Our Special Needs Journey 

The Small Things 

It took my daughter quite a while to become comfortable sitting in a restaurant and eating with us. When she was around five years old, we were only beginning to feel that she had advanced a little, and that we could now order food somewhere and stay there for a little while. Even then, it was not simple. She would not wait in the queue. She would not wait for the food to be served. From her understanding of the world, things needed to happen right now, right there. Waiting was not something she could easily make sense of. But that was four years ago. 

At that time, we did not see today. We did not know what would come. We did not know whether one day she would be able to stand in a queue, sit in a busy place, wait for food, and manage the noise and movement of people around her. That was so much information for her to process. She would still be somewhat "okay" with some open-air crowds, but indoor crowds were extremely difficult for her. 

She was diagnosed at two and a half. Restaurants, festivals, gatherings, and social events were often too much. There were only a few friends' places where she could remain happy from beginning to end. Luckily, we had those few places where we could go and spend time. But we also had to refuse many invitations, miss many occasions, and avoid many large gatherings. I know that, in some cases, I was misunderstood by some. Some may have thought I was distant, moody, or uninterested. I also never tried too hard to explain to them. My first priority was my daughter’s comfort, her trust in us, and finding and sustaining some peace for our family. Because I often thought: she was not even in this world a few years ago. She had only arrived here recently. This world is loud, unpredictable, crowded and full of rules that even adults sometimes struggle to understand. She needed time to learn that this place could be safe. She needed time to trust that we would not force her into situations she could not manage. In truth, we adults need that too. We also need time to feel safe in the world. We also need people who do not rush us, shame us, or demand that we become comfortable before we are ready. 

These days, our progress appears in many small forms. Waiting in a queue is one of them. Sitting in a public place is one of them. Accepting small changes at home is another. Even a couple of weeks ago, moving a piece of furniture from one place to another could have been unimaginable. Sometimes, when we were running late at night while having friends over, a few chairs and things would be shuffled here and there. By then, she would usually be asleep. But when she woke up next morning, the first thing she would do was put things back in their original places. She would drag the chairs back with her little arms, restoring the room to the order she remembered from the last time she saw it. Something as simple as changing the position of her bedside table or shifting a rack could disturb the arrangement she had carefully built in her mind. For her, the room was not just furniture. It was a map she had built for her own safety, familiarity, and predictability. Recently, we moved a few things around. On the first day, there was almost an hour of dysregulation, crying, and not accepting the change. But when she was able to calm slightly, we had a small chance to quickly explain the logic. We discovered something very important- she needed the reason. She needed the explanation. She needed to know why we had done it and what our intention was. So we explained that the bedside table was working well on the right side of the bed, and that the bedside rack would now help us use the vertical space better. It would help keep her books, glasses, and paper craft toys close to her, because she likes to make sure those familiar things are next to her while she sleeps. So it had more than one purpose. The room was still her room. The bed was still her bed. Nothing important was being taken away, and only something was being added to the room to help her. Then she gradually became calm and agreeable. She said, “Now it makes sense.” One thing about her is that when she says something, she is deeply honest about it. She also feels accountable for what she has said. So when she said, “Now it makes sense,” it meant that it really had made sense to her. And once she agreed that it made sense, there was no longer a reason to argue or cry about it. And so somehow, for her, that explanation from our side mattered. 

I do not know what will happen tomorrow. Looking back, I can only tell what it was like until yesterday. I can only say that now, with time, with her own growth, with the support of many professional people whose paths crossed ours, some of whom felt like quiet angels arriving just when we needed them, and with our everyday efforts as parents, she can do things that once felt very, very far away. She can wait. She can accept some changes, especially when there is conversation beforehand. No surprises, please.

Not every day is perfect. But some days, we look at her and quietly realise that something has shifted in a positive way. 

