There is a group of children I see in my clinic which breaks my heart more than any other. They are not disruptive. They are not aggressive or “badly behaved”. They are what I call “cocooned” – sheltered from the world, always with good intention. These children live almost entirely in their bedrooms. Food is brought to them. Plates are taken away. Days pass without stepping outside. Sometimes weeks go by without meaningful human contact beyond a screen. Their parents are loving, attentive, and exhausted – bewildered by how family life has quietly collapsed around a child who is physically present, yet increasingly absent. This situation doesn’t arrive overnight. It creeps in silently, dismantling routines, relationships and hope. Holidays are cancelled. Family events disappear. Siblings adapt around the absence. The child becomes hostage in their own home – and by default, so do their parents. Almost without exception, these children are neurodivergent: autistic , ADHD , or both. Many went undiagnosed for years. Others were diagnosed too late, once burnout had already taken hold. Families arrive in my clinic in crisis, convinced they have failed their child. They haven’t – but anxiety has won. How withdrawal happens Children do not wake up one morning and decide to disappear from life. Withdrawal happens slowly, driven by anxiety that is allowed to grow unchecked. It starts with the odd day off school . A morning where anxiety feels too big to manage. Then another. Attendance becomes part-time. Then impossible. At first, friendships continue, but school is the thread that binds childhood relationships together. As attendance drops, invitations stop. Clubs fall away. Outside connections fade. The family becomes the child’s only safe place. At first, there are still shared meals and moments of closeness. But anxiety is patient. It whispers that coming downstairs feels overwhelming today. That eating in the bedroom is safer. Parents adapt – because when your child is in visible distress, protecting them feels instinctive. One meal becomes many. Leaving the house becomes frightening. Eventually, the bedroom becomes the entire world. This is the cocoon. Anxiety’s quiet victory Anxiety is not just fear – it is a control system. It shrinks a child’s world until everything feels unmanageable. And the smaller that world becomes, the louder anxiety grows. Parents often stop asking their child to do anything at all, not through neglect, but through fear. Every request ends in distress. I understand this deeply – professionally and personally. When my own neurodivergent child struggled with an after-school club, we were told to “push through”. But each session escalated their distress. It felt traumatic, not therapeutic. Here is the uncomfortable truth: removing all demands does not remove anxiety. It feeds it. The screen addiction problem we’re avoiding Modern childhood has added a powerful accelerant to this withdrawal: screens. Children in their bedrooms are not alone. They game, scroll, message and stream. But this is not connection in the way a nervous system understands it. Screens deliver fast, artificial dopamine – not the oxytocin that comes from shared experiences, physical presence, or belonging. I have worked with children spending 12 to 17 hours a day on screens. When parents attempt to set limits, the meltdowns can be extreme. Some parents tell me they are too frightened to intervene at all. Let’s be clear: distress is not the same as harm. Difficult is not the same as traumatic. If a child were addicted to drugs, we would not keep supplying them to avoid a meltdown. We would tolerate short-term distress to prevent long-term devastation – and we would get help. Screens are not drugs, but screen addiction hijacks the nervous system in a remarkably similar way. Screens have their place, particularly for neurodivergent children. But when they become the primary regulator of anxiety, they trap children inside the cocoon. Difficult is not traumatic All children need to do difficult things: lose games, feel bored, turn off an iPad, tolerate discomfort. This is where resilience is built. Trauma is different. For neurodivergent children, trauma can be invisible: noisy dining halls, chaotic playgrounds, overwhelming sensory input. These daily “small T” traumas keep the nervous system locked in fight-or-flight. Forcing sustained trauma is harm. But avoiding all difficulty is also harm. The answer lies in scaffolding – meeting a child where they are, then gently and consistently expanding their world with support. Love alone is not enough Every parent I meet loves their child fiercely. What they lack is not effort, but support, guidance and a system that understands neurodivergent needs. What feels like protection can become containment. What feels kind can become corrosive. Bedrooms may feel safe, but children cannot grow there – only anxiety does. If we do not intervene thoughtfully, we risk losing an entire generation of neurodivergent children to isolation. They are not lazy, or broken. But they are overwhelmed. With the right support, they can re-emerge and flourish – not as neurotypical children, but as themselves. Kindness matters, but courage matters too. And sometimes, the most loving thing a parent can do is gently unlock the door of the cocoon, and walk forward with their child into a world that still feels frightening – but is full of possibility. Gee Eltringham is a SEN family psychotherapist and founder of SEN support platform, twigged. Related... Family Therapists Have A Name For The Family Member Who Is 'Always The Problem' Therapist's Simple 'Trick' Helps Dads Talk To Sons About Tough Topics Teachers Are Being Treated As Therapists – And Children Are Losing Out