Rethinking the Rise of SEN Diagnoses

By Sophia Anne-Marie Miller

Very few, (if any) children come into this world afraid of dogs. They become afraid when they see fear in someone else’s, usually a parents face.

It’s not the bark or the breed that triggers alarm. It’s the adult’s body language. The muffled tension in a voice. The way a parent reflexively tightens the grip on a child’s hand when a tail-wagging stranger trots past.

As children, we learn how to feel about something by watching how others respond to it.

The words we use to diagnose — ADHD, ASD, dyslexia, PDA — are neutral. But the way they are introduced, received, and repeated teaches a child how to feel about themselves. Whether to carry a sense of shame… or relief. 

In today’s world, diagnoses are everywhere.

 In classrooms and clinics, at kitchen tables and across TikTok feeds, children are being labeled with increasing speed and precision. And in many ways, this is progress. For decades, children who struggled to sit still, self-regulate, or learn through conventional means were punished for what they couldn’t yet name. A diagnosis can offer relief. A framework. A sense of “I’m not the only one.”

But (as with any powerful tool) the value of a diagnosis depends on how it is used.

It can be a lifeline. It can also become a limitation.

Diagnosis vs. Discovery

There’s a quiet but essential difference between diagnosing a child and discovering who they are.

Diagnosis often begins with a problem — something not working. A behaviour that’s too loud, too soft, too off-script. Discovery, on the other hand, begins with curiosity: Who is this child? What are they here to teach us? How do they move through the world?

Comedian and writer Fern Brady has described her autism diagnosis not as a solution, but as a homecoming. “It wasn’t that I was broken,” she’s said. “Just that I was a different species.” Not disordered. Different.

When a diagnosis emerges from a place of discovery: warm, relational, and respectful, it can be liberating. Like being given a word for a feeling that’s always lived inside. But when labels are handed down too early, too quickly, or too coldly, they can feel like walls. Not protection. Containment.

When a Diagnosis Helps

For many children and families, a diagnosis is a moment of clarity. It explains why noisy rooms are exhausting. Why reading is a battlefield. Why school feels like swimming through fog.

In these moments, diagnosis can shift the story from “What’s wrong with me?” to “Now I understand myself.” It creates a shared language — not just for children, but for parents, teachers, and care teams. It invites new strategies, support, and self-compassion.

As one parent recently shared:

“When we learned our daughter had ADHD, we stopped seeing her as ‘difficult’ and started seeing her as dynamic; just wired differently. It changed everything.”

When a Diagnosis Hurts

But not all diagnoses land with the same warmth.

Sometimes they arrive too early — before the child has had time to unfold. Sometimes they’re used to manage adult discomfort, not to support the child’s growth. And sometimes they become the child’s entire story.

I’ve worked with children who refer to themselves solely through diagnostic terms: “I can’t do that, I have ASD.” “I’m not creative — I have dyslexia.” “I get angry because I’m ODD.”

Are these scaffolds for determined young minds? Or ceilings by which they become determined? 

It’s not the word that wounds, it’s the connotation. The sense that “this thing about me” makes me harder to love, harder to teach, harder to trust.

Like the child who learns to fear dogs, not through the dog’s behaviour, but through an adult’s unspoken anxiety, we learn how to relate to a diagnosis based on how those around us hold it.

And this is not about blaming the adult. As Dr. Gabor Maté reminds us, much of what we pass on to children is unconscious — the residue of our own wounds, fears, and unhealed stories. Children borrow our nervous systems before they develop their own.

Psychiatrist Thomas Szasz famously argued that many mental health diagnoses are metaphors - tools for managing difference that risk becoming instruments of control. While not all of his arguments stand today, they offer a valuable caution: that naming difference too rigidly can prevent us from seeing the whole person behind the word.

And once a child is labeled, it becomes all too easy to see everything they do through that lens. This is confirmation bias: we begin seeing the toast as “burnt” instead of simply… toasted bread. Not broken. Just browned.

The Cultural Context

It’s also important to ask: Who gets diagnosed; and why?

In some educational systems, support services only kick in once a label is on file. In others, diagnosis may carry stigma. Socioeconomic background, language, and access to specialists all play a role. The process is rarely neutral.

And when classrooms are overwhelmed, or systems under strain, a diagnosis can become a shortcut. A way of outsourcing complexity. Instead of asking what does this child need, we ask what’s wrong with them?

This risks losing the very heart of education: Relationship. Attunement. Discovery.

Holding Labels Lightly

At Miller & Co, we choose not to dismiss the importance of diagnosis. But instead, we meet the child first.

A diagnosis may help. But it is never the whole child. It is a beginning; not a conclusion.

We teach through rhythm, presence, and relationship. We ask: What brings this child joy? What soothes their system? What lights up their imagination? What happens when we slow down and stop trying to fix them?

When we approach children with curiosity rather than control, we begin to notice that many “symptoms” are actually adaptations. That fidgeting is self-regulation. That silence can be deep processing. That refusal may be a cry for agency.

And that sometimes the most important question is not “What’s their diagnosis?” but “What happened when we paused to really see them?”

In Conclusion

A diagnosis is not binary; neither good nor bad. 

Better nor worse. 

It is a tool. A doorway. A lens through which every child, in all their differing uniqueness, is seeing the world. 

Used with care, it can open space for insight, support, and growth. Used carelessly, it can confine a child to a script they never wrote.

The real work is not in the label, but in how we hold it. Do we use it to scaffold compassion or to shortcut curiosity? Do we support the child, or teach them to comply?

Let us choose relationship over reduction. And remember that all children—labeled or not, need to feel: safe, seen, and free to unfold.