Mainstream schools are becoming specialist settings. We’re just not being resourced like they are. Two years ago, I stepped into headship and the role of SENDCo and had to face that reality head-on.
When I became headteacher at my current school two years ago, I also became the SENDCo. A completely new leadership team meant we had to rebuild quickly—and inclusion, in particular, needed a refocus.
What we had was not unusual. A quiet, unspoken belief: “they belong somewhere else”—in specialist education. What we needed was a culture shift to: “they belong here.”
This is the story of what I did. It is far from perfect. Would I do things differently if I had to live it again? Absolutely. But this is my lived experience—and what it has become.
Managing the impossible role
Before anything else, a practical truth. You might be wondering how headship and SENDCo could possibly coexist. The answer is: it only worked because I wasn’t doing it alone. I had a full-time HLTA SEND support assistant—monitoring, coaching, handling paperwork. Without that partnership, this would not have been sustainable.
The reality we stepped into
We have children in our mainstream setting with significant autism who could not function safely or meaningfully without constant adult support.
Some need personal care. Some need escorting around school. Some need a completely bespoke curriculum.
Like many schools, we were waiting—often over a year—for Educational Psychologist assessments to support EHCP applications. Some of these children were in Year 2 with no completed applications—not through neglect, but through lack of time and capacity. And this is the quiet truth:mainstream schools are already becoming specialist settings—just without the structure or funding to match.
Building expertise from within
Because of the leadership restructure, we had no choice but to build expertise ourselves. Our SEND support assistant, fresh out of university, learned quickly how to write EHCP applications properly. I brought in experienced SENDCos from other schools and invested in a specialist dyslexia teacher and SENDCo for three hours a week. It was expensive. But it changed everything. We were not just paying for time—we were paying for her years of experience and knowledge. What to write and evidence mattered was what would get these EHCPs through.
Space, visibility, and difficult choices
Alongside systems came daily realities. These children deserved an inclusive space. Low stimulus. Calm. Predictable. We had a separate area—but it far away from where people were in school. I wanted them more visible and central to our school.
Creating that space meant other things gave way: intervention rooms, nurture areas, storage. In a school where every room was already spoken for, inclusion required compromise—and that compromise affected everyone. They are now in a large classroom right in the middle of the school where everyone can see and hear them. I can hear them through the walls of my office and it’s a joyful sound I enjoy.
Staffing: the hardest shift
Staffing was harder. When I started, two agency staff supported these pupils. I wanted OUR staff to educate them—and needed something sustainable within budget.
At first, I tried keeping one teaching assistant with three high-needs pupils. It didn’t work. Too much responsibility. Too isolating. Too much risk. So I built a team across the school—staff with different strengths, timetabled to spend meaningful time with our highest-needs pupils.
At first, there was hesitation. Some were nervous. Some were unsure. Some refused. This is where the real work began: shifting the mindset from “SEND children belong there” to “SEND children belong here.” That shift was slow—and it still is.
But over time, something changed. Confidence grew. People realised they could do this. Not everyone needed to do everything. One led reading. Another sensory circuits. Another music or playtime. Everyone had something to offer. And that changed everything.
The realities we don’t often say out loud
There were harder truths too. When it came to intimate care, I researched responsibilities, pay, expectations. The answers were mixed. But in reality, the children decided. They chose who they trusted. And staff stepped up in extraordinary ways. They changed soiled nappies. They comforted distressed children who lashed out or clamped on. They carried physical and emotional demands far beyond any job description. Sometimes while unwell themselves—because they knew the children relied on them.
What inclusion really looks like
I was determined these children would be visible. Sometimes it worked beautifully. Sometimes it didn’t. Some could not tolerate the lighting. Some could not cope with the noise. Some refused to leave their space—or refused to return.
Through training, we learned to follow the child’s lead. Even when it was inconvenient. Even when it disrupted plans. Even when it meant standing outside in the cold with a child who simply could not come in yet.
The moment everything shifted
What made me most proud was not the systems. It was the other children. Their kindness was instinctive. One brought in bubbles she had bought with her own money because she thought one of our autistic pupils would like them. Another asked if his buddy could come on a trip with a different class.
When we introduced a buddy system, almost every child raised their hand. They did not see burden. They saw belonging. And two years on, that is now part of who we are.
The tension we live with
But there are tensions. We are just about coping. We receive no meaningful additional support, and there is a real fear: if we become known locally as a “good SEND school,” we may be overwhelmed. More children. More need. Without the funding to sustain it.
There are also uncomfortable financial realities. Some children require specialist provision—but their funding supports others. Losing that would have consequences. And then there is the language. EHCPs speak of “high levels of specialist support.” But what does that mean? A trained teacher in specialist education—or a committed TA with an autism course, supporting multiple children? In our case, it is the latter. Not because it is ideal—but because it is what we have. We are, in many ways, meeting the bare legal requirement—with careful wording wrapped around stretched reality.
A moment that stayed with me
An Ofsted inspector once said to me: “Love, safety and steady progress are not enough. These children need to thrive just as much as the rest of the school.” It stayed with me because it broke me slightly. Because at that moment, I did not know what more I could give.
Where we are now
Today, more staff have relationships with these children. Confidence has grown. The language has shifted. They are not visitors. They are not temporary. They are ours. And they give so much back. One is hilarious. One is incredibly athletic. One gives the gentlest hugs. They are loved—because they are known.
What I have learned
I still do not know if mainstream is always the right place for every child. There are parental fears. There is stigma. There are practical barriers. There are no easy answers.
But I do know this: Inclusion is not a statement. It is a series of decisions—often uncomfortable ones. It is expensive. It is exhausting. It is imperfect. But it is human.
These children are not hidden away here. They are visible. They are valued. They are ours.
And that is where inclusion begins.
