Why We Started Homeschooling

Our challenges with school began when my oldest son was in preschool. At the time, we had enrolled him in a Montessori school because we truly believed it would be the best fit for him. We wanted something gentle, child-centered, and respectful of his development. A place where he could be a tactile learner, play, and learn valuable skills. But almost every day at pickup, I received another negative report.

At first, I tried to receive the feedback with humility. I wanted to be respectful, and to work with his teacher. I wanted to understand what he needed and I certainly wanted to help him. But after a while, those daily reports began to weigh on me. I started to internalize them as proof that I was failing as a mother. I wondered if I had missed something. I wondered if I should be doing more. And if I’m honest, I began to worry that the adults around him were seeing his challenges more clearly than they were seeing him.

That was the part that hurt the most. Because I knew my child. I knew his humor, his curiosity, his energy, his tenderness and his deep need to feel safe and understood before he could truly learn. I also knew that so much of what was being treated as a problem was part of the way he was made. He needed movement. He needed fresh air. He needed time to wonder, build, explore, ask questions, and learn with his whole body, not just sit still and perform on command.

And slowly, I began to realize something that would change the way I viewed education entirely: My child did not need an atmosphere that constantly pointed out what was wrong with him. He needed an atmosphere that helped him thrive.

That does not mean he never needed correction. Of course he did. All children do. But correction without connection can quickly become discouragement. And when a child is young, the way adults speak about him begins to shape the way he sees himself.

I had studied early childhood development while pursuing my Psychology degree, and I knew that children begin forming their sense of self very early. Their understanding of who they are is deeply shaped by the people around them, especially the adults they trust. So when a child repeatedly hears what he is doing wrong, but rarely hears what is good, strong, creative, or capable in him, he can begin to believe the problem is not his behavior. He can begin to believe the problem is him.

And I did not want that story taking root in my child.

One day, after another difficult pickup, I asked his teacher, “Can you tell me something good he did today?” She paused and struggled to answer. That moment stayed with me. Not because I believed my child was perfect, but because I knew there was good in him every single day, and I wanted him in an environment where that good was noticed, nurtured, and called forward.

Soon after, we withdrew him. But finding the right educational path was not simple. We toured schools, researched every option, got feedback from teachers, therapists and friends.

Eventually, we enrolled him in public school because it seemed like the best option available at the time. I volunteered often in the library, brought snacks, ate lunch with him weekly, and helped in his classroom when the option arose. But I could still feel that same ache in me. The days were long, the environment was busy, and it was impacting him greatly.

There were parts of him I did not want to watch slowly fade. His imagination. His playfulness. His spark. His need to run, climb, dig, collect rocks, notice bugs, ask endless questions, and turn the world into one big place to learn. I kept wondering what would happen if so much of his childhood was spent trying to make him quieter, stiller, and easier to manage.

Then there was homework. Most evenings, we were both exhausted by the time we sat down at the dining room table. I remember trying to push through assignments after a long school day, while dinner still needed to be made, baths needed to happen, lunches needed to be packed, and bedtime was already too close. There were tears. There was frustration. There were moments when I snapped because I was tired too. And afterward, I would sit with that heavy feeling in my chest and wonder: Is this really helping him love learning? Is this helping our relationship? Is this helping him become confident?

The answer was becoming clearer. It wasn’t.

For a long time, homeschooling was the last thing on my list.

I didn’t feel qualified. I didn’t know where to start. I didn’t know if I could actually do it. But I did know this: no one knew my child the way I did. No one else could study his face and know when he was overwhelmed before the tears came. No one else could tell the difference between defiance and anxiety quite like I could. No one else could see how much movement he needed, how deeply he felt correction, how beautifully he responded to encouragement, or how quickly his confidence grew when learning felt safe.

That is not because mothers are perfect teachers. We are not. But a mother has something no curriculum, classroom, or system can fully replicate. She has intimate knowledge of the child. She knows the story behind the behavior. She knows the tenderness beneath the struggle. She knows when to push, when to pause, when to change course, and when to simply pull the child close and begin again tomorrow.

That became the beginning of our homeschool story.

When the pandemic hit and school moved online, the decision became clearer. Virtual learning brought more tears, more frustration, and more confirmation that we needed a different way. So I sent in our Notice of Intent to homeschool. I did not have everything figured out. I did not have the perfect curriculum. I did not feel completely confident. But I knew we needed an atmosphere where my child could thrive instead of constantly feeling like he was falling short.

That decision changed the course of our lives. Suddenly, I was thrown into the world of homeschool curriculum, home education philosophies, nature study, living books, morning time, and more opinions than I knew what to do with. I researched everything. I learned about Charlotte Mason, poetry tea time, nature journals, morning baskets, copywork, narration, and living books. I bought way too many books and tried all the popular curriculums. Some worked beautifully for a season, and some did not.

It was not perfect, but it was ours.

Little by little, we built an education around the children in front of me. We found rhythms that gave us room to breathe. We read beautiful books. We played outside. We watched spiders spin their webs and drew them in our nature journals. We counted pinecones in our backyard. We read books on the picnic blanket, while having snacks. We dissected pumpkins and counted the seeds. We read together on the back porch while eating fresh baked muffins.

And something began to change. Learning no longer felt like something we were forcing our way through. It became part of our family culture. It became connected to our home, our values, our relationships, and the kind of childhood I wanted my children to have.

Outside became one of our greatest teachers. My son had room to move, breathe, observe, climb, collect, question, and wonder. He could learn about science with dirt under his fingernails. He could listen to a story after running through the yard. He could build, draw, narrate, explore, and grow without being made to feel like his natural energy was a flaw.

That does not mean homeschooling fixed everything. There were still hard days, tears (from all involved parties), and many doubts. But over time, I became more convinced of this: no one can tailor a child’s education quite like a mother who is paying attention.

A mother can notice when a curriculum is crushing a child’s confidence. She can pause a lesson and take it outside. She can replace a worksheet with a conversation. She can follow a spark of curiosity. She can choose books that speak to her child’s heart. She can create an atmosphere where learning is not just about checking boxes, but about forming a whole person. She can take the child that is deemed a problem, and constantly remind him that he was fearfully and wonderfully made.

That is why we started homeschooling. Not because I believed I could recreate school at home, or that I had all the answers. Not because I wanted to run away from every hard thing. But because I wanted to advocate for my child. I wanted to create an environment where he was not treated like the problem, but supported as a whole person with unique needs, strengths, challenges, and gifts.

What began as a temporary decision slowly became a way of life. We started homeschooling because my child needed a different atmosphere, and we continued because our family began to thrive there.

I will never question another family for choosing a different path. Every child is different. Every family is different. Every season is different. But I have learned not to question our path quite so much either.

Because when I look back, I can see that every hard pickup, every tearful homework session, every uneasy feeling, and every unanswered question was gently leading us here.

And I’m grateful we listened.

If you homeschool, I’d love to know: did you always plan to homeschool, or did your family find this path unexpectedly?

References:

Marsh, H. W., Craven, R. G., & Debus, R. (1991). Self-concepts of young children 5 to 8 years of age: Measurement and multidimensional structure. Journal of Educational Psychology, 83(3), 377–392. https://doi.org/10.1037/0022-0663.83.3.377