Having Tourette’s has made me a better teacher

If I was too noisy, I was told to ‘stop it’. So, by the age of six I just stopped talking. I didn’t speak again until I was 12. 

School was tough. My tics were so bad my desk would fly forward, my chair would fly backwards and I was always getting injured and bruised.

I was teased and I had no friends. People wouldn’t sit with me because I had a spitting tic. I don’t blame them. Who would want to sit next to someone spitting on their food? 

I struggled with my confidence but I was resilient. I could be desperately sad – suicidal at times, but there were times of real joy as well. I just got on with it.

I grew up in a loving home, but we didn’t have much and my father spent all his money trying to get me sorted. At the age of 14, one psychiatrist told me I was making it all up; that it was attention seeking behaviour. That felt awful.  

My father died in 1984, and my mum was left to bring me, my three sisters and a brother up alone. My poor mother didn’t know what to do. She was beside herself. She had to parent a child that was wild, crazy and stubborn.

I don’t swear, ever. Instead, I growl or I grunt

Despite this, I did well at school and went to Imperial College and got two degrees. I was finally diagnosed with Tourette’s when I was 26, but by that point I had worked it out myself.

I ran a property business, but my son Shiv has autism, ADHD and OCD and though he is gifted and talented, didn’t do well at school. So I pulled him out of secondary and homeschooled both him and my daughter Sahara.

They both did really well, finishing their GCSEs with As and A*s and now have completed university. It made me realise – I’m good at teaching and I wanted to make a difference. But I was 49. I thought – who would want me at this age?

Soon, I heard about Now Teach, an organisation that promotes education as a second career. I was given an interview and never looked back. 

When I started teaching, I thought I knew about young people, but these children were disregulated. I was the one with Tourette’s, but these children would shout, chuck stuff, talk back, ignore their work. One girl sat on her phone, watching porn. I had never seen children behave that way. 

I soon learnt how to manage them. When the children went crazy, I would say: ‘Do you think I care? I’m sorry that you’re having a bad time. But right now you are going to do your maths. If you are hungry I will feed you and if you are thirsty I will get a drink. But I am not taking any nonsense. Now solve your equations.’

It worked.

A couple of years ago there were children having a fight. I got between them and told them: ‘Look, if you’re going to fight, fight for money. Don’t fight for free. Tomorrow. Break time. I will be there. I want to win some money.’ Of course I wasn’t serious, and they had forgotten about it the next day anyway.

Tourette’s helps you find creative solutions to problems. Now, my children get amazing grades. 

Children will mimic my Tourette’s, but I reply: ‘That’s just a rubbish impersonation. If you’re going to make fun of me, do it properly. Go home, practice in front of the mirror, come back and tic properly tomorrow. Whatever you’re doing; do it well.’

But none of them do, because in the end, children are good. They don’t want to hurt you. 

I talk to the children about my Tourette’s. I tell them it is my superpower, that it gives me superhuman strength. But I also tell them the facts and figures and how it feels; that people with Tourette’s have a higher rate of suicide and are overrepresented in the criminal justice system.

It’s not an easy condition to have. I make light of it, but sometimes I weep because of it. I cry alone and then get on with it.

The children have an intimate knowledge of my tics. I even name them: I have a penguin tic where I waddle a bit and a flamingo tic, where I hop around on one leg.

I teach children how to navigate the world with a disability. I confront them, but I don’t molly coddle them, because the world won’t. I am empathetic and kind, but I won’t let them moan or whinge, because that’s not going to help.

I would love to run a whole school if I could, but I work in supply, because teaching is so tiring and Tourette’s drains you. I work for 11 hours some days – and I am exhausted.

If I feel like I cannot cope, I can take a day off. People offer me other roles, but I can’t do them; they don’t have the capacity to give me the time off when I need it.

I’m tired of having Tourette’s; my limbs hurt, my body aches, I have injuries all the time. I had a stroke a few years ago after a particularly violent neck twist. I am in excellent health now; but I have to look after myself. I meditate a lot.

It does get me down sometimes, but I have to be resilient. And I tell my students that they need to be resilient.

Some of the stuff that children go through; neglect, abuse, poverty, coming into school having had no breakfast – no child should have to live like that. You can’t change the world so you have to change yourself.

The Tourette’s taught me how it felt not to get what I needed as a child; warmth, empathy, kindness – and I know how to give it to other young people. 

I want other children with Tourette’s to understand that this condition doesn’t have to be life-limiting.

I want to help them navigate neurodiversity to the best of my abilities. I know what I needed as a child with Tourettes. And that is love and acceptance.

And if you give that to the children, they will become who they are supposed to be. And they will fly.

As told to Sarah Ingram