I can still remember the day someone finally told me that homeschooling my kids was actually doable.
That moment—the moment I believed it—didn’t happen when I pulled my daughter out of public school. It happened months earlier, near the end of the school year, when I started questioning whether the traditional school system was truly meeting her needs as an autistic child.
At the time, I had spoken with everyone:
- Family members
- Speech and occupational therapists (ST and OT)
- School professionals, including the special education teacher, school OT, speech therapist, and classroom teacher
And here’s what I kept hearing:
“She’s doing well.”
“She’s learning socialization skills.”
“We’re building her tolerance.”
But what I was seeing told a very different story.
Inclusion vs. Presence: When Autistic Children Are Left Out at School
I noticed that my daughter was rarely with her class.
A neighbor’s child—who was in the same classroom—once told me that my daughter was “always sad or angry.”
And then came the moment that shattered me.
At the end-of-year celebration, the entire class walked in together.
Everyone except my child.
She entered a few minutes later with her aide. When the class photo was taken, she stood off to the side—physically present, but clearly separate.
Being in the same space is not the same thing as inclusion.
At the award ceremony, she received the “Reader Award.” On paper, that sounds positive. In reality, it meant she spent much of her day flipping through books to self-regulate until she couldn’t anymore.
At home—her safe place—she completely fell apart.
And I couldn’t stop thinking:
If this is what she looks like after school, what does her school day actually feel like?
She enjoyed recess, but she spent it wandering the playground alone.
Why “Building Tolerance” Isn’t the Same as Supporting Autistic Kids
Here’s what all of this made me realize:
My daughter should not have to be trained to tolerate discomfort just to exist alongside her peers.
Why couldn’t she be her authentic self?
The school talked about socialization, yet she was isolated. Her own classroom teacher barely knew her—her interests, her strengths, or her personality.
Why?
Because she wasn’t seen as the teacher’s responsibility. She was viewed as the aide’s responsibility. Or the special education department’s.
Meanwhile, other children received awards like:
- “Most likely to be a doctor”
- “Most creative”
- “Best joke teller”
Here’s what I know about my child:
She loves fiercely.
She has many hobbies.
She loves animals—especially birds.
She draws constantly.
She enjoys simulation games on her tablet.
She loves swinging, jumping, and sensory movement.
She thrives in children’s museums, science museums, farms, playgrounds, and trampoline parks.
She was never lacking potential—she was lacking understanding.
Why I Chose Homeschooling for My Autistic Child
The school’s inability to be flexible and truly differentiate her learning is what ultimately led me to choose homeschooling.
That first year, I enrolled her in a homeschool co-op. Once a week, she spent time with other children learning, crafting, celebrating holidays, eating lunch, and playing together.
Sometimes she interacted with peers.
Sometimes she didn’t.
At first, I worried she was isolated.
But then I noticed something powerful.
Her anxiety decreased.
Her curiosity increased.
Her willingness to participate grew.
She didn’t need constant social interaction to thrive.
Being around others was enough.
She loved the atmosphere. During lessons, she only needed gentle reminders—a tap on the shoulder or her name spoken softly—to re-engage.
And that’s when it hit me.
The public school system didn’t give her the benefit of the doubt.
They saw her autism diagnosis—but they didn’t see her.
And then I had to confront an even harder truth:
At one point, maybe I hadn’t fully seen her either.
From that moment on, I made a promise:
I will never place limits on what my child can do or who she can become.
Communication Isn’t Always Verbal—Especially for Autistic Children
Before anyone says, “Parents have to make hard choices,” or “It must be nice that your child can tell you what she wants,” I need to clarify something.
My daughter can’t always tell me.
She’s 10 years old, and much of her language relies on echolalia. Her conversational skills are limited.
But she communicates constantly.
She communicates through:
- How she spends her free time
- How she behaves before, during, and after outings
- What she seeks out again and again
I learned this lesson years ago during a trip to the zoo.
At three years old, she adored animals, so we assumed the zoo would be overwhelming joy. Instead, she moved quickly from animal to animal—quiet, minimal reaction, a little stimming, then on to the next.
We thought it hadn’t gone well.
We were wrong.
Later that day, she played “zoo” with her toys. She told my mom she went to the zoo. When asked what she wanted to do the next weekend, she wanted to go back.
She loved it.
She just showed it differently than we expected.
Supporting Neurodivergent Children Means Adjusting Our Expectations
She may not give long explanations, but she can answer yes or no.
Roller coasters? No.
Children’s museums or the zoo? Absolutely yes.
Do some outings take extra planning? Yes.
Do we need to build skills like waiting in line? Yes.
Do we introduce new experiences gradually? Yes.
Can she still choose to go?
Always.
Our homeschooling journey looks different.
It can be hard.
And it can be incredibly beautiful.
Today, my daughter wants to be a YouTuber.
My response?
“Let’s do it. What do you want your videos to be about? How can I help?”
If tomorrow she wants to be a dentist, my answer won’t change.
Choosing a Future That Honors Neurodivergent Children
My husband and I don’t know whether our children will live independently one day.
And that’s okay.
We plan intentionally—saving money, creating space in our home, and preparing for multiple futures, whether that includes college, supported living, or something else entirely.
The school system may not have seen my child for who she is or what she’s capable of.
But I will not make that mistake.
Not now.
Not ever.