Boarding School Syndrome Beyond Privilege

How Institutions Shape Who We Become in Order to Survive

“Boarding School Syndrome” is a term coined by Joy Schaverien to describe what happens when children grow up away from their parents in boarding schools. She summarises it with the A–B–C–D of boarding school life: Abandonment, Bereavement, Captivity, and Dissociation. These aren’t clinical labels so much as a way to understand how kids adapt to an unusual and often harsh childhood.

In the UK, Nick Duffell is probably the best-known writer on the subject. His book The Making of Them focuses on elite British “public” schools — private, fee-paying institutions — and the way they shape resilience, self-reliance, and the ability to survive within powerful systems. The phrase “the making of them” says it all: it’s about deliberately creating a certain type of person who can be sent far from home, endure hardship, and still function in positions of authority.

Because his work focuses on privilege and leadership, it’s easy to assume that Boarding School Syndrome is about class or power. But that’s not the whole story. Boarding School Syndrome isn’t just for the rich or the elite. It’s about what happens when children are separated from their parents and expected to cope. That can happen in all sorts of boarding schools, anywhere in the world, whether elite or modest, privileged or not.

A child in an English public school, a missionary school in Malaysia, an international school in Europe, or a colonial school for Indigenous children all face very different circumstances. But their psychological pattern is strikingly similar. Loss, dislocation, rules, and the need to survive shape their emotions, relationships, and identities in ways that last into adulthood.

Before we look at the different types of boarding schools, we need a lens to understand them. That’s where the A–B–C–D comes in.

The A–B–C–D of Early Separation: Abandonment, Bereavement, Captivity, Dissociation

Let’s break it down.

Abandonment is what the child feels when parents aren’t there. It doesn’t matter why — education, faith, opportunity — the child experiences a real sense of being left behind.

Bereavement is the loss that follows. Not just parents, but home, routines, language, culture, and a familiar way of being in the world. It isn’t mourned because it’s treated as normal. “Character-building,” “God’s will,” or simply “the way things are” masks it.

Captivity is the reality of being stuck. Boarding schools are closed systems. There’s no leaving, and children must survive inside their rules and hierarchies.

Dissociation is how they cope. Splitting off feelings, needs, or vulnerability becomes a survival skill. Emotional numbness, compliance, stoicism, even over-achievement can all be ways of adapting. And in many boarding school cultures, these adaptations are praised as maturity or strength.

The important point is this: the ABCD pattern happens everywhere, not just in elite schools. What differs is the story told about it. Privilege, duty, faith, or “civilisation” may shape the context, but the psychological pattern is the same.

In the sections that follow, we’ll see how public schools, single-sex schools, missionary schools, international schools, and colonial schools for Indigenous children all share the same basic dynamics — even though the social meaning, ideology, and outcomes are very different.

Public Boarding Schools: Privilege, Stoicism, and Invisible Loss

In Britain, most boarding schools are independent private schools — the ones known as “public schools.” Nick Duffell has written a lot about how these schools are designed to produce a certain kind of person: resilient, self-reliant, ready to step into leadership roles in British society. In the last 20 years, four out of seven UK prime ministers went to boarding school, which explains the title of his book, The Making of Them. Duffell himself came from a working-class background, so he saw the schools from the outside of the elite. He doesn’t call it The Making of Us — his writing has a quietly anti-establishment stance.

It’s easy to assume that Boarding School Syndrome is all about privilege. But the pattern of abandonment, bereavement, captivity, and dissociation shows a different story. Even in these wealthy, high-status environments, children are separated from their families, from the security of home, and from the ordinary support they need. The wealth or reputation of the school changes the context, but it doesn’t erase the experience of loss.

Children are often forced to form attachments to the school itself, to its hierarchy, its routines, and its values, because these become the constants in a world where parental closeness is distant. Emotional pain is rarely acknowledged. Stoicism and achievement are rewarded, while vulnerability is mocked. The child learns to split off feelings, to comply, to perform, and in doing so develops strategies that will stay with them long after leaving school.

Public schools emphasise leadership, competition, and fitting into a particular class culture. Parents pay for opportunity and prestige, but the child’s experience is as much about survival as it is about advantage. Being apart from family, negotiating strict rules, and suppressing emotions is part of growing up here, shaping identity in ways that often remain invisible to outsiders. In other words, boarding school shapes the child first and the future leader second.

Single-Sex Boarding Schools: Gendered Survival and Emotional Narrowing

Traditionally, UK public boarding schools have been single-sex, and many were originally for boys only. Nick Duffell writes about the way these schools shape a very narrow kind of masculinity. Boys often arrived at seven or eight, expected immediately to “put away childish things” and step into a version of adulthood that was defined entirely by the school.

