Filling in the C100 Form: What I Wish Someone Had Told Me

I didn’t set out thinking I’d ever complete a C100 form. In fact, if you’d asked me a year earlier, I would have told you that court was the very last thing I’d ever do. I was convinced that if we just kept trying, kept talking, kept sending those endless emails back and forth, we’d eventually agree on child arrangements.

But anyone who has lived through a separation knows it rarely works out that neatly.

For me, things reached a tipping point on a random Wednesday. I had turned up for the school pick-up, like always. My daughter came out, but my son didn’t. A teacher quietly told me, “He’s not here today.” My stomach tightened. I wasn’t expecting that. Ten minutes later, I got a short message from my ex saying she’d decided to keep him home “because he needed a quiet day”. That wasn’t the issue. It was that she hadn’t told me.

It was such a small moment, but it told me everything about where we were heading. We were slipping into two separate lives with no consistent communication between us. I remember sitting in the car afterwards, hands still on the wheel, thinking, This can’t go on.

The days that followed weren’t our finest. I tried to explain why it mattered to let me know about school changes. She said I was “overreacting”. I said she was being “controlling”. You can imagine how that went. One email became five. Five became ten. Each one slightly sharper than the one before. I hated the tone. I hated how defensive I sounded. I hated the feeling I was becoming the worst version of myself.

It wasn’t about that one school day. It was everything — late replies, missed handovers, the way tiny decisions started to feel like battles. We were both tired. Both emotional. Both convinced the other wasn’t listening.

That was when someone told me, gently, “Jordan… you might need to look at the C100 form.”

At the time, even hearing the word “court” felt like defeat.

I spent a week pretending everything was fine. It wasn’t. I couldn’t keep guessing what was happening. I needed to know when the children were with me. I needed stability for them, and honestly, for me too.

Eventually, I accepted that keeping everything informal wasn’t working. I didn’t want to “win”. I just wanted a routine that didn’t change depending on how stressed or annoyed one of us felt that day.

That’s how I found myself googling things at 1am, reading government pages that made sense one minute and none the next. When you’re tired and emotional, even straightforward wording feels like a riddle.

What I didn’t realise then was that you can’t just fill in a C100 form and hit submit. You have to attend a MIAM first — a Mediation Information and Assessment Meeting. And honestly? I’m so glad that rule exists.

Walking into the MIAM, I expected something formal and intimidating. It wasn’t.

My mediator was calm, warm, and didn’t seem shocked by anything I said — even the parts I was embarrassed to admit. Things like feeling angry all the time. Or fearing I’d be pushed out of important decisions. Or worrying that court would make everything worse.

He explained the purpose of family mediation without pressure. It wasn’t about who was right. It was about whether we could still talk to each other in a structured way.

He also explained clearly when a C100 form is actually needed.

That part surprised me.

A C100 isn’t for sorting out every frustration. It’s specifically for asking the court to make decisions about child arrangements — things like where the children live, when they see each parent, holidays, or communication rules. It’s not a punishment. It’s not a threat. It’s a legal request for help when communication has broken down.

And sitting there, talking openly without anger, I realised something important: I didn’t actually want a judge to make all our decisions. I just wanted the arguing to stop.

Even after the MIAM, it wasn’t clear whether mediation alone would be enough. My ex attended her own MIAM, and although she was open to talking, she was also guarded. We were stuck on certain points that neither of us felt we could compromise on.

My mediator explained that filing a C100 form didn’t stop us continuing with mediation. It simply meant that if mediation didn’t lead to agreements, there was a court process ready in the background. That took a lot of pressure off.

So I submitted it.

And yes, the form is long. Yes, you have to be careful with what you write. And yes, the language can feel technical when your brain is already overloaded. I ended up using guides from The Divorce Circle to complete the paperwork myself, which made it far more manageable.

Strangely, once the application was in, things softened between us. It was as if we’d both finally admitted, “This is serious. We need to sort this properly.”

Our mediation sessions after that were genuinely productive. With the mediator keeping things structured, we managed to agree on a schedule that protected both our time with the children. We put everything in writing. We even agreed how to handle small changes so neither of us felt blindsided again.

In the end, we told the court we’d resolved the issues. My C100 form never needed a hearing.

If I could go back to that Wednesday and speak to myself in the car, I’d say this:

You’re not a bad parent for needing clear arrangements.

Mediation isn’t a sign of failure — it’s a chance to communicate without the heat of conflict.

The C100 form isn’t the “nuclear option”. Sometimes it’s the structure that creates space for cooperation.

And you don’t have to figure every step out alone.

Most of all, I’d say this: our children deserved calm. And filing the form, oddly enough, helped us get there.

Note: This story is based on real experience. We have used AI to help structure the piece. The final version has been reviewed and edited by a human.