Schools have integrated children with autism. Have they included them?

When I was working as an occupational therapist helping parents of children with autism, one question would surface repeatedly.

Parents would ask repeatedly: “What if one day my child blames us for not giving them a chance in mainstream school?” At times, tears would follow.

These parents were referring to the fact that their child has been recommended to be placed in a special education (SPED) school. They fear that this is a one-way door: Once crossed, opportunities quietly narrow, and entering mainstream schooling becomes unlikely.

This is not just about stigma. It’s about the fear that many opportunities for their children may no longer be within reach. Those concerns must be addressed.

However, including a child with autism in a mainstream classroom comes with issues, too. The child may end up silently enduring sensory overload, struggle with transitions such as moving around different classrooms, or feel intense anxiety during social encounters. They become physically present but functionally excluded, despite the efforts of teachers trying their best amid constraints of time and manpower.

Families often experience the education system as a binary choice – SPED or mainstream, one or the other. This framing does not reflect how children with autism develop. Their needs are not fixed. They evolve with age, maturity, mental health and the support around them. A placement that is appropriate at the age of six may no longer be so at 10, and vice versa.

If we can move away from the perception of one-way doors and rigid categories towards a system that adapts alongside the child, we will ease the burden on families and teachers – and create a system that truly works for the children it is meant to serve.

Integration not the same as inclusion

Singapore has come a long way in supporting children with autism. Over the years, we have expanded our SPED framework, invested in early intervention, and grown awareness of neurodiversity within mainstream schools. These efforts reflect a system that is learning, adapting and striving to do right by every child. That progress deserves recognition.

The Ministry of Education has made continued investment in building more SPED schools – both those with highly customised curricula and those aligned with the national curriculum. These developments have expanded options for families and reflect a commitment to meeting diverse learning needs more thoughtfully.

Despite progress and improved infrastructure, however, many children with autism and their families still face significant challenges in the school system. The issue is not a lack of intent, but how the system is designed. While building more SPED schools strengthens the ecosystem, it does not address the daily systemic barriers that children with autism encounter in mainstream classrooms. 

Much of our recent progress has focused on integration – increasing the number of children with autism in mainstream schools. However, meaningful integration requires more than additional pathways. It requires an honest assessment of the system’s shortcomings and a willingness to rethink how support is structured. 

True, the actual physical presence of a child with autism in a mainstream school does matter, as this signals acceptance and a move away from segregation. However, integration is not the same as inclusion, and confusing the two has real consequences for the children, their parents, the teachers and fellow pupils.

A common misconception is that placing the children in a mainstream classroom equals true inclusion. It assumes that mere exposure will help the child adapt to the pace, noise, social dynamics and academic demands of the environment.

Research by educational psychologists Julie Bailey and Sara T. Baker, published in 2020, indicates that pupils with autism in mainstream settings frequently experience barriers such as anxiety, sensory sensitivity, and difficulties with friendships and social interaction, which can limit their full participation if appropriate support is not in place.

Some, being non-disruptive, go unnoticed as they expend great effort just to get through the day without truly learning. For others, who melt down or self-stimulate when overwhelmed, they are noticed, but often through a lens of judgment rather than understanding.

True inclusion requires more than physical placement. It requires adaptation – of teaching approaches, classroom structures, assessment modes and expectations of what learning can look like.

It is also a myth that children with autism do not feel lonely or do not need friends. While some may appear socially aloof in the early years, many become increasingly aware of friendship, seek connection and question why they feel different.

Some schools have peer support systems that help, but inclusion cannot depend on isolated programmes alone.  It requires peers to move beyond simply noticing difference towards building genuine friendships and accepting classmates who are differently abled.

I am reminded of my own son, who once went on a school holiday play date with a classmate who has autism. Their idea of fun was to sit on the MRT and travel across the network, covering every station on the different lines. What made it special was not the activity itself, but the simple willingness to enter his friend’s world with curiosity, acceptance and joy.

That could be what genuine inclusion looks like – where it goes beyond making space for difference and involves friendships that affirm belonging.

When done well, inclusion benefits everyone. Children with autism are supported to participate meaningfully, while neurotypical students develop empathy, adapt their communication and gain a broader understanding of what inclusion truly means in society.

