The Silent Enemy Called Home

Some days, I hate this job. Not because of the students, but because of the parents. I sit there listening to a child break down, carrying scars they should never have, and all I can think is: this isn’t their fault. They’re just kids. But the problem? It’s the very people who are supposed to protect them.

And that’s where I feel useless. Because what can I do? I can talk to the student until my throat dries, I can hand them coping mechanisms, I can give them every ounce of reassurance - but the moment they go home, it’s all undone. The shouting, the neglect, the impossible expectations, the constant criticism… all from the parents.

And the worst part? I can’t change it. I’m not allowed to. I can’t go storm into their homes and demand, “Stop hurting your child!” I can’t make them see the damage they’re inflicting. I’m trapped by professional boundaries and policies, while a child suffers in silence.

Some nights, I go home carrying their weight, asking myself why I even bother. Because at the end of the day, I’m just patching up wounds that will keep reopening. I’m a temporary escape, not a cure. And it kills me.

I may never fix the home they return to, but maybe - just maybe - I can help them believe they deserve better. And perhaps one day, when they are older, they will be the kind of parent they always wished they had. That hope is the only thing that keeps me from despair.