In the BBC documentary The Making of Them, one boy captures this tension beautifully. He talks in a detached way about wanting to become “something like a businessman.” When asked his age, he says he will soon be eleven, and with a natural, unguarded smile, adds that he is looking forward to eating the face of the clown on his birthday cake. The moment is fleeting, almost absurd, but it shows how quickly childhood is expected to be set aside.

Being a child was not encouraged. Homesickness was treated as something transient — the boys were expected to settle in and make friends quickly. Crying or showing emotion invited derision. Bullying, whether from staff or peers, kept everyone on guard. Boys learned to protect themselves by keeping their heads down, deflecting with humour, or, sometimes, joining in the aggression. Tenderness and vulnerability were dangerous.

Finding one’s identity as a male is, of course, a natural part of growing up. But at boarding school, this process often became distorted. The masculine ideals of the institution dominated. The feminine, the domestic, the world of home and mother, was devalued or left behind. As Kirkwood puts it, these boys formed a “band of brothers united by a common bereavement.” Emotional life was narrowed, and dissociation became a tool for survival.

Single-sex boarding schools illustrate how gendered expectations can intersect with the ABCD of boarding school survival. Abandonment and bereavement are experienced in relation to the home left behind, captivity takes the form of rigid routines and constant surveillance, and dissociation becomes a skill — masking feelings, performing masculinity, and learning to survive in a system that prizes conformity over emotional truth.

International Boarding Schools: Dislocation, Impermanence, and Adaptation

Much of the conversation around Boarding School Syndrome focuses on privilege, but international boarding schools tell a different story. These schools are often born out of necessity rather than elite formation. Families living abroad — expatriates, missionaries, diplomats, military personnel — may have no access to schools in the language of their home country. Boarding becomes a practical solution.

Children in these circumstances are often called Third Culture Kids (TCKs). The “three cultures” are the home country, the host country, and the expatriate culture — a mix that is not quite either of the first two but a culture of its own. Many of these children ended up at boarding school, whether in international schools, missionary schools, or military-run institutions. Boarding wasn’t about leadership, status, or privilege; it was about getting an education in an unfamiliar place.

Yet the experience of separation and loss is no less profound. These children are removed from the culture they’ve known, embedded instead in a largely Western school environment. Local languages and cultural practices may be discouraged, even if the children had already formed attachments to them. Holidays at home do not entirely compensate; by the time they return to their passport country, they often feel disconnected. The familiar feels distant, and the place they were “sent from” sometimes seems more like home than the place they were supposed to belong.

This type of boarding school highlights chronic bereavement and the fluidity of identity. Children learn to adapt quickly, to fit in, and to navigate between multiple cultures. Abandonment is experienced in relation to familiar surroundings and the people they have left behind. Captivity shows up in the routines and expectations of a foreign institution. Dissociation becomes a way of managing the gaps between cultures and identities, of holding together a sense of self when nothing around feels stable.

International boarding schools remind us that Boarding School Syndrome is not just about privilege or social advantage. It is about survival — learning to navigate loss, impermanence, and displacement while growing up in a world that asks children to adapt before they are ready.

Missionary Boarding Schools: Sacralised Separation and Holy Endurance

Missionary boarding schools offered something a little different from British public schools. The education might have been broadly similar to what children would have received back “home,” but there was an added purpose: faith. These schools were about nurturing children not just academically, but spiritually, shaping them according to religious ideals. The goals were different, the ideology different, and the emotional legacy often just as powerful — if in subtler ways.

I attended a missionary boarding school in Malaysia. The mission decided that local schools weren’t adequate to prepare children for later education in Western countries. On top of that, having children at home was seen as a distraction from the urgent work of “saving souls.” Mothers, in particular, were not supposed to spend their days overseeing schooling; the children were sent away so their parents could focus on mission work.

One of the key differences between missionary schools and British public schools was the age of entry. Children often started very young — five, six, sometimes even four. At this age, separation is felt in the body as much as the mind. A seven- or eight-year-old can understand, at least in part, that parents will return; a five-year-old experiences loss as a threat to survival. Attachment theory shows us that the younger the child, the more likely they are to develop disorganised attachment patterns. In a missionary school, this meant forming an attachment to the institution itself, internalising its rules, routines, and spiritual framework, and gradually coming to see these conditions as normal. The separation was moralised: “it is the Lord’s will.”

