanted the full picture. We knew he was anxious and had ADHD, but we wanted to understand the whole story. We were lucky to find a psychologist who really got him, who saw both his brilliance and his struggles. The report came back with a long list of learning differences and challenges, along with profound giftedness, and those results set the stage for his early homeschooling years.

Homeschooling began with a lot of therapy: psychologists, OTs, vision therapy. I trained in basic Orton-Gillingham for reading (turns out, he had memorized everything but struggled to sound out words—classic stealth dyslexia) and in Making Math Real so I could teach math in a way his brain could process.

But the rest of the time was spent learning about the things he loved. He was obsessed with Egyptian mythology and history. We listened to podcasts, read books, mummified a chicken leg (it’s still somewhere in his room), and visited the Rosicrucian Egyptian Museum in San Jose countless times. Evolution and birds were another passion. We went birdwatching, watched documentaries, checked out hundreds of library books, and spent hours drawing. In third grade, he decided to start a Young Bird Lovers Club. We put a call out to local homeschooling groups for kids who loved birds. First over Zoom, and later in person, they met weekly to share their discoveries, each week a different child presenting a bird of their choice.

That’s where the real magic of homeschooling began to show. He found his people, the kids who didn’t run away when he asked, “Did you know?” but instead had their own “Did you knows?” We found a community that explored nature with us, and classes that challenged him alongside peers who loved to be challenged. We were no longer alone.

Those years taught me that learning doesn’t have to look like school to be real. In fact, some of the deepest learning happens when kids are free to chase their own questions, when they’re trusted to be the authors of their curiosity. 

Over time, his learning continued to evolve. As he grew older, he began asking for more challenging classes, wanting to think deeply, debate ideas, and explore subjects beyond what I could teach at home. That curiosity led us to numerous online course providers and eventually a reputable online high school, where he’s now a part-time student. He still faces plenty of challenges as a 2e learner. Now in eighth grade, we spend a lot of time focusing on executive function and other areas that continue to need support. He still spends one full day each week exploring nature with friends and leaves space in his schedule for deep dives into the topics that light him up. It’s a balance that lets him stretch his mind while staying connected to the wonder and freedom that first made homeschooling feel like home.

What I’ve learned most is that homeschooling isn’t about perfection, it’s about alignment.

When a child’s education aligns with who they are, they grow. When it doesn’t, they wither. Our job as homeschooling parents isn’t to replicate school at home; it’s to create an environment where our kids can finally exhale and rediscover themselves.

If you’re considering homeschooling, remember that the path looks different for every child. My biggest piece of advice is this: join as many groups as you can, both online and in person. Ask questions. Meet people. Other parents are a treasure trove of information. I couldn’t have done this without their wisdom and support. Also, be prepared to experiment. You might try several curricula, social groups, and approaches before you find the right fit, and that’s okay! That’s one of the gifts of homeschooling: you don’t have to stick to one plan. You can pivot and evolve along the way.

Homeschooling isn’t the right choice for every family—or even for every season—but for us, it became a way to rebuild trust, curiosity, and connection. The decision wasn’t about rejecting school; it was about reclaiming my child’s love of learning. If you’re wondering whether homeschooling might be right for your family, start by noticing where your child thrives and where they shut down. Ask: what would happen if their strengths led the way? What kind of environment lets them feel safe enough to be curious again?

You don’t have to have a teaching degree, endless patience, or a perfectly organized plan. You just have to be willing to learn alongside your child, to listen, to adjust, and to believe that there’s more than one path to growth. Our journey has taught me that education isn’t about following a map someone else drew; it’s about building one together, step by step, as you rediscover what makes your child come alive.

-A REEL Parent

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