From the Cover: Breaking the Silence, Dr. Sam Ballington's Journey from Childhood Abuse to Creating the Association of Child and Family Coaches

In this article, I share my journey from a childhood of abuse and silence, through years of study and self-discovery, to the point where I decided that my lived experience could become a force for change — for myself, and for others.

I wonder whether I should include a trigger warning here or simply acknowledge the harsh reality. Abuse happens. Fathers exploit their daughters. Mothers pretend they are unaware or blatantly ignore it, as admitting the truth would threaten their perfect family image. I now use those experiences to build a thriving community dedicated to learning and development — a community founded on integrity, compassion, and professionalism. From this vision, I established the Association of Child and Family Coaches and developed a new ethical framework to ensure that support for children, parents, and families is safe, empowering, and grounded in research.

Please read my story as one of survival, scholarship, and purpose — not one of pity — because when we turn what once seemed like weakness into strength, we become stronger than the shit that tried to define us.

My childhood was marked by silence and a desperate need to survive. This desperate need to survive is the reason why, when asked by health professionals, “Have you ever tried to end your own life?”, I respond “no”. Not because I see that as a weakness when faced with a desperate need to escape a world of hate, but because I spent so much of my childhood screaming into my pillow through the tears: “I will get out of this. I will escape.”

Abuse was not just something that happened in moments; it was the backdrop of my formative years. It left me feeling small, voiceless, and unsure of whom I could trust.

According to the NSPCC, I was less alone than I thought. In fact, one in twenty children aged 11–17 are sexually abused. Disclaimer incoming — those are the children who were surveyed. I was not one of them. Those early traumatic experiences shaped me in ways I would only come to understand much later. For a long time, I believed my story would hold me back. For a long time, I questioned who I might have been if they had not stolen “me” away from me.

But even then, I held onto a quiet determination: that my life would not end where it began. The pain I carried would one day be transformed into something purposeful. Am I healed? Absolutely not. Forgive them? No fucking way. (Side note, readers — you do not have to forgive your abusers. It is not on you to do so. Push that narrative far from your mind.) Forgotten? Not according to my nightmares, dysregulated behaviour, and overprotective parenting of my children. But… we are where we are.

Education as a Lifeline

Education became my refuge and my pathway forward. Initially, it was more about survival than passion. At school, I was safely away from home. At university, my mind was occupied. But I became obsessed — perhaps even desperate — to prove, to myself and to the world, that I was capable. Every assignment I completed and every exam I passed was a step away from the labels and shadows of my past. It was my way of saying: I am more than what happened to me.

Over time, however, studying became more than just a means to an end. It became a lifeline. Through my studies, I began to make sense of the experiences I had endured. I discovered language for the feelings I had kept hidden in silence. I found theories and practices that explained what I had gone through — and, importantly, showed me that it was possible to break free from myself.

I immersed myself in early childhood education, psychology, and pedagogy, aiming to understand not only how children learn but also how they heal, communicate, and flourish. The more I learned, the more I realised that knowledge could be both transformative and protective. Education was no longer just about escaping my past; it was about building a future where others could be supported differently.

That determination carried me through years of higher education. I earned three Master’s degrees (and still counting!) — in Montessori Education, Early Childhood Education, and Digital Technology in Education — before completing a PhD that explored power, surveillance, and vulnerability in education. Currently, I am pursuing an Ed.D. in Early Childhood Curriculum, focusing on play, creativity, and child-centred learning, and an MSc in Psychology of Mental Health and Wellbeing. I also have a place to study for an M.Ed. (Master of Education) at Cambridge next year.

And here’s a secret I haven’t even told my friends yet (you read it here first!): a European university has approached me to sit on a panel for an Honorary Professorship in recognition of my work. I don’t say this to boast, but to remind myself of what I have achieved. I suffer from the worst level of imposter syndrome. I am never going to be good enough for myself, so how have I been able to set up an accrediting body for those who wish to create a better world through therapeutic coaching with children and families? How dare I even consider such a thing? So, I will keep collecting the qualifications. Perhaps, one day, I will have enough to show people — and myself — that I am the right person to do this.

Education didn’t just provide me with qualifications; it gave me a voice. Each degree symbolised both academic achievement and a step towards healing. It gave me the confidence to stand before others, not as a victim of abuse, but as a scholar, a practitioner, and now a leader. Most importantly, it equipped me with the tools to turn lived experience into a foundation for helping others — children, families, and the professionals who support them.

I will continue. I will keep learning so I can pass this knowledge to others, who will become trained, ethical therapeutic coaches — and thus the ripple effect of my studies will persist. Little by little, changing one life, then the next.

From Pain to Purpose

My personal history has made me acutely aware of how trauma affects children and how distress is rarely communicated through neat sentences but instead through play, behaviour, and silence. I recognised those silences because I had lived them. I understood that a child’s anger or withdrawal often masks fear, sadness, or confusion. I also saw the unspoken cries for help that adults sometimes overlook — not because they do not care, but because they lack understanding.

What struck me most was how families often faced isolation in their struggles. Parents wanted to support their children but lacked the tools or guidance to interpret their behaviour. Professionals, too, were often well-meaning yet insufficiently trained, responding to symptoms rather than addressing the underlying issues of the child’s experience. I began to see clearly that there was a gap — a significant need for approaches that were both compassionate and practical, grounded in theory but attentive to real lives.

That realisation became the driving force behind my work. I poured my energy into creating training programmes in therapeutic play, parent coaching, and child wellbeing. These were not mere theoretical exercises; they were genuine responses to a lifelong question I had carried: What did I need as a child that wasn’t there?

I needed someone who would listen without judgement. I needed safe spaces where I could express myself without words. I needed adults who could see beyond my behaviour to the hurt beneath it. Most of all, I needed consistency — people who would not walk away when things became difficult.

So, I embedded those needs into the core of my work. Every course I created, every framework I designed, was influenced by the child I once was, as well as by the numerous children and families I have encountered along the way. I aimed to ensure that no child felt invisible, and no parent felt powerless in the face of their child’s struggles.

Over time, my desire to fill the gaps in my own past grew into something much larger: research, frameworks, and ultimately a professional body that could transform how we support children and families — the Association of Child and Family Coaches (ACFC).

Through the ACFC, we establish high standards of practice, certify coaches, and offer ongoing professional development. But more than that, we nurture a network of practitioners dedicated to playful, compassionate, and ethical approaches to coaching.

Looking Back, Moving Forward

Reflecting on my early years, I see a child who desperately needed someone to listen, someone to believe in her, and someone to guide her through the storm. Today, I have built a life where I can be that someone — that someone for children and families, and that someone for the coaches who walk alongside them.

The ACFC is more than an organisation; it is a living testament that trauma does not have the final word. With the right support, healing is achievable. With proper training, professionals can alter the course of a child’s life.

If my journey has taught me anything, it is this: our beginnings may shape us, but they do not define our endings. And sometimes, the very chapters we wish had never been written become the ones that give our story its strength