Listening to My Gut: School Anxiety, Homeschooling Chaos, and Finding a Better Way to Learn

August through December have been… a journey.

The kind of journey where you don’t really realize how far you’ve traveled until you finally stop moving long enough to look around and think, “Oh. Wow. That was a lot.”

This fall, my husband and I made a decision I never thought I’d make: we pulled our kids out of school and started homeschooling.

And no—this wasn’t one of those Pinterest-board, color-coded, “I’ve always dreamed of homeschooling” situations. Quite the opposite, actually.

What started it all was anxiety. Not mild nerves. Not the usual back-to-school jitters. Full-body anxiety. Panic. Tears. Tight chests. The kind of reaction that tells you something deeper is going on.

And here’s the thing: my kids loved their teachers. Truly. One of them had what I can only describe as a unicorn teacher—a rare, magical, deeply caring educator who went above and beyond in every way she could. The problem wasn’t the teachers. It wasn’t the classroom instruction.

The problem was the system.

When teachers are stretched thin, under-supported, and asked to do the impossible with too few resources, even the most incredible educators can’t fully meet the needs of struggling learners. There simply isn’t enough time or bandwidth.

My oldest had an IEP. We had meetings. We had data. And we were told—very plainly—that she was “doing average.” In other words, she was performing well enough not to qualify for additional support, but still struggling enough to feel confused, overwhelmed, and behind.

That middle space is brutal.

On top of that, we were paying for weekly tutoring. But after an eight-hour school day, asking a tired, emotionally spent child to sit through another hour of math felt like asking someone to run a marathon… after they’d already run one. The resistance wasn’t laziness. It was exhaustion.

Then summer came—and everything softened.

We did a few math problems a day. Some reading to prevent the summer slide. We took long beach walks. We collected shells and identified them in our shell encyclopedia. We went hunting for shark teeth and even found megalodon teeth in dried-up riverbeds—learning, in real time, that those places were once underwater.

Learning felt alive again.

But when we opened the school packets that came home labeled “summer review,” something didn’t sit right. My youngest struggled through most of the problems, and didn’t remember learning half the content. And suddenly, I was spending two to three hours a day helping them work through material that was supposed to be familiar.

Between the IEP, the tutoring, and what we were seeing at home, my husband and I started to feel uneasy. The gaps were bigger than we realized.

Then the back-to-school anxiety returned—stronger this time.. And when it tipped into panic, we knew something had to change.

My girls begged to homeschool.

I honestly never thought I’d even consider it. But I also couldn’t think of another option that honored both their emotional well-being and their learning needs. So we took a deep breath… and jumped.

The reactions were immediate.

Our parents were alarmed. Our elderly cul-de-sac had thoughts. Friends, acquaintances, strangers—everyone seemed to have an opinion. And as a recovering people-pleaser, that part was harder than I expected.

I had to remind myself—over and over—that this wasn’t a trendy experiment or a philosophical stance. It was the option that allowed my kids to breathe.

And at first? We loved it.

The slower mornings. Learning at our own pace. A flexible rhythm to the day. But my girls missed their friends, so I started a weekly book club and hosted it in our home.

Then came the pushback.

They pushed against the work. I reminded them (repeatedly) that learning is non-negotiable—school or home, the work still exists. They just got to choose where they did it.

The battles became intense. The patience wore thin. I felt like I was losing my mind—and possibly my grip on basic math concepts I hadn’t thought about in decades.

Then, through a friend, we found a micro-school.

Small-group learning. Shorter days. Highly focused instruction. Individual learning plans. Tutoring. Teachers with the time and capacity to work one-on-one before moving on.

It has been a game changer.

We get the flexibility of homeschooling, but the instruction is outsourced—meaning I no longer spend my evenings relearning fractions or my days trying to get my kids to focus on me. That role is now filled by wonderful teachers who actually have the resources to meet my kids where they are.

It took time to settle into this new rhythm. Which is why I’ve been quieter than usual.

Any free time I’ve had has gone to meditation, shelling, or reading. Trying to keep my inner zen. Sitting still long enough to write has felt surprisingly hard. The constant interruptions have been… honestly, a little torturous. My memory has taken a hit. My focus feels fragile.

I’ve been digging into research on how interruptions impact attention, ADHD, and working memory—but that’s a deep dive deserving of its own post (and proper care).

Right now, I have three blog drafts waiting to be refined and published. My book is written, and I’m navigating next steps with publishing—another story for another day.

But for the first time in a while, I can feel it:

The mental space is coming back.

The pots are still on the stove—but the chaos has softened. And I finally feel like I can finish what I’ve started.

If you’re a parent navigating unexpected turns, holding too many roles, and trying to keep your creativity alive in the middle of it all—please know you’re not alone.

Sometimes the path changes.

Sometimes the plan breaks.

And sometimes… that’s exactly what makes room for something better.

A Gentle Reflection (If You’re Carrying Too Much):

If you’re reading this with the familiar feeling of having too many pots on the stove—some boiling over, some forgotten entirely—I want to offer you this reminder:

You don’t have to do it all.

Not because you aren’t capable.

But because you were never meant to carry everything alone.

For me, the turning point wasn’t finding the “perfect” solution. It was allowing myself to outsource what was draining me the most—so I could preserve my energy for the things only I can do.

And maybe even more importantly, it was learning to trust my inner knowing.

This decision didn’t make sense on paper. It went against logic, expectations, and a lot of well-meaning advice. But deep down, we just knew. Our bodies knew. Our kids knew. And sometimes that quiet, persistent knowing is the most trustworthy data we have.

If you’re in a season of reevaluating, questioning, or holding a decision that others don’t understand, you’re not doing it wrong. You’re listening.

Try this (if you want):

Take a few quiet minutes and reflect or journal on these questions:

- What are the “pots” currently draining the most mental or emotional energy from me?

- Which of these truly require me—and which could be outsourced, shared, simplified, or reimagined?

- Where am I trying to power through out of guilt, fear, or expectation?

- If I trusted my gut just a little more, what would it be nudging me toward?

You don’t have to leap.

You don’t have to decide everything today.

Sometimes the first step is simply admitting:

This is too much—and something needs to change.

And that awareness alone can be incredibly freeing.

Homeschooling Chaos