I am a child. People call me by many names: stubborn, difficult, slow, restless, naughty, and even spoiled. But very few call me by my real name, or see me as I am. I want to tell you, my story. I want to speak my mind because most of the time, people only speak about me, but never with me.
Do you know what it feels like to sit outside your own classroom while the laughter of your classmates echoes inside? I know. I was told I couldn’t join because I “wasn’t settled.” I hear the words teachers whisper to my parents: “He is too much for us”, “He can’t cope here”, “Maybe try somewhere else”. Do you know what it feels like to be passed from one school to another like a package no one wants to keep? I know. First, I was asked to leave my regular school because they said I wasn’t progressing as quickly as the other children. Then I was admitted to a special school, but after some time, they asked me to leave too. They said they weren’t equipped to handle me. Where do I belong, then? If even the places meant for me cannot keep me, where am I supposed to go?
Sometimes, my school tells me not to come because my shadow teacher is absent. Once, she was sick for a week. My friends went to school, wrote in their notebooks, played at break time, and laughed on the playground. I stayed at home, waiting, because the school said they could not manage me without her. Tell me why I have to earn my place with extra help when others can walk right in?
Filed trips are the worst. Everyone gets excited, talking about the bus ride, the snacks, and the fun. I listen quietly, because I know that in the end, someone will tell me, “You will stay back this time. It’s for your own good. You are not ready yet”. Not ready for what? For friendship? For joy? For living? Each time I am left behind, I feel smaller. I begin to wonder if happiness is something I am not meant to have.
I hear a lot of things adults think I don’t understand. They talk in front of me, assuming I am too lost in my own world to notice. But I noticed. I hear my parents arguing late at night about my future. Hear teachers say, “He will never be like other kids”. I hear the word “burden”. I hear the word “problem”. I may not respond like you expect me to, but I understand more than you think. I know when people are tired of me. I know when I am being tolerated, not welcomed.
Sometimes, my parents pretend that I am just like every other child. They dress me up, take photos, and tell me to smile. When I struggle, they get angry. They want me to be “normal”, to behave like my cousins, to get marks like my neighbors’ children. They think that if they push me enough, I will stop being me and become someone else. But what if this is who I am meant to be? Why is it so hard to love me without changing me? Why do they see my differences as a disease to cure, instead of a part of me to understand?
I remember once, at a birthday party, the host mother quietly told mine, “Maybe he can eat the cake at home later. It might be too much here”. I knew what that meant: I was not wanted. The balloons were bright, the music was loud, and the children were dancing. I wanted to be there. I wanted to dance. I wanted to belong.
I wonder why adults don’t ask me what I want. They decide everything for me. What school to attend, which friends I can play with, whether I can join the trip, and even whether I can step inside my own classroom. They talk about inclusion, about policies, about rights. But when the time comes to actually include me, I am excluded again and again. What use are policies on paper when they do not protect me in real life?
You may think I don’t know about these things. But I do. I hear my parents and teachers discuss government schemes, inclusive education acts, and training programs. I may not understand all the details, but I understand this much: everyone talks about it including me, but no one really does it. I am left behind while the world moves on.
Do you know what hurts most? It’s not the worksheets I can’t finish, or the lessons I don’t understand right away. It’s the way people look at me with pity, frustration, or sometimes even fear. I don’t want pity. I don’t want it to be fixed. I just want to be seen, accepted, and loved for who I am.
I can learn. I can laugh. I can share. I can be a good friend. But maybe I need time to show what I know. That doesn’t make me less. It just makes me me.
So I ask you, next time you see a child like me, don’t push them aside. Don’t whisper about them. Don’t lock them out because it feels easier. Bend down. Look into their eyes. Ask them what they think, what they feel, what they dream about. You may be surprised at how much they know, how deeply they understand, and how beautifully they can teach you about life.
If I could speak my mind, this is what I would say: I am not broken. I am not less. I am here, waiting, wanting to belong. Please let me in.
This article is not my story. I am writing these words through the voices of children I have known, children who have faced these very experiences, children who cannot put their thoughts into words the way society expects them to. This is an attempt to step into their minds, to imagine what they might have said if given the chance. I have seen children forced out of schools, excluded from celebrations, and left without support, not because they lacked ability, but because the world lacked patience and understanding. These words are theirs as much as mine. I have witnessed the pain of exclusion and the quiet resilience that neurodivergent children carry every day. Writing this was not just an exercise, but a responsibility to bring forward what I believe they would want the world to hear. If these words make even one reader pause and reconsider how they see a child, then the purpose is served.
About the Author
Abhiram R. holds an MSc in Psychology with a specialization in Clinical Psychology and has over three years of dedicated experience working with children with developmental delays and neurodivergence. Passionate about early intervention and inclusive education, Abhiram integrates developmental frameworks with compassion-driven practice. He is currently part of HOPE- The Early Intervention Centre, where he works closely with children and families to create meaningful pathways for growth and inclusion.
Connect with him on LinkedIn: linkdin.com/in/abhiram-r-38b2891b9
Or via email: abhiramyadav1721@gmail.com