Am I really catastrophising?
Written by Lee Tempest
June 2026
People say it gently, kindly even.
"Try to stay in the moment."
"Don't think too far ahead."
"You're catastrophising."
They mean it as support. I know they do.
But here is the reality, my life is grounded in what others would call catastrophe.
Living with ongoing violence from a child with high and complex needs is exhausting.
And even that word exhausting falls painfully short.
This is bone-deep weariness.
The kind that settles into your mind, body, and spirit.
It is rinse. Repeat. Every single day. For years.
It Isn't Just the Violence
What people often fail to understand is that it is not only the violence we live with.
It is the endless stream of other catastrophes that accompany it.
You are never simply dealing with today's crisis. You are bracing for tomorrow's.
The refusal of funding to keep your child supported in the school environment. The overwhelm that predictably escalates when those supports are absent.
The phone call from school because your child has assaulted another student.
The suspension or exclusion that follows.
Forced to homeschool because school can no longer cope, only to find the violence intensifies because you are now together all day, every day.
The funding application for disability support declined because your child does not meet an illogical, narrowly defined threshold.
The online grooming by predators who recognise vulnerability.
The discovery that every item of clothing in the wardrobe has been cut to pieces during the night.
The holes in walls.
The smashed belongings.
The threats.
The police visits.
The endless meetings where you explain the same story over and over again, only to be told to put boundaries in place or use consequences because they must learn as they will be an adult soon.
The list goes on.
My life is not a single catastrophe. These are not separate events. They are interconnected catastrophes, each one influencing, amplifying, or creating the next. It is an ongoing series of catastrophes, not all caused by my child, but also by poor policy and practice that too often prioritises eligibility thresholds and limited resources over the actual needs of families.
The Silent Reality
What makes this harder is how invisible it is.
People don't see it.
They don't hear it.
They cannot fully comprehend it.
Because to them, catastrophe is something extraordinary.
A rare event.
A crisis that happens once.
For me, catastrophe can be standing in a room when a knife is suddenly thrust in my direction.
It can be scanning for exits and realising they're blocked.
It can be calculating in seconds how to stay safe.
It can be wondering whether tonight will be another night of violence.
It can also be caused by professionals who do not understand, locking me into a life that is not safe or supported for either my child or me.
It is being denied funding.
None of this is hypothetical.
It is not something that might happen.
It is something that already does.
So Yes, Of Course I Think About the Future
When people tell me not to catastrophise, what they're really saying is:
Don't think about what might go wrong.
But my life has taught me that what might go wrong often already has.
So yes, I think about the future.
I think about my child growing bigger.
Stronger.
I think about what happens if support continues to be denied.
I think about the impact of unmet disability needs that remain unmet year after year.
I think about the increasing risks that come with adolescence and adulthood.
I think about substance use.
Exploitation.
Criminalisation.
Isolation.
I think about what happens if I can no longer keep everyone safe.
What I was told not to catastrophise over later became my reality.
If I knew meaningful disability supports would be available now and into the future, perhaps I would not have to live in such a heightened state of vigilance.
When support is inadequate, delayed, denied, or simply unavailable, the burden falls back onto families.
We carry the violence.
We carry the disability.
We carry the consequences of systems that fail to respond.
And we carry what comes next.
This Isn't Catastrophising. It's Living With Risk.
To someone outside this life, it might look like I am imagining the worst.
But I am not imagining it.
I am recognising patterns.
I am responding to evidence.
I am living inside a reality where crisis is not rare; it is routine.
When catastrophes happen repeatedly, expecting another one is not irrational.
It is experience.
So when I think ahead, I am not spiraling.
I am preparing.
Trying to understand.
Trying to survive.
What I Wish People Understood
When you haven't lived this life, it is natural to reach for comforting phrases.
"Stay present."
"Don't worry about tomorrow."
"Don't catastrophise."
But those words can feel dismissive.
Even patronising.
Because they overlook something fundamental:
You cannot simply stay in the moment when the moment itself is unsafe.
And you cannot ignore the future when it is already unfolding in front of you.
Families living with CPVA are often managing far more than violence alone. We are navigating disability, exclusion, rejection from services, financial strain, educational breakdown, exploitation, substance use, justice systems, Oranga Tamariki involvement, prisons, homelessness, trauma, grief, chronic uncertainty, and countless interconnected crises.
Many people genuinely mean well when they tell us not to catastrophise.
What they often don't realise is that they have no frame of reference for what families like ours are living with every day.
We live with harm that would devastate the lives of anyone, yet we are often expected to carry it in silence so others can remain comfortable.
This Is Not Overreaction. It Is Lived Experience.
My life is not defined by hypotheticals.
It is shaped by ongoing risk, unmet needs, and the consequences that follow.
That does not make me dramatic.
It makes me someone who has learned that when support is absent, vigilance becomes a survival strategy.