Later in life, many return mentally to those early experiences. Grief, anger, or a sense of collapse can surface even decades later, often triggered by feelings of safety or by milestones in adulthood. And yet, there can also be warmth in the memories: the shared hymns, the group rituals, the comfort of being part of a larger community of children all separated from their parents. Boarding school became a parent of sorts, flawed but present, and leaving it behind could feel like stepping into the role of outsider.

Religion shaped daily life completely. Private devotions before breakfast, morning assemblies, Bible classes, and bedtime stories from Christian authors such as C.S. Lewis were part of the rhythm. Some retained faith; some adapted it, some rejected it. But few left unaffected. Missionary boarding schools, like other forms of boarding school, show that separation, loss, and adaptation shape the child — whether through privilege, ideology, or faith.

Native Boarding Schools: Forced Captivity and Cultural Erasure

Across the different kinds of boarding schools we’ve looked at — British public schools, international schools, missionary schools — there’s often a “higher purpose” attached to the institution: a reason for existing beyond simply educating children. In Native boarding schools, this rationale is carried to its most extreme and brutal form. Set up by the US government, colonial administrations, and religious organisations in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, these schools claimed to offer education and vocational training. In reality, their stated purpose was to erase Indigenous cultures through forced assimilation. “Kill the Indian, save the man” was not just a slogan — it was policy.

Children were often taken from their families by force, leaving lifelong trauma. In terms of the ABCD of Boarding School Syndrome, abandonment was absolute: they were separated from parents without consent. Bereavement extended far beyond losing caregivers; it was the loss of language, tradition, and an entire way of life. Captivity was literal — strict routines, physical barriers, and punishment for attempted escape. Dissociation became a necessary tool for survival, as the children learned to hide emotion, comply with rules, and internalise the imposed values.

Unlike other boarding schools, the education offered was often minimal, limited to manual labour or domestic tasks. Punishments were harsh, and sexual abuse was widely documented. Yet even in these extreme circumstances, some children found ways to survive and retain a sense of self. A few gained skills that allowed them to navigate colonial society, become leaders, or reclaim rights for their communities. N. Scott Momaday captures this resilience in House Made of Dawn: “They have assumed the names and gestures of their enemies, but have held on to their own, secret souls; and in this there is a resistance and an overcoming, a long outwaiting.”

Native boarding schools make the ABCD framework starkly visible. Abandonment and bereavement were enforced, captivity was structural and absolute, and dissociation was necessary for even the smallest measure of safety. The experience reminds us that Boarding School Syndrome is not about privilege. It is about what institutions demand from children to survive — and how those demands shape a life, long after the school gates close

Race: When Separation Includes the Loss of Belonging

Race intersects with boarding school culture in powerful ways, but its impact is particularly clear in two contexts: British public schools, where racism was often endemic, and Native boarding schools, where it shaped the very purpose of the institution. In the latter, schools were explicitly designed to erase Indigenous culture. In the former, the effects were subtler but no less damaging, shaping identity, belonging, and the emotional experience of the children.

For ethnically diverse pupils in British public schools, attendance could offer prestige and opportunity, especially for families with means. But the price of inclusion was high. Racism, whether overt or subtle, was ever-present. Microaggressions, stereotyping, and “banter” dismissed as harmless could compound feelings of alienation. Punishments were sometimes applied unevenly, academic potential underestimated, and expectations quietly lowered.

For these children, the ABCD of Boarding School Syndrome was layered. Abandonment was compounded by being separated not only from family but also from cultural familiarity. Bereavement extended beyond parents to language, traditions, and community. Captivity was social as well as institutional — a constant pressure to conform to British middle-class norms, to become “Englishmen of colour.” Dissociation became a necessary survival strategy, allowing children to navigate a world where acceptance was conditional. Over time, some internalised the very system that excluded them, disconnecting from their histories and culture just to survive.

In Native boarding schools, the same patterns were made absolute. Abandonment was forced, bereavement total, captivity literal, and dissociation essential for survival. Language, culture, and identity were systematically stripped away. Yet even here, some children retained their inner lives, finding ways to hold onto themselves and eventually reclaim agency over their future.

Across both contexts, the psychological pattern is strikingly similar: when children must survive by leaving essential parts of themselves behind, the cost is profound. It’s grief, it’s splitting of the self, and it’s an ongoing negotiation between survival and authenticity. Race doesn’t simply add a social or political layer to boarding school life; it intensifies the very processes that shape children’s adaptation to abandonment, bereavement, captivity, and dissociation.

Sexuality: Desire, Shame, and the Policing of the Self

Normally, as children grow, the intensity of attachment needs gradually lessens. By puberty, while those needs remain important, a new focus emerges: sexuality. Teenagers are learning about desire, intimacy, and themselves. But in single-sex boarding schools in the UK, this natural development has often been treated as dangerous or shameful. In boys’ schools especially, sexual curiosity did not fit the narrow ideal of masculinity being taught. Desire implied relationship, emotion, and connection — things that boarding school culture actively discouraged.

