The Naïve SENDCo Series

In the chronicles of the SENDCo saga, there is one mantle few dare to speak of aloud – the invisible armour, forged not of steel, but of empathy, exhaustion and endless unseen vigils

Settling into my role as Squire SENDCo, responsible for the practical and often unglamorous tasks, I set out on my quest, wielding paperwork and legislation like a freshly sharpened blade, eager to do my kingdom proud. It is not until I am deep in the Forest of Meetings, tangled in the Bramble of Bespoke Provision, that I discover the true piece of equipment I must carry.

It is not in the SEND Code of Practice, nor the job description and person specification. It cannot be delegated, nor logged and filed away. It cannot be easily explained at twilight CPD or captured in the Monday morning briefing. No, my pretty little fairies.

It is the burden of being the bearer of stories. Stories of those unable to tell their own, stories of those who continue to fight, stories of those long forgotten.

And like any burden worthy of legend, it weighs far more heavily on the soul than it first appears.

As I dare to travel deeper into unknown realms, I quickly learn that the heaviest things I carry are not bound in online hubs or sealed within official diagnosis letters, but are stories. Gathered quietly. Entrusted carefully. Rarely finished.

I carry the story of the parents who have wandered for years through the Wilderness of Waiting Lists, clutching reports of hope that promise clarity, a clarity that is never delivered. Their voices tremble as they speak, balanced somewhere between optimism and exhaustion, the weight of advocacy etched into every sentence. They do not request miracles. They simply desire to be heard.

I carry the story of the child whose brilliance flickers like a hidden ember, glowing violently beneath layers of misunderstanding. Too loud. Too quiet. Too much. Not enough. Their gifts are mistaken for defiance. Their curiosity, for disruption. I see the spark masked by the smoke.

And I carry the story of the teacher, earnest and well intentioned, standing beside me in the Hollow Halls of CPD, where strategies echo like phantoms and good intentions gather dust. They stand willing, open, and trying, yet the full picture remains just beyond reach. Some understanding only arrives after the long walk through experience.

These stories do not reveal themselves after a parents’ evening or a restorative phone call. They emerge instead after endless meetings across the battlements, during observations in the depths of never ending lessons, or in the quiet aftermath of a meltdown.

Still, they do not end with a flourish or a victory banner unfurled high above the walls. Instead, they linger like a film on the skin. They follow me back through the corridors, settle into the quiet moments between tasks, and wait patiently to be brought into the light.

In time, I have learnt that my role is not to conclude or shape every story. It is to hold them. Steadily, respectfully, until the kingdom is ready to hear them openly and without reservation.

While others spoke of targets and timetables, I learned that my work continued long after the banners of the school day were lowered. The true toll was quieter than data and far heavier than numbers. It was paid in the small hours, when I was still sorting through concerns that refused neat solutions, replaying conversations that ended without resolution, and wondering whether I had chosen the right words at the right moment.

There were days when the weight settled around midday, a familiar heaviness that crept in as compassion slowly turned into exhaustion. I moved from meeting to meeting across the kingdom, offering steadiness where I could, even as my own reserves ran thin. The armour still held, but it grew heavier with each step.

At times, even the most valiant efforts felt like treading water in the Mire of Misinterpretation. Progress was slow. Intentions were questioned. Words were twisted by frustration or fear. And so I learned that SEND leadership was not always about forward motion, but about staying afloat when the waters refused to part.

This was the toll no one announced. It was not recorded in minutes or measured in outcomes. It was simply carried, quietly, from one day to the next.

And yet, in the shimmering dawn after a storm of paperwork and worry, there were moments that made the burden feel lighter.

A breakthrough in understanding, hard won and long awaited. A parent’s quiet thanks, offered not with ceremony, but with sincerity. A child’s unguarded smile, fleeting and brilliant, appearing when least expected.

These moments do not arrive with fanfare or formal recognition. There are no trumpet calls, no scrolls unfurled across a courtyard. But they linger all the same, glowing softly in the background of even the hardest days.

They remind me why I have taken up this role in the first place. Why the weight, though almost unbearable, has been worth carrying. These are the true treasures of the quest, found not at its end, but scattered along the way.

The story I choose to pass down through generations is this: the burden of SEND leadership is never light, nor should it be. For it is not a burden of weakness, but one of great care and deep admiration for those who continue to fight in the foggiest of conditions. To carry it is to choose to stand alongside those whose voices are too often overlooked, and to act as a beacon when the path becomes unclear and treacherous.

As every Naïve SENDCo learns, sometimes the hard way, the journey is not about slaying every dragon or fixing every flaw in the kingdom. It is about learning to carry the weight of the role with purpose, and about finding your kinsmen who are willing to walk beside you, sharing the road when the burden grows too heavy to bear alone.