My day starts before the young people are even awake, I arrive and receive a handover from the team members leaving. I walk through the house checking bedrooms, preparing breakfast, and setting a calm, welcoming tone for the morning.
By 7:30am, the house begins to stir. One young person is anxious about school, another has already decided they’re not going. It’s my job to understand the behaviour beneath the words. I sit gently on the edge of the bed, remind them of their strengths, and offer reassurance without pressure. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. But every day, they know I’ll try again tomorrow.
Morning routines can be chaotic — mismatched socks, forgotten homework, tears over toast. But we get there. We drive to school singing pop songs and laughing at my terrible taste in music. Moments like this build connection — they’re the glue between structure and trust.
Once the young people are out, we tidy, clean, reflect, plan. I complete key work notes, liaise with school staff, check in with social workers, and update behaviour logs. We plan activities, meals, and therapeutic sessions — everything with the child’s needs at the centre.
After school, emotions can be high. A tough day might spill into a slammed door or silence at the dinner table. My job is to hold the space — calmly, patiently, without judgment. We cook together, play games, or just sit quietly until they’re ready to talk.
Later, we run baths, share bedtime stories, or chat about favourite films. It’s in these quieter moments that healing often happens — when a child who once pushed everyone away starts to let you in.
Working in a children’s home is demanding. It’s emotional. It’s unpredictable. But it’s also incredibly rewarding. I don’t just care for young people — I walk alongside them in some of their most difficult moments, helping them feel seen, heard, and safe.