This past week has felt like a bit of a transition week. For those of us who are parents of school-age children most of us will have experienced either this week or the previous one our children returning to school after what has been a surprisingly good and even traditional ‘sunny’ summer.
That first day back at school is a real rite of passage for folks – looking at the new starts all bright-faced and uncertain, and older children re-kindling friendships and contact even if mobile phones have never been out of their hands for weeks! This return to school is more than calendar – it is ritual. It marks continuity and renewal. It also reminds us of the fragility of our systems – education, care, community – that hold us together.
But in the non-school world too we are also seeing change all around us, as conkers seem to be appearing even earlier and leaves are beginning to change colour. There is a growing chill in the morning air, not yet the bite of winter, but a reminder that change marches on. The days remain long, but the evening shadows start to stretch. And as seems to be becoming pattern migratory birds are returning even earlier than normal. The seasons are turning. I have always found these in‑between times to be moments of truth-telling, and opportunities for realism.
Watching children file into school reminds us of both hope and urgency. Schools are where potential is forged; where community is invested in, where futures begin. Yet alongside this forward movement, we must remember that for many families, stability is fragile. While classrooms brim with promise, care providers – homes, charities, volunteer networks – stand on strained foundations and if we allow those foundations to crumble the edifice of health and wellbeing in our society collapses.
This season is I have always felt a time for realistic optimism, a hope for the future grounded in a realistic assessment of the present and that seasonal aptitude has never been more needed than it is now for the world of social care. And realism begins with honesty.
Over 200 charities – many providing key social care services – have come together to issue a stark warning: the care sector is not sustainable as it stands. In an Open Letter to the First Minister published last week they plead for immediate action- sufficient funding and systemic reform- to avert a collapse that would harm our most vulnerable. Their plea echoes continual statements from myself and colleagues as for months now we have warned of real and immediate risk to social care provision, and most importantly the fact that people are dying as we speak and watch, waiting for life-affirming and renewing social care support. A couple of days ago in an interview in Herald Scotland I lamented the apparent ‘paralysis of response’ from the Scottish Government. No one seems to be listening. We are deafened by the inactivity of decision-makers and the malaise of political disinterest.
The charities’ joint letter is clear: nearly half of voluntary care organisations feel financially insecure; two-thirds rely on reserves to keep going, with 91% at risk within four years if trends persist; and a full 81% of voluntary bodies report escalating financial threats to essential services. These numbers are not abstract – they are communities, relationships, and dignity dripping away. The members of Scottish Care echo the same sense of alarm and concern in the surveys we have produced over the last few months. There is an existential threat to survival within the vast majority of social care providers in Scotland.
As we turn our gaze therefore toward autumn and winter, Scotland’s social care system stands at a threshold- facing profound economic pressures and legislative shifts.
From April 2025, UK-wide Employer National Insurance Contributions (eNICs) rose significantly adding around £2.8 billion in sector-wide costs, and imposing tight margins on social care providers, particularly smaller independent and voluntary organisations operating on low fees.
But this isn’t just about finance- it’s about dignity. Providers forced to scale back, cut staff hours, or close services leave vulnerable people isolated and families without support. Realism demands we name this hardship.
Added to this – just last month, the UK government closed the adult social care visa route unless roles meet degree-level criteria- meaning many migrant care workers will no longer be eligible. New recruits must now meet higher requirements, effectively ending overseas recruitment for care work from July 2025. I had a manager in tears this past week because she was having to tell a brilliant staff member that they could not continue her visa.
These changes threaten to exacerbate existing staffing gaps. Social care leaders warn of rising attrition, especially as better-paid NHS roles lure workers away from care homes and homecare services in pursuit of stability and advancement.
The realities facing our communities and our care services are stark. The rise in costs- whether from increased employer contributions, energy bills, or the price of food- tightens the margins of already fragile services. Workforce challenges remain severe, exacerbated by changes in immigration policy that close doors for many who might have chosen Scotland as a place to live and care. Families continue to struggle with the dual responsibilities of work and caring, unpaid carers shouldering burdens often unseen.
These are not passing inconveniences. They are deep and structural. To deny them would be to engage in wishful thinking. And care, if it is to mean anything, cannot be built on illusions.
Realism demands we hold these truths without flinching. Without pretending that goodwill alone can patch the gaps. Realism demands that we have long since passed the stage where Elastoplast measures will patch up the brokenness and ensure the patient survives. Realism demands that we require brave political leadership to make decisions and choices which will result in real change and not simply spew out yet more empty rhetoric. We need hope-full realism.
So where does that leave us? In tension. Realism tells us services face cost pressures, workforce crises, and uncertain policy. Hope reminds us of emerging gains: new rights, rising pay, reform legislation, and long‑term structures that aim to embed rights and consistency.
Hopeful realism is not denial, nor is it escapism. It is choosing to act.
Hopeful realism is the art of carrying truth in one hand and courage in the other. It refuses the luxury of despair just as it rejects the comfort of denial.
Hopeful realism tells us that the narrow road is often the truest one. It asks of us not perfection, but persistence; not certainty, but commitment.
Hopeful realism is not an abstract sentiment; it is a discipline. It is the daily choosing to believe that change is possible- and the practical work of bringing it into being.
Hopeful realism is not a compromise- it is a balance.
It says: Yes, we face severe staff shortages. But we also have the capacity to train, support and properly value a new generation of carers not least if we improve terms and conditions.
It says: Yes, increased costs will strain providers. But investment and fair funding can steady the ship and that the ship is essential for all of us.
It says: Yes, immigration changes will close pathways. But with imagination and policy will, we can open new ones.
Hopeful realism is a lens that sees the cracks in the walls yet still tends the flame within.
The coming months will not be easy. Winter rarely is. But this is not a time for resignation. It is a time for choosing. Choosing to act, to support, to stand alongside. Choosing to hold our political leaders accountable to their promises. Choosing to believe that care, in its truest form, remains one of the most powerful expressions of our humanity.
The return of schools teaches us that renewal is possible. And if we can invest collectively in education- an investment in our children- surely, we can do the same in social care- an investment in our neighbours, families, elders. The spirit of educators and parents who gather at school gates each morning can be replicated by communities, policymakers, and local leaders in meeting care needs with resolve.
Yesterday I was at the Scottish Parliament and was pleased to contribute to a debate entitled ‘ Do we value social care?’ which was part of the Parliament’s annual Festival of Politics. It was a great debate and discussion, and the overall consensus of panellists and audience was no – we value the people and the outcomes of changed lives and independence, but we do not value the workforce or organisations, or even the essence of social care. That has to change if hope is not to become an illusion.
We stand at a critical juncture: buffeted by policy shifts and fiscal strain, yet buoyed by reform, rights and renewed commitment. Hopeful realism calls us neither to despair nor to distraction—but to engaged courage, to act where we can, nurture where we must, and walk together into the change that must come.
The garden is full, the hedges high- and I sense both the fullness and fragility of this moment. The sun feels generous, yet we know autumn approaches. So let this in-between time be our reminder: hope requires practice and action, and practice is hope made real and realised.
Donald Macaskill
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Last Updated on 23rd August 2025 by donald.macaskill
