The Early Signs of Escalation That Adults Often Miss

There is a moment in behaviour support that, for me, has become one of the most significant and least recognised. It is not the point where behaviour becomes unmanageable, nor when someone begins to shout, cry, or refuse. It happens much earlier, in the quiet space before that. It is the subtle shift that occurs when a person begins to move from regulation to strain. A body stiffens almost imperceptibly. Breathing changes. Eye contact fades. Engagement becomes effortful. These moments often slip beneath our awareness because they are not disruptive. They do not demand a response. Yet, in my experience, they represent the greatest window of opportunity for meaningful support.

Across classrooms, workplaces, homes, and care settings, these early signs are present every day. A student stares blankly at a page. A colleague grows unusually quiet in a meeting. A child stops moving but continues to comply. On the surface, everything appears calm and orderly. Work is being completed. Voices are steady. Adults often see this as desirable behaviour. However, over time, I have learned that calmness does not always equal regulation. What looks like control can, in reality, be the body’s attempt to maintain stability when it is close to overwhelm.

Escalation is rarely sudden. It is almost always the culmination of an internal process that has been unfolding quietly. Behaviour draws our attention only when it becomes visible enough to disrupt others, but by that stage the nervous system has already been under significant strain. Understanding escalation requires a shift from viewing behaviour as a surface event to seeing it as a physiological process.

The human nervous system constantly monitors the environment for cues of safety and threat. When safety is perceived, the body operates within what Dan Siegel describes as the window of tolerance. In this state, higher-order brain regions that support reasoning, reflection, and empathy are available. We can think, problem-solve, and connect. As stress builds, that window narrows. Our access to these functions decreases, and we begin to rely more on the brain’s primitive systems that prioritise protection.

Stephen Porges’ Polyvagal Theory helps to explain this transition. When we feel safe, the nervous system engages the ventral vagal pathway, which supports communication and social engagement. When we sense threat, it shifts into sympathetic activation, preparing for fight or flight. When the threat feels overwhelming or inescapable, the body may move into a state of shutdown dominated by the dorsal vagal system. From the outside, this can look like calmness, stillness, or compliance, but internally it often represents depletion.

I have seen how these physiological states shape behaviour in powerful ways. A child who suddenly becomes quiet may not be calm but may be freezing. An adult who withdraws may not be disengaged but conserving energy. A person who seems compliant may not be cooperative but trying to avoid further stress. These behaviours often appear acceptable to others, yet they come at a cost to the individual’s capacity. The effort required to hold everything together is rarely visible, and because the behaviour looks appropriate, the underlying struggle is easily missed.

For many people, especially those who are neurodivergent or who have experienced chronic stress or trauma, masking becomes an adaptive survival strategy. They learn to suppress visible signs of distress because showing them has been met with misunderstanding, exclusion, or punishment. Masking can appear as strength or resilience, but it is often an attempt to stay safe in environments that do not feel accepting. A person who is masking may look composed while their internal resources are almost gone. The eventual outburst, shutdown, or withdrawal rarely comes from nowhere. It is the final stage of a process that has been unfolding invisibly for some time.

By the time behaviour becomes overt, the regulatory systems that support reasoning and reflection are often no longer accessible. This is why common adult strategies such as reasoning, warnings, or consequences tend to fail at this point. They depend on cognitive skills that are temporarily unavailable. When someone’s nervous system is in survival mode, logic cannot be processed in the same way. The most effective moment for intervention was earlier, when the first signs of strain appeared.

Understanding escalation as a physiological process shifts the focus from managing behaviour to supporting capacity. Capacity is not fixed. It fluctuates according to factors such as fatigue, hunger, predictability, sensory input, emotional load, and the availability of support. I have worked with many individuals who seem highly capable in one setting and struggle in another, not because their motivation changes, but because their capacity does. When reduced capacity is interpreted as defiance or lack of effort, adults often respond by increasing demands, which further depletes the nervous system and accelerates escalation.

Context also matters. Environments can either regulate or overload. Sensory factors such as lighting, noise, and crowding interact with relational and emotional climates. A classroom or workplace that prioritises compliance and performance often leaves little room to notice when someone begins to falter. Systems built on productivity tend to reward suppression over authenticity. Even the emotional states of those nearby play a role. Human beings co-regulate. When adults respond with tension, urgency, or frustration, those around them absorb it. When adults bring calmness and steadiness, that state spreads too.

Adult regulation is therefore the foundation of effective support. Before we can help others regulate, we must first regulate ourselves. Children and adults alike borrow the calm of those around them until they can build their own. When I approach behaviour with patience, warmth, and predictability, the nervous system of the other person receives that as safety. When I approach it with frustration or fear, it receives that as threat. What we communicate through tone, pace, and presence often matters more than what we say.

Responding early does not require complex intervention. It requires attunement and responsiveness. It might mean reducing demands, slowing the pace, offering reassurance, or providing space. It might mean adjusting sensory input or giving permission to pause. These actions communicate safety and allow the nervous system to return to balance.

The difficulty is that the early stages of escalation do not look urgent. The surface remains calm. Tasks continue to be completed. Yet this is often the most critical moment for support. When adults wait until behaviour becomes overt, they are responding too late. The nervous system, left unassisted, continues on its trajectory toward overwhelm.

Over time, when early signals are consistently missed, predictable patterns form. Children learn that they must reach crisis before adults will take their distress seriously. Adults learn that exhaustion must become burnout before rest is acceptable. People with additional needs learn that silence and compliance are conditions for belonging. These patterns erode trust and teach that discomfort must be hidden to be tolerated.

The alternative is to create environments where early signals are met with curiosity instead of control. This begins with a different set of questions. Instead of asking what is wrong with this person, we ask what is happening for them. Instead of assuming defiance, we consider what the nervous system might be communicating. This approach values regulation over compliance and safety over performance.

When people experience early, attuned support, they begin to learn that they do not need to reach breaking point to be heard. They learn that distress will be noticed and responded to with understanding. They learn that safety can be built through connection rather than enforced through control. Over time, this builds trust, psychological safety, and the capacity for genuine resilience.

The most effective behaviour support happens long before behaviour becomes visible. It happens in the early moments of strain, when the nervous system is beginning to falter but remains reachable. It happens when adults notice small changes in tone, posture, or engagement and respond with empathy rather than urgency. These moments are invitations to connect, not disruptions to manage. When we meet them with steadiness and care, we prevent escalation not by controlling behaviour, but by creating safety.

In practice, I often try to notice the quiet moments that pass unseen. The pause before a task, the sudden stillness in conversation, the person who appears present but distant. These are the body’s early messages that capacity is reducing. They are opportunities to respond before the nervous system has to protect itself through behaviour. When we learn to recognise and honour these signals, we begin to create environments where people can remain whole, even when they are struggling. Calm becomes something shared, not something demanded, and within that shared calm, safety and trust have space to grow.

If this reflection resonates with you, I would genuinely welcome your thoughts, comments, or experiences. SENteachCo is intended to be a space for open reflection, professional curiosity, and shared learning, and I would love to hear how these ideas connect with your own practice or perspective.