When someone talks about their child winning a medal, achieving a certificate, or reaching a big milestone, that is amazing. But for us, our small things are immense and equally amazing. We celebrate that we went somewhere today, stayed there, and came back peacefully. We celebrate that she accepted a change today. We celebrate that she answered a couple of specific questions when we asked. We celebrate that she listened, understood, and trusted us today. We celebrate that we tried, sat on a beach, stayed there a little longer than last time, came back home, and the day did not break apart. That is it. That is huge for us. Most days, we are simply living, learning, failing, adjusting, and trying again. Some days are tiring. Some days are beautiful. Some days are tiring and beautiful at the same time. 

We know this can be an extremely heavy journey, full of challenges that many people may not see from the outside. For our child, the journey is also heavy in her own way. Like many special needs children, she is learning to adjust to a world that does not always adjust to her. She is learning to communicate, to cope, to trust, and to become as independent as possible at her own level and in her own time. And as a parent of a special needs child, I feel it is important to communicate our challenges, not to present our life as extraordinary, but to let other parents of special needs children know that they are not alone. Life is not perfect. Life is not meant to be perfect. We are all here with our own challenges to carry, understand, and live through. 

Although we have chosen Australia to call home, when I talk with some of my friends who have special needs children in the country where I grew up, I realise again how much harder life can be when society does not offer acceptance, respect, accommodation, or basic kindness. Families there face this in almost every sphere of life. You name it: school, neighbourhood, transport, family gatherings, public places, and even ordinary conversations.

One situation stays with me. A friend of mine has a daughter with a disability. One day, she went to school to drop off her daughter and discovered that guardians had appealed to the principal, saying that a disabled child should not be in the same class as their children.

I cannot imagine what my friend felt in that moment. You take your child to school with the simple hope that she will learn, belong, and be treated as a child among other children. Then suddenly you are made to feel that your child is a problem, an inconvenience, something to be removed from the comfort of others. I imagine that my friend must have stood there carrying many pains at once: pain for her child, pain for herself, pain from humiliation, and perhaps the deepest pain of all, realising that the world can be cruel to a child who has done nothing wrong.

No parent should have to defend their child’s right to simply sit in a classroom.

This is where I feel that, in the society and culture where I grew up, we still have a long way to go. I am not even talking about big progress yet. I am talking about understanding. Just understanding.

Understanding that a child with a disability is still a child. Understanding that disability is not shame. Understanding that a family is not asking for special honour, but for ordinary dignity. Understanding that inclusion does not harm other children; it teaches them kindness, patience, and humanity.

Sometimes I think about this in relation to nature. We all now understand, at least in some way, that Biodiversity is important in nature. A forest is not healthy because every tree is the same. Nature is not alive because every living thing follows one shape, one colour, one rhythm, or one way of growing. Nature becomes richer, more balanced, and more resilient through diversity.

Perhaps society needs to learn the same lesson about human brains and minds. Not every child will learn in the same rhythm, speak in the same way, respond to the world in the same pattern, or feel safe in the same conditions. This difference in human minds is part of neurodiversity, and neurodiversity is not something to fear. 

A child who thinks differently, learns differently, responds differently, or needs more time is not a threat to other children. That child is part of the human forest too. If anything, that child gives society a chance to become kinder, slower, more observant, and more humane.

In the culture where I grew up, the most vulnerable people are still made to feel that they are asking for too much, even when they are only asking for space, dignity, and a little understanding.

I do not want this to sound like a grand speech. I am not talking about perfect systems overnight. Perhaps the first step is simpler, but still urgent. To establish real Understanding, we need awareness at every level, whatever it takes. But awareness is not only information. It is a change in how people see. It is learning that a child who behaves differently is not a problem child. It is also learning that a parent who looks exhausted, overwhelmed, or quiet is not careless or unfriendly. In the society where I grew up, even the idea of a “tired parent” is not always given enough language or sympathy. A disability is not a family’s shame. This kind of awareness has to be built slowly and repeatedly repeatedly repeatedly through schools, families, media, religious spaces, public services, and ordinary conversations.

5 June 2026