Ableism
Ableism: What It Is, How It Shows Up, and Why It Matters for Our Children
A gentle, honest conversation for parents and caregivers
If you’re a parent or caregiver of a neurodivergent child, you’ve probably come across the word ableism. Maybe you’ve heard it on Instagram, in school meetings, or in support groups — but no one has ever really explained it in a way that feels practical or relevant to your day-to-day life.
So today, I want to talk to you about what ableism actually is, how it quietly shows up in everyday moments, and why understanding it can make such a difference for your child’s confidence, wellbeing and sense of identity.
And we’re going to talk about it in a real, human way — not a jargon-heavy, academic way.
Let’s breathe into it together.
So… what is ableism? Let’s keep it simple.
Ableism is basically the idea — often unspoken, often unconscious — that being non-disabled is more “normal," “better,” or more desirable.
And because society has been shaped around that idea, the world is often built in a way that assumes all children learn, behave and communicate the same way.
But here’s the truth:
Our children often don’t fit into those expectations — and that’s not a problem.
The problem is the expectation itself.
Ableism isn’t just people being intentionally unkind.
More often, it’s deeply ingrained beliefs about how children should look, act, cope, or learn.
And those beliefs affect how our children are treated… and how they start to view themselves.
Everyday ableism: the things we barely notice (until we do)
Many parents only begin to notice ableism after their child receives a diagnosis or when they start advocating more. Suddenly the world looks different — and some things that once seemed harmless start to feel uncomfortable.
For example:
You’re at a family gathering and someone says,
“Oh, he doesn’t look autistic.”
It’s said as a compliment… but it isn’t one. It suggests autism has a “look,” or that looking autistic is somehow bad.
Or your child is having a hard time at school and you’re told:
“All kids do that.”
And you’re left feeling like you’re overreacting or imagining the struggle — when you know in your gut that something deeper is going on.
Or maybe you’ve watched teachers insist on eye contact, even when your child listens better while looking at their hands or the floor.
Or you’ve heard praise like “great quiet hands!”
And part of you winces, because you know your child moves to regulate, not to misbehave.
None of these moments come from bad intentions.
They come from a society that still sees certain behaviours as “right” and others as “wrong.”
But for our children, these small moments stack up.
They shape how included they feel, whether they mask, and how safe they feel being themselves.
How ableism affects children — even when no one means harm
Let me give you a familiar scenario:
A child flaps their hands when they’re excited.
Adults rush in with:
“Hands down… quiet hands… calm body.”
The child learns two things:
My joy looks wrong.
My natural way of expressing myself is something to hide.
Or a child communicates through gestures, AAC, or echolalia.
Someone says,
“Use your words.”
Not recognising that the child is using their words — just not the way the adult expected.
Or a child needs movement, breaks, or sensory adjustments, and they're met with:
“We can’t make special exceptions.”
All of these experiences carry the same message:
“Change yourself to fit the environment.”
Instead of:
“Let’s change the environment to meet your needs.”
That second message is where children flourish.
Why understanding ableism matters (and why it’s not about guilt)
This isn’t about blaming parents, teachers, grandparents, or anyone else.
We’ve all internalised ableism.
We were raised in it.
We were praised for compliance, quietness, eye contact, neatness, stillness — all the things that don’t come naturally for many neurodivergent children.
Understanding ableism simply gives us new eyes.
It allows us to ask different questions, like:
Is this behaviour actually a problem… or is it just different?
Is the expectation realistic for my child’s brain and body?
Is this rule supporting my child, or suppressing them?
Is my response driven by their needs… or by societal pressure?
When we start asking these questions, something shifts.
We move from correction → connection.
From “fixing” → understanding.
From “how do I stop this?” → “what is this telling me?”
And that shift is powerful.
What reducing ableism looks like in everyday life
Reducing ableism isn’t about getting everything perfect.
It's about small, compassionate adjustments that honour who our children are.
It’s saying:
“I hear you,” instead of “Use your words.”
“Take your time,” instead of “Hurry up.”
“Let’s find what works for you,” instead of “Everyone else can do it.”
“It’s okay to move,” instead of “Sit still.”
“You’re not wrong — your needs are valid.”
It’s giving a child noise-cancelling headphones without shame.
It’s accepting that a child can listen while colouring or pacing.
It’s recognising that emotional safety comes before learning.
It’s celebrating stimming as joy, not correcting it as misbehaviour.
Every one of these moments tells a child:
“You are welcome as you are. You don’t need to shrink yourself to be accepted.”
If you’re reading this, you’re already doing the work
Most parents who find this blog come with the same worry:
“Have I done ableist things without realising?”
Yes — we all have.
And you’re here now, learning, unlearning, growing, trying.
That matters.
Ableism is something we notice slowly, gently, piece by piece.
Once you start seeing it, you can’t unsee it.
And that’s a good thing — it means you’re becoming the parent your child needs.
A parent who listens differently.
Who advocates confidently.
Who protects their child’s dignity.
Who recognises their child’s needs without shame.
Who makes space for who their child truly is.
And that is what changes lives.
Final thoughts
Ableism is everywhere — in systems, language, expectations, and routines.
But so is the opportunity to challenge it.
Not with shame.
Not with fear.
But with awareness, compassion, and curiosity.
We don’t need to fix our children.
We need to fix the environments, assumptions, and pressures that make life harder for them.
One day, one adjustment, one conversation at a time — we can build a world where our children feel safe, seen, accepted, and free to be exactly who they are.
And that is a world worth creating.
