Why good intentions aren't enough — and what inclusive education actually requires of us

I've sat in a lot of different chairs in my time working in and around education.

As a student teacher. As a social worker with the Department of Education and Training, working alongside schools to support children and families and providing PD to teachers. As a professional collaborating with school teams around children with complex needs. And as a parent — advocating for my own child, navigating a system I know intimately from the inside.

This varied vantage point is what I want to draw on in this piece, to open up a conversation I think is really important.

What I've come to know from all of those chairs: the educators who work with neurodivergent and disabled children are, almost without exception, trying hard. They care. They show up. They want to get it right. They work over-time to make it work.

And yet, children are still falling through the gaps. Still exhausted by the end of every school day. Still feeling unsupported, unseen, or unable to access learning in a way that works for their brain and body.

So what's happening in that space between good intentions and genuine impact?

The thinking that shapes everything

Professor Mel Ainscow, one of the world's leading researchers in inclusive education, offers something that I find really compelling. He argues that many of the barriers experienced by learners don't primarily arise from a lack of resources or policy. They arise from existing ways of thinking. And because of that, strategies for developing genuinely inclusive practice have to involve what he calls "interruptions to thinking", moments that disrupt our habitual ways of seeing and open up new possibilities for moving practice forward.

I really appreicate that framing. Not because it's comfortable, it isn't, but because it's honest. And because it shifts the conversation away from blame and toward something we can actually work with.

Dr Anne Southall, Senior Lecturer in Inclusion and Diversity at La Trobe University, has spent years researching what those interruptions actually require of a teacher. Her work with educators in Victorian primary schools found that even after professional development in trauma-informed practice, teachers faced significant personal and professional challenges in translating what they'd learned into actual classroom practice. The barrier wasn't knowledge. It was the deeply held beliefs, emotional responses and habitual ways of seeing that shape what we notice, how we interpret behaviour, and what we reach for when something isn't working.

In other words — knowing isn't enough. Doing differently requires something more.

What our training taught us to see — and what it didn't

I'd like to invite you to consider something. Many of us working in education were trained within systems that emphasised behavioural approaches to learning and classroom management. Approaches that focus on what a child does rather than what a child experiences. That measure compliance, output and performance rather than regulation, connection and access.

That training shapes everything, what we notice, what we interpret as progress - or not. It also determines what we reach for when something isn't working. Often, it's more of the same; perhaps in different packaging.

Over time, I've noticed that this can make some of the most important things happening for a child genuinely difficult to see.

When a child is described as non-compliant, defiant, or challenging — I wonder if we might pause and ask: what if this behaviour is communication? What if this child is telling us, in the only language available to them in that moment, that something isn't working? The environment. The demand. The relationship. The sensory experience of simply being in that room. Perhaps, also, the trauma living inside of their body.

Non-compliance and distress are often two sides of the same coin. This includes the distress seen at home, when parents report meltdowns or school related anxiety. Which side we see depends enormously on the lens we're looking through.

And then there's how we respond in those moments — because that matters just as much. Communication styles embedded in teaching — direct questions, redirection, public correction — can for some neurodivergent children register not as support, but as additional demand. The intent is guidance and clarity — supporting engagement in learning. The impact can be the opposite.

I've seen this from both sides. I know how confusing it can feel as an educator when your best efforts and tried and tested strategies don't seem to land. And I know how it feels as a parent when your child comes home dysregulated from a day of working incredibly hard just to appear okay.

Both experiences are real. And understanding the thread between them is where something important starts to shift.

The unlearning

None of this is a character flaw. It's a product of how most teacher education has been structured. But it does mean that doing better in this space often requires something more than trying harder.

It requires unlearning.

Unlearning the idea that a quiet child is a regulated child. That a compliant child is a supported child. That if a child isn't asking for help, they don't need it. That behaviour is the message rather than the messenger.

And replacing those frameworks with something more curious. More relational. More attuned to what's actually happening beneath the surface.

That kind of unlearning takes courage. It means sitting with the discomfort of realising that some of what we were taught — and have been practising — may not be serving every child well.

But it also opens something up.

Because the educators who are willing to do this work; who stay curious, who receive new information without defensiveness, who are prepared to change course when something isn't landing — are the ones who make a profound difference in the lives of children who have often been let down by systems that prioritised effort over impact.

If that's you, I'm really glad you're here. I too have moved through a lot of unlearning and re-learning, and continue to do so. It's a lifelong commitment and the Neurodiversity Affirming community has taught me alot about what it means to centre lived experience - in research, in conversation, in re-thinking our beliefs and recognising our own internalised ableism. It's been humbling and at times confronting, and also one of the most meaningful threads running through both my professional and personal life.

It's through no fault of our own that we have inherited these ideas, in fact many of us paid good money to be educated in this way. However, when working with vulnerable groups, such as trauma affected, Autistic or ADHD children; it is our responsibility to be open to self-reflection, critically evaluate the foundations of our practice and lean into professional growth.

I'd love to explore more of this with you.

I'm currently developing a reflective resource for educators and school teams who want to deepen their inclusive practice — drawing on research, lived experience, and the voices of children and families who know what it feels like when inclusion falls short. It's designed to be used individually or as a team, and will be available alongside an on-demand webinar for schools wanting to share some additional understanding with their team.

If you'd like to know when it's available, you can sign up to the newsletter at brilliantlittlegems.com.au