For boarders, there was nowhere to safely explore these emerging feelings. There were no peers of the opposite sex, relationships with the same sex were forbidden or policed, and even masturbation was often framed as sinful. Sexuality had to be pushed underground, hidden, or denied.

There’s a persistent myth that boarding schools create homosexuality, but research suggests otherwise. Experimentation might happen, but the proportion of pupils who later identify as gay is similar to the general population. Peer pressure alone doesn’t determine sexual identity. What is clear, however, is the fear and control these schools exerted over sexual expression. Homophobia was rampant, and incidents of sexual abuse, though widespread, were rarely acknowledged.

Missionary boarding schools were different in one key way: most pupils were pre-pubescent. Curiosity existed, of course, and occasional “show and tell” episodes occurred, sometimes more. These schools were often co-educational, giving some opportunity to encounter the other sex. What was missing in both missionary and single-sex schools was the guiding presence of parents, helping children make sense of desire, boundaries, and relationships. Without this, teenagers had to construct their understanding of sex alone, often in distorted ways.

For boys, this could mean seeing girls as objects to gratify desires rather than real people with feelings and needs. Relationships became rehearsed, idealised, or imaginary. Sexuality was shaped by shame, secrecy, and the split between feeling and survival. And the effects often last. Adults who spent their formative years in boarding school may struggle with intimacy, showing up as emotional distance, difficulty sustaining closeness, or a flattened capacity for connection. The ABCD of Boarding School Syndrome — abandonment, bereavement, captivity, and dissociation — is clearly at work here. Dissociation protects, but it also shapes desire, intimacy, and the way relationships are experienced for a lifetime.

Conclusion: From ABCD to Living Fully

Across all forms of boarding school — British public schools, international and expatriate schools, missionary schools, and colonial “native” schools — a common psychological pattern recurs. Beneath uniforms, crests, hymns, flags, and mission statements lies the A-B-C-D of Boarding School Syndrome: Abandonment, Bereavement, Captivity, and Dissociation.

Abandonment is felt in the child’s attachment system, even when separation is framed as opportunity or necessity. Bereavement follows — for parents, home, language, culture, and the life left behind. Captivity emerges as the child adapts to a closed system with its own rules and hierarchies. Dissociation — emotional numbing, splitting, compliance, or idealisation of the institution — becomes a survival strategy.

It is a mistake to frame boarding school harm primarily in terms of privilege. Some schools confer social or economic advantage, but the A-B-C-D sequence is not produced by privilege, nor prevented by it. A wealthy child in an English public school, a missionary child in Southeast Asia, an expatriate child in an international school, and an Indigenous child in a colonial institution may live in very different political realities, yet their nervous systems are shaped by the same four experiences.

How these experiences unfold is influenced by identity and context. Race, culture, class, gender, and sexuality affect how abandonment and bereavement are felt and expressed. Ethnically diverse pupils face exclusion and stereotyping; Indigenous children endure forced assimilation. Gender norms in single-sex schools restrict emotional expression, while faith-based schools impose moral frameworks that shape attachment and behaviour. Even privilege cannot shield a child from the core wound of separation.

Across all these settings, the psychological pattern repeats: attachment, identity, emotional regulation, sexuality, and cultural belonging are reorganised around survival. Boarding schools do not merely educate; they shape coping strategies and personality, often at the cost of emotional richness and authentic selfhood.

Many former boarders function well, even brilliantly. Yet functioning is not the same as living fully. Only later — in relationships, parenting, burnout, illness, or therapy — does the unfinished business of abandonment, bereavement, captivity, and dissociation surface. What emerges is not ingratitude, but grief for the parts of the self that had to be set aside to survive.

Even in the strictest systems, something human endures: humour, imagination, loyalty, and inner life. Resilience exists, but it is forged by necessity rather than freely chosen. The task in later life is not to deny this resilience, nor to romanticise it, but to understand what it cost — and reclaim it.

Ultimately, what unites these institutions is not privilege, nor ideology, but the way they organise childhood around the A-B-C-D sequence. Recovery means reclaiming the self along multiple intersecting dimensions: moving from dissociation back into feeling, from captivity into choice, from bereavement into mourning, from abandonment into relationship — while reintegrating the parts of identity, culture, gender, and sexuality that were constrained or silenced. Only then can the full human experience — of attachment, desire, creativity, and belonging — be truly lived. From surviving to living.