Without these adjustments, mainstream integration risks overwhelming the child or leaving them stagnant, even when intentions are good. The question should not be whether a child can sit in a mainstream classroom, but whether that classroom is designed to help the child learn, cope and belong.

When schooling feels like a one-way door for families

For families, these structural gaps turn schooling into a deeply emotional decision. Even when professionals recommend SPED placement, many parents feel guilty that they are limiting their child’s future options. 

While movement between SPED and mainstream is not impossible, the process can be exhausting, opaque and daunting. When pathways feel rigid, parents carry the full burden of getting the decision “right” the first time.

I know of families who chose mainstream schooling in good faith, only to find their child becoming increasingly overwhelmed, isolated, and low in mood and self-esteem as the years go by. When the school later recommends a SPED placement, the transfer process can be complex and takes time, leaving parents grappling with guilt and uncertainty, and wondering whether they should have made a different choice earlier.

No family should have to choose between adhering to professional advice and the fear of lifelong regret.

If the system allowed for greater permeability, where movement between SPED and mainstream settings is expected, supported and normalised, much of this fear would ease. Parents could then make decisions based on their child’s current needs, rather than worrying about potential long-term consequences.

The reality for teachers

It is often assumed that with the right attitude, a big heart and professional skills, teachers can meet any challenge. In reality, when children’s needs are highly diverse, even this is not enough. Teachers are often expected to function as “super teachers” – meeting the needs of the majority while providing specialised attention to the few children with very different profiles.

This expectation goes beyond a positive attitude and professional skill, and is difficult to meet in practice. Balancing a large class of neurotypical learners alongside children who require significantly different support goes far beyond what attitude, heart and training alone can achieve.

We frequently respond by calling for better training or advocating universal design for learning. These are important, and more mainstream teachers should be trained in inclusive practices. But a single teacher cannot simultaneously manage a noisy classroom, differentiate instruction, de-escalate a sensory meltdown and support the rest of the class.

This is not a question of commitment, but a structural limitation.

A teacher committed to inclusion is not only supporting the child who is neurodiverse, but also helping neurotypical classmates learn empathy, respect for different needs, patience during moments of dysregulation, and openness to learning from the strengths that neurodiverse children bring.

At times, this work extends beyond the classroom to long conversations with other parents, explaining why their child may be paired as a table mate or buddy to a classmate with special needs.

Be solution-focused

What is needed now is a more creative, solution-focused approach – one that rethinks how support is distributed across the school ecosystem, rather than asking teachers to stretch further in an already stretched system.

This could mean offloading significant administrative and organisational burdens, such as those linked to co-curricular activities, by professionalising CCA coaches, sports trainers and band instructors as a recognised workforce. This would free teachers’ time and headspace to focus on teaching, as well as on students who need closer support.

The concept may also encompass the exploration of micro-jobs, similar to those currently emerging within the care sector. Educated homemakers, mid-career individuals or even healthy retirees could be trained, assessed and deployed for a few hours a day as additional classroom support – not as shadow aides attached to one child, but as extra hands to steady the classroom during noisy moments, sit safely with a child who is sensorially overwhelmed, or support difficult transitions. 

They could be evaluated for pertinent skills they already possess and receive targeted training as needed. This kind of flexible manpower could make classrooms more manageable and responsive for everyone.

In a recent study, two mothers I interviewed – both degree holders – shared that they were consistently available during school hours while their teenage children attended a special school. Both expressed interest in fractional paid work, highlighting an untapped workforce resource worth serious consideration.

We should also consider more systematic deployment of allied health professionals such as occupational and speech therapists within mainstream schools, working alongside teachers rather than outside the school ecosystem, especially during transition. Such deployment is common in countries like Canada and Australia.

While manpower constraints are real today, with intentional planning, clear training pipelines and viable career pathways, such partnerships can be developed over time. 

Singapore has laid strong foundations for supporting children with autism. The next phase requires us to move beyond good intentions and symbolic inclusion towards a system that is flexible, adequately resourced, and designed around real classroom and family realities.

The question is not whether SPED or mainstream schooling is “better”, but how we can build a more fluid model, where a child’s placement can evolve as their needs change, and a truly inclusive system that is properly resourced and goes beyond integration.