By Lindsey McLain, assisted by AI
lindseymclain17@gmail.com
Picture by proud Granddad as he listens to her stories!
Working with children with autism spectrum disorder is not just my career—it is my calling. My passion for special education began long before I entered the classroom as a teacher. In eighth grade at Faubion Middle School, I joined the Partners PE program—a life-changing experience that introduced me to the joy of working alongside students with disabilities. I didn’t know it then, but that program would be the beginning of finding my career.
Every day with my three- to five-year-old students reminds me that education is less about rigid lessons and more about relationships, trust, and patience. My years of experience supporting children of all ages with autism spectrum disorder, both in college and now in the classroom, have shaped the way I see teaching: as a bridge between worlds.
Trust as the First Lesson
Before I can expect children to learn letters, numbers, or colors, I have to show them that I am safe, consistent, and trustworthy. Building that relationship is the first lesson I teach, though I don’t do it with words. I do it with presence, with predictable routines, and with gentle encouragement. Only when a child trusts me can they begin to risk trying something new.
In my classroom, trust starts by connecting with what each child loves. Some of my students enjoy running and climbing on the playground, while others prefer sitting quietly with a favorite toy. Some love Eric Carle’s colorful storybooks, while others are captivated by anything with wheels or that flies. I use their preferences to build bridges—to join their world before asking them to join mine. When they see that I value what brings them joy, trust begins to grow.
Individual Needs, Individual Paths
No two children are alike, and no two learning journeys are the same. Some of my students need visual schedules to feel grounded. Others need sensory breaks to regain balance. Some thrive in structured play but struggle with transitions. My responsibility is to make sure every child is getting what they need. True fairness in special education isn’t sameness—it’s tailoring learning so that each child has a path forward.
I continue to learn how to adapt materials and instruction for my students. Recently, I was given the opportunity to go through an AAC (Augmentative and Alternative Communication) device training. Using what I learned, I now tailor communication to meet each student’s needs. Some of my students can access many words on their devices, while others focus on functional language—simple but powerful words like go, stop, and help. In the same classroom, I have children who can count to 100, read, and write simple words, and others who are still learning how to share preferred items or take turns. Each child’s growth is unique, and each one reminds me that progress comes in many forms.
Patience and the Pace of Progress
In the first month of school, my students were still learning to adjust to me as their teacher. They didn’t respond to my directions right away, and I quickly realized that relationships must come before expectations. In special education, we often say that progress is not linear—and it’s true. Growth happens at the student’s pace, not mine. Watching my students slowly build trust and routine has taught me to pause not just in my teaching, but in my own daily life. The slower I move, the more I notice the beauty in every little step forward.
Adapting Materials, Adapting Expectations
Every day I adapt. A worksheet might become a hands-on sorting activity, a storybook may come alive with picture cards, and a group activity might start one-on-one before a child joins peers. Adapting does not mean lowering expectations—it means clearing a path so the child can succeed. Flexibility is the tool that opens doors.
I’ve also learned that not all students learn best in the same way. Some benefit from tangible, hands-on experiences—holding real objects as they learn to identify them—while others respond better to visual supports like picture cards or digital images. For example, when working on identifying common objects, one child might need to touch and explore the physical item, while another can easily match it on a communication board. Differentiating materials this way allows each child to access learning in the way that fits them best.
Seeing Through Their Eyes
Teaching children with autism spectrum disorder means constantly trying to see the world through their eyes. What feels overwhelming to one child might be soothing to another. What looks like resistance may really be a need for predictability. The more I step into their perspective, the better I understand their needs—and the more compassion grows in me as a teacher.
Over time, I’ve learned that communication isn’t always spoken. Many of my students express their needs through subtle nonverbal cues—a shift in body language, a glance away, covering their ears, or beginning to pace. These moments often tell me more than words ever could. When I notice a child’s shoulders tense, their breathing quicken, or their focus fade, I know it’s time to pause. They may need a sensory break, help with a task, or simply a moment to feel safe again.
I’ve also come to understand that all behavior is communication. Sometimes a child might cry, run away, or throw items—not out of defiance, but out of frustration, fear, or an unmet need. Every action, whether it’s laughter, avoidance, or a meltdown, carries meaning. It’s my job to look beneath the surface and ask why a behavior is happening—what the child is trying to tell me through their actions.
Learning to read these signals has been one of the most powerful parts of my teaching journey. It reminds me that listening goes far beyond hearing words—it’s about observing, understanding, and responding with empathy. When I take the time to notice and respond with care, my students feel seen, supported, and understood.
Partnering with Families
I am also beginning to see the importance of resources for parents. Families often want to understand how to best support their children at home, and I’ve learned that open communication and sharing tools—like visuals, routines, and sensory supports—makes a huge difference. During my first parent-teacher conferences, I was able to share the progress I’d seen: new words, increased independence, and more engagement during group time. Seeing parents’ faces light up with pride reminded me why I love what I do.
Love, Smiles, and Joy
At the heart of my motivation is love—the love I give and the love I receive. It shows up in the smiles when a child recognizes me in the morning, in the laughter that bursts out during play, and in the quiet joy of a breakthrough moment. These children teach me as much about joy as I teach them about learning. Their small wins are also my wins. Their happiness, however fleeting, is a reminder of why I chose this path. Love is not just the motivation for teaching—it is the reward.
Now that I finally have a classroom of my own—two classes, ten students, and more to come—I feel the deep responsibility and joy of shaping a learning environment from the ground up. Every day brings new discoveries, laughter, and lessons. Watching my students love, smile, grow, and enjoy life just like all children do reaffirms that they are not defined by their challenges, but by their potential.
Celebrating the Small Wins
In my classroom, there is no such thing as a “small” win. Every word spoken, every step toward independence, and every positive interaction with a peer is cause for celebration. These victories remind the children—and me—that progress is real and possible. They build confidence and keep us moving forward together.
One of my favorite recent moments came during school picture day. One of my students was very nervous and hid their face when it was time for their photo. Their mother had been so excited to see their first school pictures and was eagerly looking forward to them. We decided to try again about an hour later, after the student had some time to feel calm and comfortable. This time, they walked up with confidence and gave the biggest smile. When their mother saw the photos, her face lit up with joy. That small moment reminded me that success doesn’t always come on the first try—sometimes it blooms quietly after patience, trust, and encouragement.
Conclusion: A Program of Hope
Teaching children with autism spectrum disorder is about more than academics. It is about dignity, relationship, and hope. My classroom is a place where every child can learn and grow at their own pace, supported and understood. It is a place where I adapt, celebrate, and most importantly—love.
McKinney ISD’s special education program is entering a new chapter with recent leadership changes, and I believe this will bring fresh opportunities for growth, collaboration, and advocacy. With continued focus on supporting teachers and families, we can keep building programs that meet every child where they are.
These children may see the world differently, but through their eyes, I have learned to see beauty, courage, and joy in ways I never imagined. Every day, I am reminded that teaching isn’t just about shaping their future—it’s about allowing them to shape mine.
Let's Talk About It, Lewis! 