When people hear the word “homeschooling,” they often picture a family who has deliberately chosen an alternative path to education—carefully curating lesson plans, fostering a love of learning, and embracing the flexibility that comes with teaching at home. These intentional homeschoolers have made a conscious decision to step outside the traditional school system, often based on deeply held educational philosophies, lifestyle preferences, or religious beliefs. But there’s another kind of homeschooler—one who never planned for this journey.

 

We are accidental homeschoolers. Not because we had a deep-seated dream of teaching our children at the kitchen table, but because the education system, despite its efforts, simply wasn’t built for kids like ours. Homeschooling wasn’t our first choice, or even our second. It was the choice we had left when everything else failed, not because our children weren’t capable, but because the system wasn’t capable of supporting them in the way they needed.

 

Our children, whom we will refer to as Chalk & Cheese, are neurodivergent. They learn on their own terms, in their own time, and in their own unique ways. The traditional classroom, with its rigid expectations, time limits, and standardised assessments, clashed with their needs. It wasn’t just difficult, it was unsustainable and, quite frankly, traumatising.

 

For a long time, we tried to make it work. We fought for accommodations. We sat through meetings where we were told our kids were “too complex” for support, yet “not struggling enough” to qualify for real help. We endured well-meaning but misguided advice to just “be firmer,” “set clearer expectations,” or “reward them more”—as if our children were simply missing a bit of discipline rather than navigating a world that wasn’t built for them.

​

And then, of course, there was ‘The Meeting’.

 

Let’s just say it involved a principal, some truly spectacular gaslighting, and a screaming match I’d rather not relive (at least, not yet—that’s a story for another time). Suffice to say, that was the moment we knew. The moment we realised that no amount of advocating, explaining, or desperately trying to make this school work was ever going to be enough.

 

So, after trying a different school, supposedly better equip to support neurodivergent kids, exhausting every other option, and shedding more than a few tears along the way, we finally made the leap into homeschooling.

 

It wasn’t smooth sailing. We made mistakes. We tried things that didn’t work. We panicked. We doubted ourselves. And then, slowly, we started seeing something remarkable: Our children, given the space to learn in a way that actually made sense to them, began to thrive.

 

Without pressure, they explored their interests deeply. Without rigid schedules, they learned in bursts of hyper-focus and experimentation. Without worksheets that drained the joy out of learning, they discovered their own ways of thinking, problem-solving, and creating.

 

This blog is our story. Not a guide, not a prescription, but a real and honest look at what happens when you stop forcing a child into a system that doesn’t fit—and instead, build an education around who they are. It’s about trial and error, embracing chaos, the tiny victories, and the big, messy, emotional breakthroughs.

 

We don’t have all the answers, but we’ve learned this:

Our kids don’t need fixing. The system does.

 

So whether you’re an intentional homeschooler, an accidental one like us, or simply someone curious about what happens when education is reimagined, welcome. This is a space for honesty, the good, the bad, the ugly and learning to laugh (because if we didn’t, we’d be crying—again). This is the journey of Chalk & Cheese—two neurodivergent kids, one burned-out yet determined family, and an education that wasn’t planned, but turned out to be exactly what they (we) needed.

​

​

Side note: 

I value honesty. And I wouldn’t feel comfortable sharing our stories without being upfront about this.
I’m more of a director than a producer.
The ideas, the thoughts, the stories, they’re mine.
I use AI to help me shape and polish them so they’re clearer to read and easier to share.
I don’t share my kids’ names or photos. That’s a choice I’ve made to protect their privacy.
If that makes me seem less “authentic,” so be it.
I’m here because I know what it’s like to end up homeschooling unexpectedly and feel completely alone.
And if anything I write helps someone else feel a little less isolated? Then that’s enough.

​