I’ve long been aware of the pathway between childhood adversity and prison, but a recent post by David Breakspear, a former prisoner and now a mentor and advocate for criminal justice reform reminded me of how rarely we press pause to ask how we got here. It’s not enough to acknowledge the issue—we need to confront the systemic failures that have allowed this pipeline to persist and take meaningful steps toward addressing its root causes.

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When I joined the children’s social care workforce in 1976, the prison population in England and Wales stood at 41,443, with another 4,884 in Scotland. By 2024, this figure had more than doubled to around 95,900 across the United Kingdom. A review published by the Ministry of Justice in October 2020 attributes much of this rise to the period from 1993 to 2012, primarily driven by higher incarceration rates among older age groups. What I found most shocking in the post was a statistic from 2017: of the 85,975 people in prison at the time, an estimated 54,164 had been excluded from school. It’s a staggering figure, one that lays bare the undeniable link between educational disadvantage, social marginalisation, and the criminal justice system.

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To understand how this came to be, we have to look back. The roots of the school-to-prison pipeline trace back to the 1970s, a time marked by economic austerity in the UK. Schools in working-class and urban areas bore the brunt of the cuts. Overcrowded and underfunded, they were ill-equipped to meet the needs of their most vulnerable students. Instead of addressing poverty or trauma, the political focus shifted to discipline and exclusion—quick fixes for "difficult behaviour."

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Inspections prioritised order over inclusion, indirectly pressuring schools to exclude students deemed "problematic" to meet performance targets. These inspections weren’t neutral; they reflected societal biases that disproportionately targeted Black students and working-class youth. Meanwhile, the media amplified these biases, portraying working-class and immigrant children as threats to societal stability. Sensational headlines fuelled moral panic, justifying harsher discipline and reinforcing exclusionary practices. In this environment, those who most needed support were pushed out, setting them on a path toward the criminal justice system.

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For some children, the consequences of exclusion were immediate. Many who struggled with non-school attendance were taken into care. Non-attendance was often seen as defiance or parental failure, but it was usually rooted in deeper issues: poverty, instability, trauma, or neurodiversity. In the context of the 1980s, widespread scepticism surrounding neurodiverse conditions like dyslexia and ADHD compounded these challenges. Conditions that are now widely recognised were often dismissed, with children labelled as lazy, difficult, or defiant rather than understood as needing support. Instead of addressing these underlying issues, children were removed from their families, further destabilising already fragile lives.

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In the 1980s, Leeds enforced a strict policy to address school non-attendance, involving the removal of children from their families by court order. This approach, intended to provide stability and improve attendance, was adopted by other local authorities facing similar pressures. However, it disproportionately affected working-class families and those in poverty. The approach was widely criticised as punitive and failing to address systemic hardships, leading to trauma for many families. While it may have improved attendance rates in some cases, the controversy highlighted the need for more supportive and less punitive solutions to truancy.

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For those taken into care under these policies, they faced fragmented education, frequent school changes, and inadequate emotional support, deepening their disengagement and mistrust of institutions. This only reinforced cycles of exclusion, leaving care-experienced children particularly vulnerable to the criminal justice system.

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Before the 1993 Education Act, the outcomes for excluded children were bleak. They fell through the cracks of the education system, with minimal support through informal provisions or institutionalisation in facilities focused on containment rather than rehabilitation. Many were left vulnerable to exploitation, poverty, and crime. While the Act introduced Pupil Referral Units (PRUs) to address this gap, these settings were chronically underfunded and rarely provided pathways back to mainstream education. Too often, PRUs became dumping grounds for pupils who had already disengaged, pushing them further toward marginalisation and criminal pathways.

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The situation was compounded by the behavioural manifestations of trauma and neurodiversity. Children with unmet needs often displayed behaviours like aggression, defiance, or withdrawal—misinterpreted as intentional rule-breaking rather than signs of deeper struggles. Punitive responses like suspensions, exclusions, or even referrals to law enforcement became the default. Instead of addressing the root causes of these behaviours, the system criminalised them, entrenching cycles of exclusion and disadvantage.

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Over the years, attitudes toward learning difficulties and neurodiversity began to shift. Advocacy, scientific advancements, and legislative reforms played a key role in driving change. Yet, inclusion policies often arrived without adequate preparation or resources. Schools were left struggling to meet diverse needs, and teachers faced immense pressure to manage behaviours linked to trauma, adversity and nureay while meeting the needs of their entire classrooms. Inclusion sometimes felt like an impossible conundrum: how to protect the rights of one child while ensuring the rights, safety and well-being of others. For some students, inclusion in mainstream settings wasn’t the right answer. Clear, compassionate alternatives—settings designed to meet specific needs—were needed to ensure that all children could succeed without compromising the stability of their peers.

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To dismantle the school-to-prison pipeline, we must confront some hard truths. Trauma, neurodiversity, and adversity are not school-specific problems; they are societal challenges that demand collective action. Teachers cannot shoulder the burden alone. They need access to specialised staff, trauma-informed training, and safe spaces to manage crises effectively. And we must acknowledge the cost of inaction: exclusions, punitive measures, and broken systems that leave children abandoned and unseen, perpetuating cycles of failure that harm society as a whole.

 

Real change requires systemic investment and collaboration. Schools must be equipped with the resources to hire mental health professionals, behaviour specialists, and trained staff. Trauma-informed practices must become the norm, supported by partnerships with social services, healthcare providers, and community organisations to address the full spectrum of a child’s needs. Inclusion must also be reimagined—not as forcing every child into the same environment but as creating diverse pathways that meet individual needs. This includes alternative settings that provide intensive, specialised support without the stigma of exclusion.

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At the heart of this transformation lies respect for educators. Teachers are not therapists or miracle workers; they are educators. Restoring trust in their expertise and giving them the resources they need is vital to rebuilding a system that works for everyone.

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The school-to-prison pipeline reflects the failures of a system that prioritises discipline over understanding, imposes exclusion over inclusion, and relies on reaction rather than prevention. This approach forces schools to sacrifice inclusivity to maintain order, failing to address the underlying causes of children’s struggles—such as trauma, neurodiversity, and adversity—and instead resorting to punitive measures that push vulnerable children out of education rather than supporting them.

By focusing on maintaining order and judging behaviour as a measure of school performance, the system perpetuated cycles of marginalisation and disengagement, ultimately steering many children toward criminal pathways.

 

To dismantle these entrenched patterns, we must shift our focus to addressing the root causes of behaviour, fostering cross-sector collaboration, and investing in holistic, trauma-informed support. This is not just about better managing challenges; it is about fundamentally transforming the structures that have perpetuated exclusion and harm for far too long.