ADHD, autism, sensory overload – teachers are now expected to run their classes like individualised therapy sessions. But what about other kids trying to learn?
One afternoon my nine-year-old daughter came home from school with an unusual request.
“Mum, can you write me a note for my teacher so I can have a squishy?”
I looked at her blankly. “A squishy?”
“Yeah. Lots of the kids have them.”
She wasn’t talking about the latest toy craze.
She was talking about the fidget toys several children in her class were allowed to use during lessons as part of their learning support.
From her perspective, it looked simple. Other children got to squeeze colourful toys while she was expected to sit still and listen.
As adults, we understand there is more to the story. Many children with autism, ADHD and other developmental conditions genuinely benefit from tools that help regulate attention or sensory input.
Used appropriately, these supports can make a meaningful difference. That shouldn’t be controversial.
Children with autism deserve thoughtful, practical and evidence-informed support at school. Many experience classrooms differently. Noise can be overwhelming. Sudden changes can be distressing. Social interactions that come naturally to other children can be exhausting.
Good schools recognise this and good teachers already do.
Which is why, reading the new national autism education guidelines released last week, I found myself agreeing with much of what they contained. Clear routines. Explicit teaching. Visual schedules. Compassionate responses to distress. Reducing unnecessary sensory overload.
Much of it reflects what experienced teachers have been doing for years.
But as I kept reading, I found myself asking a different question – whether we’re gradually asking schools to adopt a therapeutic model of education while still expecting teachers to deliver an educational one.
The guidelines encourage schools to provide low-sensory environments, movement breaks, safe spaces where students can use headphones or sensory equipment to regulate, flexible responses when students become distressed, opportunities for students to stand or move during lessons, and time alone if social interaction becomes overwhelming.
Teachers are encouraged to avoid assuming distressed behaviour is defiance and, where appropriate, temporarily reduce non-essential demands.
Read individually, each recommendation is understandable.
Read together, they paint a picture of an extraordinarily complex classroom.
Imagine you’re teaching a year 4 class.
One student is standing at the back of the room because movement helps them concentrate. Another has left for the regulation space after becoming overwhelmed. A third is using a fidget toy. A fourth is distressed, so you’re expected to reduce demands and identify the underlying stressor rather than insist they complete the task. Another prefers not to work with classmates today because social interaction has become exhausting.
Meanwhile, 25 other children are waiting for instructions. One has forgotten their homework. Another doesn’t understand the maths lesson. Two are arguing over whose turn it is. The phone rings. A parent is waiting outside for a meeting. It’s nearly recess.
Every recommendation assumes the teacher has unlimited time, unlimited judgment and unlimited capacity.
That isn’t a criticism of accommodations for children with developmental diagnoses like autism. It’s a recognition that every additional expectation placed on teachers comes with an opportunity cost.
Modern classrooms are already incredibly complex places. Teachers are differentiating not only for autism, but for ADHD, anxiety, dyslexia, trauma, giftedness, behavioural challenges and children learning English as an additional language.
They are managing wellbeing programs, behaviour plans, reporting requirements and increasing administrative demands, all while trying to teach the curriculum.
Somewhere along the way we’ve started expecting classrooms to function less like classrooms and more like collections of individual therapy plans. That might sound compassionate, but it’s worth asking whether it’s realistic.
At some point, we have to ask whether the cumulative burden has become too great.
Teachers are telling us they’re overwhelmed. Parents are frustrated. Classrooms are becoming increasingly difficult to manage.
Surely we should at least be able to ask whether these things are connected.
The guidelines also encourage schools to employ autistic staff and value lived experience. Teachers with lived experience of autism may bring valuable insight.
But lived experience should complement professional expertise, not replace it.
The best teacher for an autistic child is not necessarily someone who shares their diagnosis. It’s someone who understands child development, exercises good judgment, builds strong relationships and knows how to teach.
Professional expertise should remain the primary qualification. Lived experience is valuable, but it shouldn’t become the deciding credential.
Perhaps the most disappointing part of this debate is how quickly these questions become moral ones.
Ask whether autistic children deserve support and almost everyone agrees they do.
Ask whether teachers can realistically implement an ever-expanding list of accommodations and suddenly you’re accused of lacking compassion or being anti-neurodiversity.
If we genuinely care about autistic children, we should care just as much about implementation as intention.
Poorly implemented inclusion doesn’t serve anyone. It leaves teachers overwhelmed, parents frustrated, classmates confused and autistic students without the consistent support they actually need.
Inclusion is one of the great achievements of modern education. But inclusion isn’t measured by the length of a guideline or the number of accommodations we can list.
It’s measured by whether those accommodations can be delivered well – in real classrooms, by real teachers, with finite time and finite resources.
We don’t improve education by asking teachers to become psychologists, occupational therapists, social workers and behaviour specialists all at once.
We improve education by giving teachers the support, training and professional trust to make good judgments.
Because good intentions are easy to write into a guideline.
They’re much harder to deliver at 10.15am on a Tuesday morning in a year 4 classroom.
