I still remember that day, almost like it happened yesterday. It was 2001, and I had just started my career as a broadcast journalist a year earlier. Weekends were rare luxury, precious little pockets of freedom. One of those once-in-a-blue-moon weekends, I volunteered with a friend at an orphanage in Klang, Malaysia. I didn’t know what to expect—I just wanted to spend a few hours with the children.
The place was simple, quiet, full of little sparks of curiosity. And then I met him—a little boy whose presence, gentle and steady, immediately pulled me in. I was wearing my freshwater pearl bracelet that day. I don’t know why, but when he reached out, touched the bracelet, and held my hand tightly, it felt like he was sending me a message without words.
He looked like he was five years old—but I later learned he was actually 15. That moment taught me how differently the world can be experienced, how age, appearance, or expectations don’t always match what a child can do or how they feel. He didn’t speak much, but he communicated in gestures, glances, and tiny movements. That small moment—the touch, the quiet connection—has stayed with me for nearly 25 years now. I kept that bracelet all those years, a tiny reminder of the first time I felt the magic of connecting with a child whose world is different.
Years later, while volunteering at a primary school in the UK, I was working 1-to-1 with a child with ASD, carefully guiding him through a simple routine. That same freshwater pearl bracelet I had kept for years finally snapped off during that session. In a way, it felt like a passing of a moment—another reminder that those early experiences at the orphanage continue to shape how I connect, notice, and show patience with children today.
That day, that touch, that bracelet—they taught me something fundamental about working with SEN children:
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Notice the little things. A glance, a gesture, a fidget—they are ways of expressing themselves.
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Patience matters. Even small interactions can take time to blossom into trust.
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Consistency is key. Something as simple as holding a hand, offering the same routine, or showing a familiar object can mean the world to a child.
Nearly 25 years later, I still carry that memory with me. It reminds me that every child, no matter their abilities, deserves to be seen, valued, and understood. Sometimes, the smallest gestures—a touch, a smile, a shared curiosity—leave the deepest mark.
And it’s in these moments, again and again, that inclusion comes alive—not just as a policy, but as a mindset, a choice, and a way of truly seeing a child.
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