Before, During, After Map
ADHD and Transitions (Ages 8–14), Change, Uncertainty, and Loss of Control
Transitions can tip an otherwise coping child into overwhelm. This map helps carers and schools support change without escalation.
Before the moment
For children with ADHD, change is rarely neutral. It can feel like threat, loss of control, or a sudden drop in safety, especially during busy school days.
What might be happening underneath?
- Time blindness, the next thing arrives like a surprise.
- Executive function overload, too many steps, choices, or unknowns stack up fast.
- Loss of predictability, their nervous system drops into threat when routines shift.
- Fear of failure or embarrassment in a new situation or new social setting.
- Accumulated stress, transitions often land when they are already tired, hungry, or sensory overloaded.
Support that helps, home and school
- Give advance notice, verbal reminders, a visual schedule, and clear countdowns.
- Break the transition into tiny steps, one step at a time, then the next.
- Rehearse the change when calm, practise the route, the classroom, the script, and the expectations.
- Keep the “bookends” stable, predictable mornings and evenings reduce overall stress.
- Offer choice within firm limits, “We are leaving in five minutes, shoes first or coat first?”
- Teacher previews changes at the start of lessons and keeps them visible, not just spoken.
- School uses consistent routines for moving between lessons and activities, so the child does not have to keep guessing.
- Assign a named adult or check in point for bigger transitions, supply teacher, timetable change, new class, new term.
- Plan the hardest transition of the day, often the first 10 minutes, or the last 10 minutes, with extra support.
- Home and school share the same plan and phrases, so the child gets one coherent message.
Gentle prompt
If this reaction is about uncertainty rather than refusal, how could I make the next step clearer, smaller, and more predictable?
During the moment
When a transition tips into meltdown, thinking shuts down. Calm presence matters more than logic, at home and at school.
What matters most right now?
- Slow everything down, your voice, your movement, your expectations.
- Reduce language, one calm phrase repeated is enough.
- Protect dignity, avoid public stand offs or calling out across a room.
- Prioritise safety over completion, the transition can wait if regulation is slipping.
- Keep boundaries simple, “I will keep everyone safe,” rather than debating or persuading.
Support that helps, home and school
- Pause the transition if possible, step aside, breathe, reset, then return to the next tiny step.
- Use grounding tools, water, chew snack, movement, deep pressure only if welcomed.
- Offer an anchor phrase, “We are going together,” or “First this, then that,” and keep it steady.
- Use the pre agreed “hot moment” plan, quiet space, short walk, music reset, or a time out card.
- If the trigger is social, remove the audience, privacy reduces escalation.
- Teacher uses a subtle cue and a regulated exit route, not repeated warnings or public correction.
- Teacher reduces the demand temporarily, smaller chunk, fewer questions, or a delayed start.
- School moves peers along and protects the young person’s dignity, audience fuels shame.
- School prioritises de escalation now, sanctions later if needed, once calm is back.
- If safety is at risk, follow school policy, but keep tone calm and respectful, not punitive.
Gentle prompt
What helps this child feel anchored when everything feels like it is shifting, and how can school mirror that?
After the moment
Repair after a difficult transition builds trust and teaches skills. Keep it short, kind, and forward focused, at home and in school.
Repair first, then learning
- Reconnect before analysing, calm presence, shared task, a drink, a snack.
- Name the difficulty without blame, “That change was hard,” not, “You were difficult.”
- Praise recovery, “You came back,” “You took a pause,” “You tried again.”
- Keep reflection brief, one insight, one plan, then move on.
- Separate accountability from shame, repair is about next time, not a humiliation tour.
Support that helps, home and school
- Do a quick “transition detective” review, what was hard, what helped, what to change next time.
- Add more warning time or reduce steps for the next transition.
- Practise a script for the next change, “When I feel it building, I ask for a break.”
- Build a simple repair action, apologise if needed, tidy up, reset the classroom, make amends.
- Teacher debriefs privately, “What happened just before it tipped?” then chooses one strategy for next time.
- School updates support plans, timetable support, safe pass, movement break, check in at the start.
- Teachers share solutions across staff, what works, not just what happened.
- Home and school communicate patterns and supports, not just incidents.
