Our family finances reached breaking point at the end of last year. As well as the usual expense of Christmas, my son’s birthday is in December, which makes that time particularly painful financially. 

We’d also, like so many other families, become victims of lifestyle creep, when you start to allow a lot of unnecessary expenses to drift into the family finances without you really noticing it. Not to mention the fact that everything is getting rapidly more expensive. Things we once bought without a second thought (Lurpak, anyone?) are now practically unaffordable luxuries. Suddenly, we were left wondering why our usual income wasn’t quite covering everything anymore.

Many families like ours are already feeling the pinch of ever-rising living costs and, as war continues in the Middle East, things are only going to get worse. Earlier this month, average petrol prices reached an 18-month high of 140.6p per litre, and forecasters are warning an energy price hike will hit any day now.

When I totted up our monthly spending earlier this year, I was shocked to find it had crept up by a significant amount. I’m the founder of Investing Insiders, a financial education platform which gives people advice on how to make the most of their money, so I really should have known better. But, juggling our busy jobs with raising our two children, 15 and 17, my husband, Tim, a chief marketing officer and I had just let things get out of hand.

Knowing a drastic action plan was needed, I went through the family budget and put our outgoings into three categories. Fixed expenses like our mortgage, utilities and phone bills that are essential and usually a similar amount each month. 

Variables like food, toiletries and transport, which we need but can have some influence over. Then discretionary costs, including socialising, takeaways and hair appointments. This is where I knew I could save the most.

My intention was to cut costs just for January, but we’ve saved so much money (around £1,700 a month), I’ve kept it going.

I discovered we were spending £400 a month on eating out and takeaways – and I’m not talking about anything swanky, sometimes just a simple Chinese – so that stopped. The hard part is when you’re around friends who don’t need to economise. We all have that friend who likes to choose from the bottom of the wine list or insists on eating at the expensive restaurant that you’ve been diligently avoiding like the plague. But seeing our bank balance recover is the motivation that keeps me going.

We stopped buying expensive coffee out. Tim was nipping out on the school run and grabbing a coffee for nearly £4 a go when we have a perfectly good machine at home – that immediately shaved £40 off a month.

We were a two-car household, and so I got rid of one, an old Ford S-Max, which I scrapped for £350. We then saved £400 a month in running costs.

Children are incredibly expensive to feed, particularly my six-foot-nine son. I had been spending £5 a day on expensive protein bars for the kids’ school snacks, £100 a month! Now I make a tray bake using a base of oats and peanut butter, which takes ten minutes, costs £7.50 and lasts all week.

It’s tricky to put a monetary value on all the little purchases that teenagers talk you into, such as a sweet treat at the shops after dinner, but I would guess it easily came to around £50 a month. I told them not to ask for any new clothes unless they were prepared to earn the money by doing jobs around the house. Emptying the bins and cleaning them every day for a week would earn them £20, for example. But far from costing me money, we saved because obviously they didn’t do any of it.

Next, I put a stop to all Amazon impulse buys. It’s awful to admit it, but we were racking up £200 a month. I introduced the 48-hour rule, that’s the length of time you must leave something in your online basket before you can buy it. It eliminates late-night clicking. You know things have got out of hand when packages arrive and you’ve got no idea what’s in them.

We were much more intentional about food shopping too. Previously, we were going to Sainsbury’s every day and buying ingredients for that night’s supper. But you never walk out with only what you need. I put the Ottolenghi cookbook away and dug out my old copy of Save With Jamie – something I bought years ago when we were living on a shoestring – and began shopping only for the dishes I was cooking. Jamie’s concept is brilliant: you cook one big meal and live off it for several days.

I’ll make a Sunday roast and turn the leftovers into stews, soups and bubble and squeak, all healthy and nutritious. Under the new regime, we’ve stopped having a fridge full of uneaten leftovers that would fester for a week before finding their way to the bin.

Our food bill went from £1,000 a month to £600 after I also banned buying food in Waitrose and Marks & Spencer. Walking into those shops for one item soon turns into several oh-too-tempting expensive items you don’t need. I now buy wine according to what’s on offer, I’ve stopped drinking during the week, and at the weekends I limit myself to two glasses a night by pre-pouring it into a carafe.

I had a monthly beauty subscription for £25 that I got rid of. All this retinol cream kept arriving, and I ended up with a glut of it. The luxury Purdy and Fig cleaning product subscription went too which saved a further £12 a month.

I cancelled a £30 a month gym membership that nobody could even remember setting up, let alone using. I called Sky and cancelled our TV package. The very next day they called me back and offered me a massively better deal which saved another £35 a month. You just need to be prepared to go through the painful process of cancelling it.

I was going to the hairdresser every six weeks for a cut and colour costing £120. Now I leave it 12 weeks until it’s absolutely desperate and my roots are so bad I look like a badger. But, hey, desperate times call for desperate measures.

