A Letter to my Sons Teacher

Dear Teacher,

You may not see it—but he is working harder than anyone else in the room.

He is trying to sit still when his body is screaming to move.
Trying to look at you, though it burns in a way you might never feel.
Trying to listen while the lights hum, the pencils scratch, and every cough or shuffle jolts through his skin like static.

You may not notice him mimicking the children around him—how he copies their phrases, their gestures, their timing—just to keep up, to stay unnoticed, to survive the social landscape that feels like another planet.

He nods when you speak.
He’s quiet.
He follows the rules.
And so, maybe you think everything is fine.

But what you don’t see is what happens when he gets home.
The unraveling.
The screaming.
The meltdown that lasts for hours because he’s held it in all day.

You see the mask. I see the cost.

Autism doesn’t always look the way you expect.
It doesn’t always mean disruption or obvious distress.
Sometimes it means compliance. Sometimes it means silence.
Sometimes it means a child doing everything he can to not be a problem, while the world chips away at him piece by piece.

I know you weren’t trained for this.
Mainstream education hasn’t given you the language, the tools, the space—or the time.
You are underfunded, overwhelmed, and pulled in a hundred directions.
But my child is in your classroom.
And he needs more than tolerance. He needs understanding.

When he doesn’t make eye contact, he’s not being rude.
When he copies a phrase or echoes a question, he’s not mocking you.
When he shuts down or walks away, he’s not giving up—he’s reaching his limit.

He needs things you might not know how to give.
Quiet spaces. Predictability. Flexibility.
The benefit of the doubt.

And I’m not asking you to be perfect.
I’m asking you to see him.
To see past the mask. Past the grades. Past the “good behaviour.”
To ask what might be underneath.
To understand.  

Autism is not always visible—but it is always real.

If you’re unsure what to do—ask.
Ask us. Ask him. Ask for help.
We want to work with you.
Because right now, you hold part of his future in your hands.
And how you treat him, how you respond to him, will shape how he sees himself long after he leaves your classroom.

You may not have been trained for this.
But you can still choose to learn.
You can still choose to lead with compassion.

And that choice?
It could change everything.

Sincerely,
A parent who sees what you don’t