- Plan the next day’s transitions with extra support, confidence grows through successful repeats.
Final message
Transitions are a skill, not a test of compliance. Predictability, dignity, and practice are what build the skill over time.
Case Studies
Two common transition flashpoints, one in school, one at home, with practical steps that reduce repeat meltdowns.
Case study 1, Moving between lessons (school)
- What it looks like: Refusal to leave a preferred lesson, arguing, swearing, or freezing in the doorway. Sometimes lateness becomes a daily battle.
- What might be underneath: Stopping is hard, uncertainty about the next lesson, social pressure in corridors, and shame when peers notice.
- Before support: Teacher gives a two minute warning and a one minute warning, and keeps the timetable visible. School agrees a calm corridor route and a safe pass for the student to move slightly early or slightly late.
- During support: Staff avoid public confrontation. A trusted adult uses a quiet cue, offers a short reset, and escorts calmly if needed. Peers are moved along to remove the audience.
- After support: Private debrief, one question, “What made it hard?” one strategy for next time, and specific praise for any repair or attempt.
Case study 2, Sudden plan change at home (home)
- What it looks like: Meltdown when plans change, visitors arrive, the car journey changes, or a promised activity is cancelled.
- What might be underneath: Loss of control, uncertainty, disappointment, and sensory overload.
- Before support: Use a simple plan for the day that can flex, “Plan A and Plan B.” Give warnings if change is likely and build predictability around meals and bedtime.
- During support: Pause demands, reduce words, name the feeling, “That’s a big change,” and offer an anchor, snack, quiet time, or a reset activity.
- After support: Repair, then plan together, “Next time we’ll use Plan B,” and practise what to do when disappointment hits, breathe, ask for space, choose a reset.
Gentle prompt
Which transition is hardest right now, and what is one tiny change that would make it more predictable?
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What this pearl is all about
When children tip into full-blown distress – red-faced, fists clenched, or wailing – something important is happening inside their brains. Especially if there’s trauma in the mix. The rational part goes offline and the survival system takes over. Fight, flight… sometimes both at once. And in that state, calming down on their own is almost impossible.
That’s where you come in. By staying steady – calm body, calm voice – you become the anchor. It’s not glamorous, but it’s powerful. Your calm nervous system helps to steady theirs. Psychologists call it co-regulation. I call it being the anchor in their storm.
The tricky bit, of course, is regulating yourself first. Because their anger can be contagious. It’s very easy to catch it, to snap back. But if you can keep your cool – soften your tone, ground yourself – you transmit calm instead of panic.
And when you do that, you’re saying something profound without words: even at your worst, you’re still safe with me. Over time, those storms lose some of their terror. The child begins to believe it. They borrow your calm again and again, until eventually they start to grow some of their own.
What you could say in the moment
“I can see you’re feeling a really big storm inside right now. It’s okay – I’m right here with you, and you’re safe. Take some deep breaths with me. We will get through this together.”
(Said softly, perhaps while offering a reassuring hand on the shoulder if welcomed, conveying that you are not angry and will stay by the child’s side until the emotional waves settle.)
(Said softly, perhaps while offering a reassuring hand on the shoulder if welcomed, conveying that you are not angry and will stay by the child’s side until the emotional waves settle.)
What this pearl is all about
Children in foster care don’t usually lie in the way adults think of lying – not with the cold calculation of a fraudster in a Netflix documentary. More often it’s a kind of survival tactic, almost automatic. Trauma specialists even talk about it as a “fourth F.” You’ve heard of fight, flight, freeze… well, lying becomes another option. Not to get one over on you, but to dodge the sting of shame, or the dread of being punished, or simply the awful feeling of being powerless.
That’s where the Curiosity Lens comes in. Imagine putting on a pair of invisible glasses or holding up a magnifying glass. Instead of seeing the fib at face value, you start to see what’s underneath it – the fear of rejection, the nervous energy, the shame the child doesn’t know how to name. With PACE in mind – curiosity and acceptance especially – you suspend the moral outrage, the urge to shout “just tell me the truth,” and you lean in gently instead.
