Skip to main content

What Goes on in the Mind of a Child?


 How Learning Has Changed in an Inclusive World

Every day in my classroom, I am reminded of one simple truth:

No two minds think the same way.

Some children learn by listening, some by seeing, some by doing—and some by simply feeling their way through the world in ways even adults sometimes struggle to understand.

When I look around my classroom, I see children with different strengths, challenges, hopes, fears, and ways of making sense of things. And I often find myself wondering:

What is happening in the mind of each child?

For one child, a sound may feel too loud.
For another, a single instruction may feel like a puzzle.
For another, a storybook may open a doorway into imagination.
For another, a simple routine may bring comfort and safety.

Their minds are not “better” or “worse”—they are simply different, each with its own rhythm, needs, and brilliance.

Learning Has Changed — And So Must We

Classrooms today are not the same as the ones many of us grew up in.
Learning is no longer a straight line where every child marches at the same pace. It has become a wide, colorful landscape, full of paths that twist uniquely for each learner.

We once believed there was only one way to learn.
Now we understand there are many.

Children with autism, ADHD, dyslexia, sensory needs, emotional differences, and varied learning styles are no longer seen as outsiders—they are part of the classroom, and they belong there. Because inclusion is not a favour; it is a right.

Inclusive Education: Not a Trend, but a Transformation

Inclusivity asks us to look at children not through the lens of what they cannot do, but through the light of what they can do.

It asks teachers to:

  • adjust instead of judge

  • support instead of label

  • understand instead of assume

Inclusive learning teaches every child empathy, respect, patience, and the beauty of diversity. It tells them:

“You matter. You belong. You are enough just as you are.”

Why I’m Writing About This Now

This blog is not new.
I’ve been writing here for a while—mostly sharing short stories, simple life musings, and reflections. Writing has always been my way of observing the world, capturing small moments, and giving meaning to everyday experiences.

But this topic marks a new chapter.

As some of you know, I began my professional life as a broadcast journalist—telling stories, listening deeply, and learning to see the world from many angles. Today, as a teacher in England, I still do all of those things, but now through the eyes of children whose stories unfold quietly but deeply, and often remain unspoken. 

This series is my way of giving voice to what I see, feel, and learn in an inclusive classroom.

Here, I will share:

  • day-to-day classroom moments

  • hidden challenges children face

  • strategies that support special needs

  • stories of growth, love, and resilience

  • thoughts on creating compassionate learning spaces

This space has never been just about teaching.
It is about understanding.
It is about listening.
It is about seeing every child—the way they deserve to be seen.

Join Me on This Journey

Whether you are a teacher, parent, student, or simply someone curious about the minds of children—I welcome you.

Let’s build a space where inclusion is not only discussed, but felt.
Not only taught, but lived.
Not only a policy, but a mindset.

Together, let us explore what truly goes on in the mind of a child—and how we can make learning a place where every child finds their voice.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A Bit of Amma, A Bit of Appa

Every time a writer writes, she reveals a bit of herself... just a bit. The rest is purely imagination.   I still see her — clear as day, though it's been years. Amma at the wooden table, her back slightly hunched, hair pulled into a tired bun. The house would be quiet by then — dishes washed, clothes folded, lights dimmed. The smell of coconut oil and cumin lingered in the corners. Midnight. Maybe later. She’d sit with a chipped cup of coffee, the steam curling into the silence like a quiet ritual.  And she would write.  Not for fame. Not for money. Just... because something in her had to be put into words. It looked like breathing, almost — the way she would pause, stare into the distance, then bend her head and begin again. Her stories were filled with emotion — layered, subtle, steeped in the textures of everyday life. Women with untold stories–who never got to speak. Moments of quiet rebellion. Love that waited, sometimes too long. Dialogues borrowed from overheard...

A poem for my Malaysia

This poem is written in Malay Language, my homeland's national language. It is written in the spirit of the celebration of Malaysia's 62nd Independence Day. It is not meant to condemn or based on any specific ethnicity, or person. It is purely from the heart and mind of mine for the love of my birth country, a moment simply for my homeland. Sejenak untukmu Aku bukan bukan Melayu kerana aku cukup Melayu, cukup Cina, cukup India, dan cukup lain-lain kaum. Aku anak Malaysia. Aku bukan bukan Melayu kerana aku atuh pada rukun. Rukun aku rukun negara. Usah disindir kepercayaanku kerana aku bukan calang-calang orang. Aku anak Malaysia. Aku bukan bukan Melayu. Aku tahu Melayu, aku hormati Melayu, dan aku cintai Melayu kerana aku anak Malaysia. Aku bukan anak India. Bahasa ibuku Tamil,  kampungku pekan Melayu, sekolah rendahku sekolah Cina. Kerjaku merantau dunia. Kini sudah dekad lamanya aku dikota Lon...

My Spice Dabba

  My Spice Dabba In the serene village of New Village, Beruas , where the rain tapped zinc rooftops and chickens wandered like old gossip across dirt lanes, my kitchen whispered stories—stories that began with a round, dented brass box: the spice dabba . The gilded casket sat like an heirloom moon on the corner shelf, above a gas stove that hissed with the tired breath of age. The dabba had crossed oceans from India, tucked in the arms of my great-grandmother, who arrived in Malaya with a suitcase of silence and a soul full of spice. Among rubber and palm oil trees and dusky roads, she found a home—and in the heart of her home, she placed her flavours. The brass dabba was nothing grand—just seven little tin cups tucked into a timeworn circle, glowing softly with the patina of years. There was manjal (golden turmeric), kaanja milagai (fierce and red), natchiragam (cumin’s soft sigh), kadugu (tiny mustard seeds that orchastrate in hot oil), venthaiyam (bitter fenugreek), malli ...