Now that we’re sliding into back-to-school season, take note: Not every mom is excited to ship their kids off to school each day, and I think we should normalize that.
Not every mom will be excited for any number of legitimate reasons. But, as someone who is, herself, an autistic speech-language pathologist, I can identify one glaringly obvious one: For kids with invisible disabilities and sensory differences, school can be brutal. It can take a small miracle, soaked in compassion, to land a teacher who understands and actually enjoys the kids who don’t “student” the way other students student.
Our kids — much like us adults — know how their bodies feel in a room. They know who’s safe and who likes them and who’s counting the minutes until they’re someone else’s problem. I know this as an autistic speech-language pathologist who works with neurodivergent kids and young adults, and I know this as the autistic kid I used to be back in the 90s.
I was the teacher’s pet. Rule-follower. Honestly, rule-follower police. Straight A’s and easy-going. Easy. I was an easy student, so why didn’t my 5th grade teacher like me?
She was cooler with me. Sharper. I did everything I’d always done, everything that worked for every teacher before her. But for her, it wasn’t enough. Worse, I felt like I annoyed her. But how did little 11-year-old Meg know this? Because hyper-empathetic pattern-readers don’t miss a thing. I watched her face change. I heard her speed up and skip past me when she called on the row, reaching for a student she’d rather hear from. It wrecked me. I’d come home, go straight to my room and lie on my bed replaying everything that happened.
I was 11.
I’ve got a fully grown brain now and a much better understanding of how I work and how society tends to respond to neurodivergent kids when it doesn’t understand or, let’s just be real honest, doesn’t believe in neurodivergence. But, believe me, it is very real, often with life-or-death consequences.
We know that autistic people are nearly three times more likely to die by suicide than non-autistic people. That number climbs to more than five times for autistic people without a co-occurring intellectual disability, meaning the risk is highest not for those with significant cognitive impairment or global developmental delays, but for those society assumes are “fine.” According to a study in Taiwan, it was reported that among autistic kids in school (not including nonspeaking autistic students or students with daily high support needs) who experienced teacher harassment, 53.8% reported suicidality, and teacher harassment was associated with approximately seven times the odds of suicidality.
I see firsthand how autistic people are treated. On a day-to-day basis, kids with ADHD tell me all about the frustration and distress of boredom, of feeling unheard, and of white-knuckling through classrooms that box them in. Autistic kids share about sensory overload, social mistreatment, and dysregulation of having their routines shattered without a warning. For example, my stepson was denied access to the school vacuum one day after school; it’s a routine he had initiated that was familiar and one he really enjoyed and looked forward to, without explanation. The result? Feeling like he doesn’t belong and left in complete confusion. It’s quite common for these students to feel like they don’t belong and like the environment is either too much or not enough for their brains and bodies, every single day.
I also know students who simply know their teachers don’t like them and they don’t even know why. Students who have had access to accommodations denied, such as the need for fidget tools to regulate and focus, and teachers who have told them fidgets are toys and not tools. I have heard reports from parents saying “Joey was difficult today and was in typical Joey form,” indicating Joey is not well-perceived thus impossible to like. I’ve had a neurodivergent student report a teacher literally threw their books on the floor in frustration.
How we view another human impacts our actions, our tone and our safe-energy we are or are not giving off. Students are children doing the best they can with the brains they have and they are watching how the world treats them and their classmates. My own 6-year-old son came home from school telling me there was a new classmate toward the end of the year that joined their class. He stated that his teacher didn’t like her. My eyeballs got big; how did he know this or come to this conclusion? He said she rolled her eyes a lot at the new student.
So what do we do? To be clear, I have grace for teachers here. They’re running on fumes being under-resourced, managing behaviors that are really unmet communication, and burning out in buildings with bad energy. You cannot pour understanding into kids from an empty cup, so we start with teacher wellbeing. A regulated teacher can show up for the little Megs of the world. As a parent, look inward: Can you volunteer in the classroom? Prep for an activity on behalf of the teacher? Drop off a coffee gift card or note of encouragement?
Then, spend what time you have training your community about understanding neurodivergent students and look for outside help (no, it shouldn’t be on you, but here we find ourselves). Getting ahead of sensory overload via better supports, better teacher-student connection creates a genuine sense of belonging. I give this advice to teachers often: try to intentionally connect for two minutes with the child who might be frustrating you or “getting under your skin,” as the neurotypicals say. If the class clown has ADHD, look for two minutes for that kid to shine and to laugh with them. You’re sending the message that you see them, you value who they are, and then, in return, they are more likely to feel safe with you and connected and thus more likely to listen and learn.
And isn’t that what we all want? To know it is safe, it is right, and it is good to be ourselves? To know we belong not only at home, but at school, too?
Meg Raby is a mom, children’s author of the My Brother Otto series, and Autistic residing in Salt Lake City where you can find her playing and working with neurodivergent children as a Speech Language Pathologist and friend, or writing and planning big things in the second booth at her local coffee shop that overlooks the Wasatch Mountains while sipping on her Americano. Meg believes the essence of life is to understand, love and welcome others (aka, to give a damn about humans).
