[We recognise that language around autism can be deeply personal and diverse. In the autistic community, there are different preferences when it comes to the terms used to describe autism. Some individuals prefer person-first language (e.g., “person with autism”), while others advocate for identity-first language (e.g., “autistic person”). We respect all perspectives and understand that language is an important aspect of identity. While this post uses person-first terminology, we want to acknowledge that both person-first and identity-first terms are valid and meaningful to different people within the community.]
There are moments in life when we’re all given the chance to learn from the most unexpected teachers. For me, working as an early intervention occupational therapist with children on the autism spectrum has been one of those experiences. Every day brings fresh hurdles, but with those challenges come lessons—powerful lessons about communication, connection, belonging, and the beauty of individuality.
Initially, it’s tempting to approach autism through a clinical lens. You study the definitions, the strategies, the supports and the behaviours. But the deeper you go, you realise that autism isn’t just a set of traits; it’s a part of who the child is, a lens through which they experience world. My job isn’t simply to teach skills; it’s to step into their world and guide them through that.
One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned from working with children with autism is that communication isn’t always about words. As an occupational therapist, you’re trained to address things like emotional regulation, behaviours, fine motor skills and daily routines. But children with autism often express themselves in ways that don’t follow what the world expects.
I’ve always been known to be a great listener, but these children have shown me a deeper kind of listening. It’s not just about hearing words or sentences, but we get so much more connection if we notice the small things like the way the child’s eyes light up when they see something they love, or the way they squeeze their hands when they’re excited, or the way their expression changes when something feels off. These are just as meaningful as words. Sometimes our children may need extra time to process, and I’ve taught myself to wait patiently for the moments when they’re ready to share, whether through a word, a gesture or just sitting together quietly. In therapy, when a child doesn’t respond as I thought they might, I’ve learned not to rush to fill the silence with words or actions, but to sit with the child, pause, observe, and wait. Sometimes, it’s in those still moments that we can make the most profound connections, because I’ve managed to drop down all the expectations and demands and my silence shows them that I am there with them. My role isn’t just to provide therapy; it’s to create an environment of safety and trust, where communication can happen in its own time and in its own way.
This flows into what inclusion truly means. It’s more than ensuring every child has a spot at group time or mealtime, but it’s about creating an environment where a child feels seen, heard, and valued. Inclusion requires empathy and flexibility, where I tailor my approach to meet the child where they are, recognising that their journey is unique, and understanding that their needs might be different from those of their peers. Inclusion means seeing the whole child, not just their diagnosis or behaviour. Inclusion can look like adjusting a child’s environment to make them feel safe and supported, whether it’s providing sensory breaks or tools, offering alternative ways to participate, or role modelling social interactions. I’ve learned to be versatile and imaginative, accepting that no single approach works for everyone.
This leads me to the celebration of individuality. Each child is their person, with distinct passions, strengths, challenges and personality. How one child engages with an activity or responds to a strategy or support might look entirely different from the way another does, and that’s okay. It’s easy to get caught up in goals, milestones and expectations, but working with these children has taught me to take a step back and appreciate them for who they are, not just what they can or can’t do. Each one navigates the world in their own way, and I’m there to support them and their families along that journey.
Reflecting on this journey, I realise how much I’ve learned from these children. The lessons go beyond supports and strategies, they’re about human connection, showing up authentically, and about seeing the value in every person, no matter how they communicate or interact. They’ve shown me the value of presence, even if that’s all we share in a session, because without that foundation, there’s little room to move forward. Autism has taught me that progress ebbs and flows. Some days, it’s a step forward; others, it’s a quiet pause. And that’s okay. It’s taught me to slow down, to look past surface behaviours to figure out the why and see the child beneath it all. The work isn’t always easy, some days are harder than others, but every day I am reminded of why I do this: to help each child feel understood, supported, and, above all, valued. In the end, working with children with autism has taught me that it’s not about teaching them how to be more like the world expects; it’s about helping them shine in their own unique way.
-Mafrooha, Occupational Therapist