It’s not about catching them out. It’s about keeping the conversation alive. As one parenting guide wisely put it: stay exploratory, keep wondering aloud. If you shame them, they’ll close the door. If you stay curious, they might just leave it ajar.
And when you respond with genuine interest – “I wonder what made it hard to tell me…” – you send a message that’s bigger than any single lie: I’m not here to trap you, or humiliate you. I’m here to understand you. That, over time, is how trust grows. They learn you’ll meet their honesty with compassion, not punishment. And that changes everything.
What you could say in the moment
“Hmm, that’s an interesting story you’ve told me. I wonder if maybe it feels safer to say that than what really happened? If you’re worried about getting in trouble, you don’t have to be – you are safe with me. Whatever happened, we can sort it out together. Can you help me understand what’s going on?”
(This phrasing invites the child to explain, without outright accusing them of lying. It uses "I wonder" instead of "You’re lying", signalling curiosity. You might even playfully put on “magic truth glasses” with your fingers, if age-appropriate, to lighten the moment and show the child they’re not angry.)
(This phrasing invites the child to explain, without outright accusing them of lying. It uses "I wonder" instead of "You’re lying", signalling curiosity. You might even playfully put on “magic truth glasses” with your fingers, if age-appropriate, to lighten the moment and show the child they’re not angry.)
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What this pearl is all about
Many children in care carry a kind of hidden script in their heads. It says: I am bad. It’s my fault. They don’t usually say it out loud, but it’s there, humming away. It comes from years of early hurt, of being rejected again and again. Some even learn that if they show real feelings – sadness, anger, longing – it might lead to punishment, or worse, abandonment. So they tuck those feelings away, and the shame festers.
This is where the Acceptance Shield comes in. It’s less superhero cape, more everyday armour. You hold it up, deliberately and consistently, to protect the child from those shame-arrows. It means making a very clear distinction: I don’t always like your behaviour, but I always accept you.
In PACE terms, it’s acceptance and empathy working in tandem. You meet the child’s feelings as they are, even the messy ones. You empathise with the shame they’re drowning in. And practically, it means tempering your own response. No harsh telling-off. No thunderous disappointment. Instead: “You’re not a bad kid. I get why this happened. And I still care about you.”
Because here’s the thing: children watch closely for whether their inner world is safe with you. If you counter their self-criticism – “I’m stupid, I’m bad” – with calm, believable truths – “You’re good, you’re worthy” – you’re teaching them a new script. One where they’re not discarded for messing up. One where they’re covered.
And when you hold that shield day after day, the child starts to believe it. Their sense of self stitches back together. They start to grow resilience against shame and rejection. And in that, the bond between you becomes their secure base – something solid, at last, in a life that’s often felt shaky.
What you could say in the moment
“I know you feel really bad about this. It’s okay – we all make mistakes, but I want you to hear this: I’m not angry and I’m not leaving. I love you no matter what. Nothing will change that. Let’s figure out how to make it right together when you’re ready.”
(This script explicitly assures the child of your enduring acceptance. Phrases like “no matter what” and “nothing will change that” directly address fear of rejection. You might literally open your arms like a shield or put an arm around the child if appropriate, to physically reinforce the feeling of protection and safety.)
(This script explicitly assures the child of your enduring acceptance. Phrases like “no matter what” and “nothing will change that” directly address fear of rejection. You might literally open your arms like a shield or put an arm around the child if appropriate, to physically reinforce the feeling of protection and safety.)
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What this pearl is all about
Defiance in children can feel like a brick wall. They cross their arms, scowl, and say “No!” with the kind of finality usually reserved for magistrates. And you feel that surge of frustration rising – the urge to push back harder. But there’s another option.
The Playful Pause is about puncturing that tense balloon with a bit of silliness. A ridiculous face. A pretend dragon lurking in the room. A mock-serious “emergency” about socks refusing to cooperate. It sounds daft, and in a way it is. But daftness is often what works.
The magic of playfulness is that it pauses the power struggle. It shifts the dynamic from “me against you” to “me with you.” For a younger child, it might be full-on theatrics. For a teenager, maybe a raised eyebrow and a wry, self-deprecating joke. Either way, it says: I’m not your enemy. We can reset this together.
