How open should we be with our students' safeguarding files?

How Open Should We Be With Our Students' Safeguarding Files?

Schools don't really like sharing sensitive information about their students. The documents that detail a student’s Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs) remain closely guarded, justifiably so. But children also benefit from being able to talk about their difficulties, from having an environment in which they are able to talk about their past experiences. Indeed one of the cornerstones of Trauma Informed Practice (TIP) is that teachers should tailor their responses within the context of an understanding of the ways in which these histories have shaped their present behaviour. So of course we need to prioritise privacy and confidentiality, but at the same time we also need to create a culture of openness and understanding. How do we square this circle?

This is a genuine question, rather than (on this occasion) an impassioned polemic. Because from where I'm standing there are two sides, each equally valid, which exist in awkward conflict.

On the one hand, trust in the confidentiality of personal information is sacrosanct, and no-one needs this more than those who have suffered childhood trauma. To have these personal stories shared without the knowledge or explicit consent of the individual could be unspeakably devastating. Legally this sensitive information shouldn't be shared, morally no-one should feel pressured to do so, and honestly teachers don't really want it, with all the added emotional burden that having this information might entail.

But on the other hand, I worry that we are in danger of creating such a culture of secrecy, that schools become a place where it’s felt that these stories can’t, and indeed shouldn’t, ever be talked about.

Closed by Konrád Balázs

We are uncomfortable when people share their stories of trauma, we don't really know how best to respond. How to listen empathically, without judgement, but also without feeling overwhelmed ourselves. So we've created a culture in which these stories are Not To Be Shared, and we gratefully accept any excuse that helps us avoid hearing them. I don't know about you but in the last few years I've noticed that GDPR keeps coming up as a barrier for sharing information, even though no-one has any idea what it says about this kind of thing. It's become a convenient way of putting an end to that conversation, of helping us not to engage.

Because the truth is we're afraid of these stories. We're afraid of losing control of them, afraid that they might escape, might infect us. So these stories of childhood trauma get quietly locked away. Buried in the darkest corners of the child’s mind and the office of the Designated Safeguarding Lead, in a filing cabinet locked with a key that no-one ever asks for, except to put more files in.

“When the natural healing process [following trauma] is interrupted, the result is PTSD. At the core of PTSD is avoidance—turning away from anything that reminds us of the incident, including talking about it. A vicious cycle ensues.” (Ellen Hendriksen)

We are social animals, and we benefit from talking about our traumas, small and big. It helps us to process what has happened, to make sense, to catch them in the safety net of language, rather than let them roam freely in our minds as formless noise. Traumatic memories, unlike positive ones, diminish in size and intensity when we talk about them, and grow when we don't.

I was partly inspired to write this after reading Mary Meredith's excellent blog, about the fear people have of 'opening the can of worms' of children's mental health. As she points out: “The school climate that discourages this kind of discourse can therefore never be a healing one for vulnerable children”. By being overly private with these files are we in danger of inadvertently creating this climate without realising we are doing so? 

Quayside by Mike Ellis

Senior Leaders will always err on the side of caution when it comes to protecting private information, and this is entirely understandable. They are the ones who will carry the can if there is a breach of confidentiality and it will be a serious price to pay. So for them, in what they see as their role as gatekeepers of these files, the only people who get to see them are those who are legally and professionally obliged to do so. Interest from anyone else, a form tutor, head of year, mentor, favourite teacher, tends to be treated with at best a certain scepticism.

Unlike psychologists, say, or doctors, people who work in schools can feel uncomfortable even having these documents in their possession, let alone reading them. Without adequate training or experience, they are left uncertain as to how to read them, and how they should respond. And these feelings can be subtly transmitted to the students, without anyone necessarily realising it’s happening. Which should be a concern, because what these students need first and foremost, before they can trust someone enough to talk about their past, is the sense that this listener will be able to contain them. They need their confidant to be confident, secure enough within themselves to be able to listen calmly and without judgement.

So what message are we really conveying to the student in question when we shut those files away never to be looked at or spoken of again? By sealing them away, out of sight, what harmful thoughts might we be in danger of inadvertently confirming in their minds? That what happened is something to be ashamed of? That it's not normal? That they are to blame? We don’t know what they might be thinking about the experiences locked away in their filing cabinets. That’s the point. We don’t know because we have internalised the notion that we mustn't go near them.

There's a curious 'bystander effect' in play here too. Psychologists have found that the greater number of bystanders there are, the less likely it is that any one of them will step forward to help a person in distress. There is an assumption, especially at secondary school (where each student comes into contact with at least twenty adults over the course of their week) that someone else will be taking care of things like this. The form tutor knows vaguely that the child has had serious issues at home, but thinks that they are probably talking to their Head of Year about what's happened. Except the Head of Year thinks they're talking to the SENCo, who thinks they're talking to their CAMHS psychologist, who thinks they're talking to the social worker, who thinks they're probably talking to the DSL, who thinks they're talking to their form tutor. When you drill down, as I have had to do, more often than not you find that the poor kid isn't really talking to anyone. Not about the things that matter.

“Our systems often exacerbate or even replicate the relational impermanence and trauma of the child’s life. We expect “therapy”—healing—to take place in the child via episodic, shallow relational interactions with highly educated but poorly nurturing strangers. We undervalue the powerful therapeutic impact of caring teacher, coach, neighbor, grandparent, and a host of other potential ‘cotherapists’.” (Christine Ludy-Dobson & Bruce Perry)

I suspect that the erroneous belief that CAMHS are always available and on hand to deal with these issues is borne out of wishful thinking rather than a genuine understanding of the current state of children's mental health provision. People tend to either overestimate the amount of time and resources CAMHS have at their disposal at the moment, or they underestimate the number of children suffering from mental health difficulties. Or both.

One final concern I have is that in the absence of a formal system for disseminating sensitive case histories, the vacuum is then filled with more informal methods of information spreading. A quiet word by the photocopier, whispers in the corridor. “Come into my office for a sec and I’ll fill you in…”, “you didn’t hear this from me…”, “Off the record, she’s…” Rumours spread quickly around staff rooms, spread by professionals who should know better, but who justify this gossiping with the belief that they have a duty to know about these things in order to provide the most holistic, trauma-informed, individuated care possible to a student with whom they are in daily contact. And in a way they’re right. But there must be a better system.

Now the easy thing to declare is that it is always up to the individual, and their family, to decide what information should be disclosed, when and to whom. End of story. After all, it is their confidential information for them to do what they like with. And I absolutely agree. However, in reality, whether they will opt to agree to share information with teachers will to some extent depend on the normative culture that has been created. In a place where the majority of staff do not have the training, experience or confidence to manage this information, I would not want it shared either. So how do we achieve this culture of openness without compromising the essential confidentiality of these files?

Like I said, this is a genuine question. And I would love to hear from anyone who has ideas about how to establish best practice, or any experience of a setting where this balance has been successfully achieved.