Navigating School Challenges: A Mother’s Journey with Autism

This First Person column is authored by Wendy Litner, a resident of Toronto. For additional information on CBC’s First Person stories, please refer to the FAQ. 

Just an hour after I dropped my son off at junior kindergarten, I received a call to come back and pick him up. The joy of the first day of school quickly transformed into feelings of sadness and embarrassment. He was found sitting in the office, sucking his thumb while the secretary reprimanded him for his behavior. I felt compelled to reprimand him as well, to convey that his actions were unacceptable. However, once we stepped outside the office, I knelt down and assured him that he is a wonderful boy. I promised him that we would navigate school together.

It’s a promise I have been unable to fulfill. 

My twin sons, who are now in Grade 5, have autism and complex needs. At one point, both were unable to attend school full-time due to a lack of support from the public system. 

Currently, we have established an “understanding” with one of my son’s schools. I pick him up early, often responding to calls for an early pickup, which occur regularly. 

I exist in a constant state of alertness, waiting for the notification that my child is “having a hard day.” The phrases may differ, but the intent is always the same: get here now. Every time I gather my son, I see him as I did on that inaugural day of kindergarten: perplexed, overwhelmed, and seeking comfort.

For too long, I believed his struggles at school reflected my own shortcomings as a parent. Yet amidst the fatigue and humiliation, I found a new perspective: a fierce compassion for my brilliant son who requires accommodations to thrive. I have not failed; it is the system that has let us down. 

• Video

  How one rural school district is helping students with complex needs

My son’s requirements are not merely theoretical; they are also predictable.

When he experiences triggers, his distress can manifest physically. He requires skilled and consistent support to remain regulated and safe. Unfortunately, he is often subjected to restraint. Recently, he returned home with injuries on his face. It was not intentional harm; nevertheless, this is the reality of his schooling experience.

Litner’s son is often sent home from school because the system is unable to support his autism needs. (Submitted by Wendy Litner)

Inclusion becomes a concept rather than a reality when children have complex needs. The safety of other students is often cited as the reason for exclusion, overshadowing the necessity for accommodations. Families are informed that this is the best available option. 

I understand the instinct to safeguard other students’ education. I share that desire. Yet, my son’s presence is not the issue. The absence of support is what fails everyone involved. Genuine support fosters lessons that no curriculum can teach: how to coexist with differences through empathy, patience, and respect.

My husband and I persist in advocating for our sons – in emails, hallways, and parking lots – striving to persuade a system that they belong in school. How can we help others recognize what we see? A child longing to fit in, who enjoys the library and sciences, cherishes his friends, and loves caring for Georgia, the class tortoise (who has spent more time at school than he has). 

“I don’t know how to homeschool,” I lament to the school social worker as my son falls further behind academically. 

“Who told you that you have to?” she responds.

• Lack of school psychologists leaves parents paying thousands for private assessments

But what does she think occurs when I go to pick him up? His day does not magically improve; instead, it becomes a delicate mosaic: makeshift lessons, managing both his and my emotions, and more YouTube content than I care to admit to keep him engaged, all while I attempt to work enough to contribute to a system that continually fails us. What fills my son’s day is love – anxious, improvised, and exhausting love. Yet, it is not sufficient. Love cannot replace education.

According to the advocacy group Inclusive Education Canada, approximately 40 to 50 percent of principals in Ontario have requested that children with disabilities remain at home. It is presented with sympathetic expressions as administrators express their apologies “for a broken system.” 

I do not seek apologies. I desire a fundamental transformation in how society perceives my children with complex needs. I want decision-makers to recognize my son not as a disruption, but as a complete individual: considerate in selecting Valentine’s gifts for each classmate, humorous in describing terrible traffic as “peccable” – the opposite of impeccable. A child who is observant, loving, and vibrantly alive in the world when given the opportunity. A child whose worth is not diminished by the challenges of supporting him. My family is immensely grateful for the educators who have shown patience and kindness. However, gratitude cannot substitute for policy. Kindness cannot replace financial support.

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In the meantime, my son is learning in pieces. He learns that he is the issue. No one explicitly states it, but children observe who remains in class, who participates in the school concert, who plays on the soccer team, and who is excluded from birthday parties. I worry about the long-term impact of this. The inability to participate fully is not a minor concession. It leads to a gradual erosion of confidence and future prospects. It burdens families with the weight of systemic failure.

This year, seven-year-old Max Simao, a child with autism, tragically lost his life when he was struck by a Hamilton city bus due to insufficient support to keep him in class. I wept when his father stated, “He wasn’t where he had the right to be.” I share in his grief, reflecting on how easily children like ours can vanish from places they belong. 

Recently, Georgia, the class tortoise, laid eggs. My son showed me the incubator, beaming with pride as if he had laid them himself. He fears he won’t be present when they hatch. I hold his hand and remind him of how special it is that she has someone like him to care for her. I strive, as I always do, to turn disappointment into significance.

I cannot mend a system that continually sends him home. I cannot compel it to recognize what I see. But I will persist in raising my voice unapologetically: my son deserves an education. Tomorrow morning, I will escort him into school – hopeful that nothing will go awry. That he will remain, learn, play, and return home. I will sit by my phone, wishing for silence from it.

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