Making these quite extreme savings has given us a financial reset, and I would encourage everyone to do it once a year to build financial resilience. Culling unnecessary spending is like decluttering a room; you feel so calm afterwards. Now that we’ve done the hard work of putting all this in place, I’m not sure we’ll ever return to our old bad habits.

As told to Jade Beer

investinginsiders.co.uk TikTok: @antonia_investing

Every morning I brace myself for the first blow to be struck. I’m well used to hiding black eyes, cuts and split lips with make-up. I dress carefully so the livid bruises that cover my body are kept under wraps.

Insults are a regular occurrence too. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve been called a b***h.

I feel like a prisoner in my own home, trapped in this abusive relationship. Too afraid to admit the truth to the world.

My children have also been hurt, something that breaks my heart and has completely destroyed their sense of safety.

You may wonder why I don’t just leave, for their sake if not my own.

But this is not a classic case of domestic violence; my abuser isn’t my husband of 20 years. In fact, he’s on the receiving end too.

My attacker is our nine-year-old son, Henry, who has severe autism.

So violent is he, and so utterly have his needs taken over our home, that I can say unequivocally he has ruined my life – and that of my husband and our three other children.

The toll he has taken on our marriage, emotions, health, finances and social lives is nothing short of devastating.

Of course, admitting as much remains taboo. Unconditional motherly love seems to mean glossing over dark realities such as this.

But it’s not that I don’t love Henry. He is still my son – something I will myself to remember as he punches and kicks me. I do, however, hate and resent how miserable our family’s existence has become.

Henry lashes out almost daily and I’m terrified that as he gets older and stronger, the split lips and black eyes will become broken bones. Or that one day he might actually kill someone. Maybe me, since I’m his number one target.

I used to think it was because he hated me, but experts say he takes his aggression out on me because I’m his safe space, the one he knows he can rely on to always be there for him. No matter what.

It’s not Henry’s fault, it’s the way his brain is wired. And so, I must bear the brunt – without complaint or retaliation.

All I ever wanted to be was a mother. I did well at school, and then university, and made a successful career in IT sales. A career that has been yet another casualty of our situation.

With only one sibling, I dreamed of having six children – a brood that would bring so much love and joy. When I met Nick, now 46, through work in 2008, he wanted a large family too.

We imagined our gang of children clambering into bed for Sunday morning snuggles, taking long dog walks by the river near our Buckinghamshire home, and piling them into the car for happy day trips to parks and beaches.

Along came Amber, now 16, George, 13, Freya, 11, and that’s exactly how it was. Until Henry was born in July 2017, when I was 36.

It’s hard to marry the memory of the gorgeous, warm little bundle the midwife placed into my arms with the intimidating, unpredictable boy he’s become.

When he was three, I noticed his speech was delayed, he never played with toys and he started lashing out. But he learned to take himself to the toilet and brush his teeth before he started school. Admittedly, though, he only has a bath or shower once every ten days, as he hates the sound and sensation of water.

It wasn’t until just before he left pre-school, when he was four, that I really started to worry. That’s when there was an incident at home I’ll never forget. Henry tried to hit Amber, then 12, after she attempted to prevent him escaping out of the front door. When I intervened, he turned on me – furiously kicking and punching.

It took 45 minutes for him to calm down. Afterwards, I hugged my other children and we cried together as I nursed my cuts and bruises.

It was the clearest and most devastating signal that Henry had severe behavioural problems. He was referred for assessment for an Education, Health and Care Plan (EHCP) where a child’s special educational needs are outlined. But diagnosis proved a long, arduous process.

We were still awaiting a verdict a year later when Henry, then almost six, started escaping from school, turning up on the doorstep at home a ten-minute walk away, leaving me terrified he’d run into a road and get hit by a car. Sometimes he’d wreck the house in anger and frustration, other times he’d want to sit alone in his indoor tent.

When he then kicked a window pane in at school, the headteacher immediately called the NHS Children and Adolescent Mental Health Services (CAMHS) for advice, as Henry was now displaying behaviour that could be a threat to life – others and his own.

Within four days we had a diagnosis of autism and anxiety – his official diagnosis is autism co-morbid with generalised anxiety – symptoms of which include complete overwhelm with language and sensory overload.

He was prescribed the medication clonidine to help calm him and reduce the impulsive behaviour. But even on medication, Henry continued to break things, pulling electric sockets out of the wall and running away. He was on melatonin for years. Half an hour after taking it he’d be asleep, so the rest of us could have a family evening. Unfortunately it has recently stopped working, and we are yet to find a replacement.

No other parents have complained to my face, although someone told school that Henry had used horrible words during an argument.

He doesn’t have a one-to-one teaching assistant (TA) at school as there isn’t the funding, but the class TA sits with him as it’s not safe for him to be on his own.

