When School Ends: Summer with a Neurodivergent Child
By Kate Powers
The end of the school year always comes with a breath of relief—a loosening of the tight grip that early mornings, drop-offs, therapies, and school expectations hold on our daily lives.
As a teacher, I’m on the same break schedule as my son, and I’ve always felt grateful for that. While I often had graduate classes or professional development to attend, I was available most of the time. We could plan visits with family, take slow mornings, and spend time with the people who truly got us—friends and family who understood our needs and didn’t take it personally when plans shifted or had to be scrapped altogether.
But summer wasn’t always easy.
Camp was never part of our story, whether it was a day camp or a sleepover. We didn’t have access to autism-supportive camps until my son was diagnosed at age 13—by then, he was not going to camp. Not only had the moment passed, but his deep discomfort with insects, mosquito bites, and poison ivy made the idea of summer camp sound like punishment, not fun.
There is nothing about camp that appeals to him.
Instead, we built our version of summer—one without a rigid structure but also without the kind of summer adventures many families take for granted. Our days were filled with sensory considerations, flexible routines, and safe spaces.
And still, summer gave me a chance to let my guard down a bit. I didn’t have to over-plan every morning or navigate the exhausting rhythm of school meetings and parent emails. I didn’t have to constantly explain, prep, and advocate—at least not as much.
In some ways, it felt like we were finally able to breathe.
Making Space for What Works
The truth is, summer required just as much thought and planning—but of a different kind. Instead of structuring our days around school, we built them around regulation, comfort, and connection.
We found quiet beaches. Shaded trails with fewer bugs. Libraries that offered sensory-friendly hours. Friends who didn’t blink when we left early or said “no thanks” to loud cookouts. I packed familiar snacks, backup clothes, calming tools, and always a way out.
And every year, I got better at knowing what we needed—and letting go of what we didn’t.
I used to feel guilty when I saw other families posting pictures of summer camps, amusement parks, or group vacations. I worried I wasn’t giving my son the “right” kind of childhood.
But eventually, I realized:
He was having a childhood—one where his needs were centered and his limits respected.
One where joy came not from pushing him through discomfort, but from building experiences around what he could truly enjoy.
That’s the kind of summer I’ve learned to embrace.
Why Camp—and So Many Summer Settings—Don’t Work for Him
My son has intense sensory sensitivities, and places like summer camps often push his nervous system past the point of tolerance.
He hears the insects buzzing in his ears and the crunching of twigs underfoot. Everything feels dirty or bug-covered. Sunscreen and bug spray are sticky, smelly, and uncomfortable on his skin. The heat alone—especially with no break or breeze—can feel unbearable.
Then come the unfamiliar smells, especially if there are farm animals or horses nearby. Boats are out of the question—not just because of motion sickness, but because they make him feel unsafe. There’s too much unpredictability.
Food is another challenge.
At home, he eats a predictable repertoire—things he knows, trusts, and feels comfortable with. For years, his go-to breakfast has been a fruit protein smoothie and a specific breakfast sandwich. That’s not something most camps are prepared—or willing—to accommodate.
And for kids with sensory processing differences, eating isn’t just about taste. It’s texture, smell, visual presentation, and routine. One unfamiliar item can throw off the entire day.
To others, these may sound like minor complaints or even excuses. But when someone processes sensory input without natural filters, every sound, texture, smell, and movement can feel like an attack. The brain quickly shifts into protection mode.
Sometimes, that protection looks like detachment or shutting down. At other times, it appears as explosive episodes, meltdowns, or fleeing the group altogether. But none of that is misbehavior. It’s a body and brain that can no longer take in more information. The system is overloaded.
In those moments, your child isn’t being difficult. Their nervous system is sounding the alarm—and our job is to listen.
The Gift of Slowness
In the stillness of summer, I often find myself reflecting on the pace we keep during the school year—and how misaligned it is with what so many neurodivergent kids (and parents) need.
The rush to get out the door. The constant demands for compliance. The pressure to fit into structures never designed for us.
Summer reminds me that slowing down isn’t laziness—it’s medicine.
It’s in the slow mornings, the quiet art projects, the unstructured time outside that my son resets.
It’s when I’m not hustling from one obligation to the next that I remember who I am, too. I’m not just a caregiver or an advocate—I’m a person with creative dreams, with a body that needs rest, with a heart that needs nurturing.
And that truth? It’s not just for summer.
To the Parents Who Are Tired
If you’re reading this and feeling the familiar tug of both relief and dread about summer—relief that school is over and dread about how you’ll manage the weeks ahead—I see you.
You are not doing it wrong. You’re doing what you can in a world that rarely makes space for how your child moves through it.
You don’t need to replicate anyone else’s summer. You don’t need to push past your child’s limits—or your own—to prove anything to anyone.
You get to design a summer that fits. One that prioritizes peace over performance. One that lets joy and rest coexist.
And if you’re still figuring that out, that’s okay, too.
Our Story Isn’t Typical—But It’s Ours
I’ve stopped measuring our life by how closely it mirrors someone else’s. Our summers don’t include overnight camps or theme parks, and that’s okay.
What they do include is presence. Attunement. Adaptation. And a whole lot of love.
Sometimes, that looks like a quiet afternoon sketching or stargazing. Sometimes, it’s a grocery store run that didn’t end in a meltdown. Sometimes, it’s simply knowing when to say no, when to stay home, and when to let the day unfold without a plan.
Success looks different in our house—and different doesn’t mean lesser.
It often means braver, more intentional, and more deeply rooted in truth.
Looking for more support?
I’ve created a free Resource Library filled with printable tools, calming visuals, and gentle parenting supports—all designed with neurodivergent families in mind.
