Helping Children Find Their Wings: The Gift of Differing Minds

For us, you see, having autism is normal -- so we can't know for sure what your 'normal' is even like. But so long as we can learn to love ourselves, I'm not sure how much it matters whether we're normal or autistic.”

― Naoki Higashida, The Reason I Jump: the Inner Voice of a Thirteen-Year-Old Boy with Autism

Over the years, I have been extremely fortunate to work with many inspiring individuals, many of whom have been diagnosed as being on the Autism Spectrum. I have worked with those who had no speech, as well as those who were in mainstream school. Each of them has helped me learn more about myself and the world than I could ever have imagined.

I remember one of my first days working in a school and residence for children who were unable to access mainstream education or live at home. This was the start of my autism journey. Before working there, I had little understanding of autism and the many ways it can affect people. The staff worked tirelessly—often short-staffed, covering extra shifts—because they genuinely cared. This is not a job you can do without love and commitment.

One child, in particular, has stayed with me. He had no speech and had only recently had a ban from the local supermarket lifted. At the time, I was unaware of this. Slowly and carefully, we made our way around the store, collecting what he needed. When we finally stepped outside, the relief and joy he expressed were immense. At the time, I thought I understood why—but looking back, I realize I only understood it intellectually, not truly.

I later had the privilege of taking him to an art therapy session. This experience was incredibly moving. A child who did not communicate through words or signs in other settings began signing to ask for more paint. He was clearly engaged, enjoying himself, and making a real effort to communicate. It was after this experience, along with reading In Search of Dibbs, that I felt inspired to pursue play therapy and study psychology.

During this time, I also witnessed the heartbreak that can come with loving a child who appears unable to communicate. I remember a child who had been injured and treated by the doctors. Afterwards, his mother came to visit. Watching him swing, seemingly unaware of her presence as she swung beside him, was deeply moving. Their relationship was so different from my own experience with my parents. Looking back now, I wonder if there was a form of communication between them that I simply couldn’t perceive.

While studying for my psychology degree, I began working in a mainstream school, supporting children with additional needs. Although there was a wide range of physical and learning differences, I worked most closely with children on the spectrum. I have never laughed or cried as much as I did during that time. The tears I saved for home, but the laughter I shared freely—with the children and with my colleagues.

It was during this time that my experiences in the classroom began to shift my path toward teaching. Being part of these children’s daily learning, adapting lessons to meet their needs, and witnessing their progress firsthand showed me the powerful role education can play when it is truly inclusive and responsive.

I grew to appreciate what we often called the “lack of filter.” There was the student who said you could identify a staff member by the glare reflecting off his head in the sunlight, or the one who described another as looking like a badger because of their blonde hair with dark roots. These moments brought so much joy.

The parents, too, were incredibly inspiring, working tirelessly to support their children. We did our best to build strong relationships with them so that everyone felt supported and united in helping each child thrive.

I worked hard to understand each child’s individual needs. Sometimes this took time; other times, small adjustments made a big difference—like ensuring everyone used pens with lids to prevent the distracting clicking sound or recognizing when a child needed a quiet walk or a safe space to regroup. It was a privilege to support these young people and watch them grow into confident, brave individuals.

During this time, I completed a postgraduate certificate in working with children and young people on the Autism Spectrum. I truly loved this course. The lecturer, an inspirational educational psychologist, brought deep respect and understanding to the subject, which influenced us all. I brought much of what I learned into the classroom, and it made a real difference. The most important lesson I learned was that every individual is different—and that strategies designed to support one person often benefit everyone. From checklists to clear instructions to predictable routines, these approaches created a more supportive environment for all. An environment that helps boost children's confidence by allowing them to succeed at their level.

If you’ve met one individual with autism, you’ve met one individual with autism.

- Stephen Shore

Earlier, I mentioned the difference between intellectually understanding something and truly understanding it. Following my car accident, that distinction became very real.

For several years—and even now, when I am extremely tired or overwhelmed—I experience sensory challenges. Situations that never previously affected me, such as supermarkets, became overwhelming. The bright lights could cause physical pain, even when wearing sunglasses. Everyday noises—like those in shops or airports—could become so intense that they were not only painful but also deeply distracting, making it difficult to focus or remember why I was there.

Simple repetitive sounds, like clicking pens, can feel like a constant drumbeat on my nerves. I have spent over three hours in a small supermarket—not out of enjoyment, but because I struggled to complete what should have been a simple task. Even with a list, I found myself overwhelmed and distracted. Bright, new stimuli would capture my attention completely, while the sensory overload made it increasingly difficult to function.

Through this experience, I have gained a much deeper understanding of the children I once supported—the boy in the supermarket, the student overwhelmed by pen-clicking. The strategies we developed together to support them have, in turn, helped me.

I have always loved learning. Reading was my constant companion—especially at bedtime. However, I worked with many children who found reading, learning, and focusing difficult. Together, we developed strategies through trial and error

After my accident, I lost my ability to read and retain information. Words became disconnected letters; sentences lost their meaning. My eyesight was unaffected, but my brain could no longer process what I saw. It was incredibly frustrating.

Yet again, this experience deepened my understanding of those I had worked with. Through my training in dyslexia and the strategies I had learned and taught, I was able to begin rebuilding these skills. Like everything after my accident, it has been a slow and steady journey—but one that has given me invaluable insight into how best to support others facing similar challenges.

"We need to focus on ability, not disability." - Temple Grandin

Every child deserves to be seen, understood, and supported in the way they learn best.

Through tutoring, I bring these experiences into every session, creating a safe, supportive space where children can build confidence, develop skills, and discover their own unique way of learning. It’s not just about academics—it’s about connection, growth, and helping each child feel capable and understood.

If you’re looking for personalized, compassionate support for your child—whatever their abilities—I would love to connect with you.

👉 Visit my page or website to learn more and see how we can work together to support your child’s journey.

Link to my tutoring page where you can find out more!