Intrusive thoughts on school trips: a mother's journey of trusting teachers
This week, my intrusive thoughts hit me hard! The kind of hard that sits in your chest and refuses to budge. It was the first time my son went on a school trip without me, his dad, or any of the ma’s tagging along. Just him, a bus full of excited children, and his beloved teacher his “second mom,” as I like to call her.
Weeks before the trip, I already started having second thoughts about sending him. The moment that little permission slip came home, I stared at it for a long time. My mind went into overdrive. What if something happened on the road? What if he got separated from the group? What if he missed me and I wasn’t there to comfort him? I filled in the form anyway, but not without that familiar ache of hesitation that motherhood sometimes brings.
The night before the trip, my husband could see I wasn’t okay. I was folding his clothes too neatly, double-checking his snacks, and slipping in “just-in-case” extras like plasters and tissues he’d never use.
“Stop overthinking it, Tracy,” my husband said.
“He’s going to be okay. His teacher won’t let anything happen to him.”
I wanted to believe him, I really did but a mother’s mind is rarely quiet. Especially one like mine, wired by years of journalism, where worst-case scenarios have faces, names, and headlines. I’ve covered stories that stick to your ribs. Sometimes, when you’ve written about tragedy, your brain forgets how to imagine ordinary safety. Lord forgive me, but my mind often plays out scenes that never happened.
The next morning, big boy was up before sunrise, practically vibrating with excitement. “Mommy, wake up! It’s school trip day!” he shouted, already half-dressed. He begged to leave earlier than usual, pacing the lounge like a tiny explorer ready for his next great adventure.
At drop-off, I tried to hide my nerves behind a smile. He looked so proud in his uniform, clutching his backpack like it contained the whole world. I bent down, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “Have a beautiful day, my boy.
“Listen to your teacher, okay?” He nodded, gave a little wave, and marched off with his friends confident, free, and blissfully unaware that his mother’s heart was doing gymnastics.
The moment I got back to the car, the obsessive checking began. Every two minutes, I opened WhatsApp, waiting for the teacher’s status update. When she finally posted a photo of the kids getting onto the bus, I zoomed in like a detective scanning every corner of the frame until I spotted my boy’s little face. Relief came in waves, but only for a second. Then came the next thought: Have they arrived safely?
I found myself replaying all those accident reports I’ve ever written or read. It’s almost cruel, how the same curiosity that fuels a journalist’s career can also feed her fears as a mother. You don’t just think “What if?”… you see it, vividly, because you’ve already reported on someone else’s “what if.”
When that WhatsApp message finally came through ‘We’ve arrived safely!’ I could breathe again. I actually sat down, whispered a quiet thank you, and made myself a cup of tea. It was such a simple message, but it carried the weight of every anxious thought I’d battled since sunrise.
It also taught me something: to trust my child’s second mother more. His teacher didn’t just supervise a trip, she carried my heart on that bus, too. And she brought it home safely.
When big boy returned later that afternoon, the excitement on his face melted every ounce of worry I’d felt. “Mommyyy!” he yelled, bursting through the door. “The best day ever! We saw giraffes! And Pumba was there. You know Pumba is a warthog?” He could barely breathe between sentences. “Teacher gave me back my juice bottle and I asked her to pour my water into it… and then…”
He went on and on, words came out as if it was tumbling over each other in pure joy. And as I listened, smiling through tears, I realised that while my intrusive thoughts went on their own wild trip, my little boy was simply out there living, laughing, learning. Exactly as he should be.
That night, after he fell asleep, I kissed his forehead and whispered a thank you for his courage. To his teachers, if you are reading this, thank you too, for the quiet reminder that sometimes, letting go is also a form of love.
tracy-lynn.ruiters@inl.co.za