Thankfully he has never lashed out at other children but, in June 2024, when he was seven, he hit a teacher, prompting the school to temporarily exclude him.

I’d been begging them to do this for months because an exclusion on record would have been the fastest way to get him into a special needs school – sadly, there aren’t any locally, so he’s still in a mainstream school, albeit not for more than four hours a week – an arrangement agreed with the school and CAMHS.

My £30,000-a-year job and any freedom I had were instant casualties, as I had to be at home with him. He won’t engage with learning so I don’t teach him. I would dearly love to read with him – or to him – but he won’t tolerate it.

Instead, he spends entire days in his pyjamas in front of a screen. If I try to make him get dressed or do an activity with me, he kicks and punches me.

Meanwhile, minus my salary, we’re under huge financial strain. My poor husband is working all hours as a one-man IT troubleshooter to pay the mortgage, bills and basic living costs.

Our car broke down months ago but we can’t afford to fix it, so Nick has to walk 40 minutes each way to and from the station for his commute, and we can’t afford essential renovations to our old Victorian house.

And God knows it needs it, because Henry constantly destroys things: to date, three TVs, various doors, ornaments and windows panes. He’s seriously injured himself punching a pane of glass, only to put his foot through another one just days later.

Some weeks he refuses to go to school at all, which means I’m trapped inside too. Having previously been so outdoorsy and well, I’ve now been diagnosed with chronic vitamin D deficiency as I’m so rarely exposed to daylight, and have been prescribed Citalopram for depression and anxiety. I’ve also gained 2st and developed fibromyalgia, which causes chronic pain all over my body – something my GP says is down to stress.

As Henry won’t tolerate visitors in the house, I can’t even have a friend pop in for coffee. My older children can’t invite friends over either. There are no family days out at weekends because either Nick or I have to be at home with Henry. I can’t even nip out if I discover a missing ingredient when I’m cooking dinner.

There is no respite. He refuses to sleep anywhere except in our bed between Nick and me. He won’t even go to the bathroom without insisting on me waiting outside the door for him.

And then there’s the violence.

Nick and I have also been told to follow a ‘zero demand approach’. For example, we can’t say, ‘No! Stop!’ because his autism has a component known as Pathological Demand Avoidance (PDA). This means asking him to do anything can lead to a meltdown. Talking to him is like having a conversation with a bomb that could explode at any second.

Instead, we have to be a calm, silent presence, which is a tough ask when he’s beating me up.

I’ve been taught a process called ‘squashing’ where I sit or lay on him, as it’s the most effective way to calm him down, as such heavy pressure allows his nervous system to regulate.

My family and friends worry dreadfully. We took a big gamble and invited my dad for Christmas two years ago, only for him to witness an almighty meltdown from Henry, who was furious that Grandad was in the house.

‘Don’t do that to Mummy!’ Dad yelled, very upset, as I tried to lie on top of Henry to calm him down.

Meanwhile my eldest son has retaliated twice now, hitting Henry back when he’s launched an attack. I can’t blame him as he’s such a calm, orderly boy. He’s even said: ‘Henry’s ruined my life.’

My youngest daughter got very upset recently after she’d been desperate to have friends over, crying: ‘I hate him, everyone hates him. I wake up every day and wish I was dead!’

Hearing that destroyed me.

It’s hard not to blame Henry for all our troubles. At times I resent him so much I’ve considered foster care or boarding school. At least then my other children would have their lives back, and Nick and I might be able to mend our marriage.

We’re still friends, thank goodness, but there’s been zero intimacy between us for a couple of years. We have even discussed divorce. Sometimes I’ve thought that at least it would give us brief respite if we lived apart and shared custody. Then again neither of us could cope with him on our own.

In my darkest moments, I’ve wondered if ending my own life would help my other children get access to the therapy they need to cope.

But then every so often Henry will have a good week or tell me: ‘You’re the best mummy ever!’ And then I hate myself for even having such thoughts.

All in all though, my biggest fear is for Henry – that one day he will do something so terrible he’ll be sent to prison, where he wouldn’t cope.

Currently, we’re having a slightly better spell as the GP has increased Henry’s clonidine, so he has at least stopped attacking his siblings. I even managed to get him to the barbers for a haircut this week, but paid for it with an attack afterwards.

His psychiatrist from CAMHS phones every two weeks to check how we’re doing. He has occupational therapy at school, and we see a paediatrician every six months.

But are we doomed to live in this small, insular world for ever? Now 45, I have little motivation or hope for the future, least of all the house full of grandchildren that Nick and I always dreamed of one day having – Henry wouldn’t tolerate them.

And so we all go on, merely existing. Because we have no choice.

• Maria Goodman is a pseudonym. Names and identifying details have been changed. For confidential support, call the Samaritans on 116 123 or visit samaritans.org
• Interview by Sadie Nicholas