It doesn’t mean ignoring the behaviour. It just means you’re smart enough to know that humour can sneak past defences that sternness never will. And once you’ve both laughed, even a little, the wall crumbles. Suddenly there’s room to carry on. Together.
What you could say in the moment
In a mock-serious narrator voice: “Oh no... the Defiance Dragon has entered the room! It’s making us both all grumpy. Quick, I have an idea – I’ll make a funny face to scare it off… 😜 See, the dragon is laughing! Can you give it a try? [Child pulls a face] Hooray, we scared it away together!” (Both laugh, tension breaks) “Alright, shall we give (the task) another go now?”
In this playful script, you create a tiny imaginative game (“Defiance Dragon”) to externalise the child’s defiance as something we can team up against playfully. The exact script can vary widely by age (for a teenager, humour might be more understated, like you suddenly doing a goofy dance and saying “Ugh, what a morning – shall we hit reset and start over?” with a grin). The essence is to surprise the child out of the stuck position with levity. Your willingness to be a bit silly shows the child it’s safe to drop their guard. Once the child smiles or giggles, even briefly, the emotional climate shifts – we (you and the child) are connected again, and the task or issue can often be revisited with less resistance.
In this playful script, you create a tiny imaginative game (“Defiance Dragon”) to externalise the child’s defiance as something we can team up against playfully. The exact script can vary widely by age (for a teenager, humour might be more understated, like you suddenly doing a goofy dance and saying “Ugh, what a morning – shall we hit reset and start over?” with a grin). The essence is to surprise the child out of the stuck position with levity. Your willingness to be a bit silly shows the child it’s safe to drop their guard. Once the child smiles or giggles, even briefly, the emotional climate shifts – we (you and the child) are connected again, and the task or issue can often be revisited with less resistance.
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What this pearl is all about
When a child withdraws – shuts the bedroom door, curls up silent on the bed – it’s tempting to take it personally. To knock loudly, or to storm off yourself. But here’s the truth: often what’s happening is less about you and more about the child drowning in feelings they can’t quite put words to. Shame, sadness, fear.
The Empathy Bridge is about reaching across that gap. Not forcing them to talk, not demanding eye contact, but sending a quiet signal: I see you. I understand. And I’m here. Maybe it’s a few calm words through the door. Maybe it’s leaving a note or a favourite snack outside. Maybe it’s just sitting nearby, available.
The visual is a bridge of hearts or hands. You stand on your side, they on theirs. And you extend something across – empathy – so when they’re ready, they can walk back over. The bridge is patient. It doesn’t collapse if they don’t use it straight away.
This says to the child: Even if you push me away, I won’t give up on you. And in time, that’s how trust is built. They learn that silence won’t scare you off. That feelings won’t break the relationship. And that you are a steady presence on the far side of the cliff, always waiting, always ready to welcome them back.
What you could say in the moment
(You speak through the door or next to the withdrawn child, calmly and kindly): “I know it’s been a really upsetting day. If I were you, I might want to hide under the covers too. Just wanted to say I understand why you feel that way, and it’s alright. I’m here whenever you feel like talking or even if you just want a hug. Take your time – I’m not going anywhere.”
(In this script, you're naming and normalising the child’s likely feelings, showing empathy: “I’d feel the same if I were in your shoes.” There’s also an explicit assurance of presence: “I’m here… I’m not going anywhere,” which is crucial for a child worried about being given up on. The tone is gentle, not demanding a response. You might sit quietly nearby, or leave a soft toy or drawing materials as an invitation. The child then knows the bridge is there whenever they are ready to cross back into interaction. Even if the child doesn’t respond immediately, such messages sink in and over time the child will trust that the carer truly cares and empathises with them.)
(In this script, you're naming and normalising the child’s likely feelings, showing empathy: “I’d feel the same if I were in your shoes.” There’s also an explicit assurance of presence: “I’m here… I’m not going anywhere,” which is crucial for a child worried about being given up on. The tone is gentle, not demanding a response. You might sit quietly nearby, or leave a soft toy or drawing materials as an invitation. The child then knows the bridge is there whenever they are ready to cross back into interaction. Even if the child doesn’t respond immediately, such messages sink in and over time the child will trust that the carer truly cares and empathises with them.)
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