Mason (second from right) with his family on his first day of high school this year.

We first met Mason Malaeulu five years ago, when his mum, Dahlia, wrote about the challenges — and blessings — of having a child with autism. Now he’s 13 and in his first year of high school, where he and his parents are encountering a system not built for difference.

We’ve reached the end of Term 1. For some families, that means a quick breather and maybe a glance at a school report. But for parents of autistic children, it’s a moment of quiet survival, a deep exhale after weeks of navigating a world that too often feels stacked against our tamaiti.

Our son Mason (Mase) is now 13 years old. He’s kind, thoughtful, and absolutely brilliant when it comes to his passions — especially movies. He doesn’t just watch them, he experiences them: replaying scenes out loud, chattering to himself, and mimicking the action and emotion with such focus that you’d think he was on set.

Mase has autism and is high-functioning, which means he doesn’t present with the more obvious signs that people often associate with autism. He can speak, walk, and function in many environments — and because of this, his needs are often invisible. Until they’re not. Until the overwhelm sets in. Until the self-talk starts. Until people start staring.

As the mother of a child with autism — and a former teacher of 15 years — nothing prepares you for the kind of inclusion that has to be constantly advocated for, managed, and maintained in a system not built to hold space for our tamaiti. This term, I’ve had to work mostly from home, not because I wanted to, but because I had to. Settling Mase into high school life took all the energy and attention our ‘āiga could give.

A new school means a major restart. For instance, it took just over three weeks for Mase to learn where to go. Not the content of his subjects, or the names of his teachers — just physically where to be, and where to go when he forgot where to go. Because forgetfulness, for him, isn’t defiance — it’s part of how his brain processes transitions and stress. That’s all we wanted: for Mase to know his way around and feel safe enough to get through the day. Because only then can real connection or learning happen.

But we know our Mase is lucky in some ways. His high school provides options that allow him to be in both mainstream classes and in a class tailored to his needs — that’s Te Kohanga or TK. And honestly? This TK class has been a lifeline — for him and for us. It’s a space that moves at his pace, speaks his language, embraces his interests, and doesn’t treat him like a problem to be managed.

It’s also a haven for many students with low, moderate, and high needs. Whether or not students are funded for additional support, they are seen. They are accepted. The lead teachers of the TK class, with everything else on their shoulders, somehow create time, space, and a sense of safety for every student who walks through their doors. It’s not just about learning — it’s about belonging.

We felt that deeply at the beginning of the year, when TK parents and students gathered for a barbecue. Students mingled in the fresh air, and kai was shared like we were old friends reconnecting. Differences were celebrated authentically, in real time. We felt part of something familiar. We felt like whānau. It was a reminder of what true inclusion feels like. Not just being allowed in the room, but being valued in it.

Mason enjoying his weekly sailing sessions wtih his TK class.

But it also raised a painful, unanswered question: Why is the mainstream part of our high schools still getting it so wrong?

In education, we constantly preach that learning is rooted in relationships. You find this in all the effective pedagogy research, positive student achievement case studies, and in the foundation of the best teachers — those who understand each child’s rhythm. But many parents I’ve spoken to say that, in high school, this whānau-based model becomes patchy: present in some spaces, absent in others, and often disappearing altogether.

Having worked with and visited schools across the country, I’ve seen how high schools still reflect their industrial-era design: rigid, fast-paced, and geared toward producing outcomes rather than nurturing growth. Students are shuffled from class to class, while teachers, already stretched thin by a nationwide shortage, are under constant pressure to deliver results. Instead of fostering belonging, the connections and relational learning our tamaiti need are often lost. Too many classrooms become places of silent disconnection.

And we wonder why some tamaiti don’t turn up to school.

In Mase’s mainstream classes, from what he tells us, most people leave him be — which he likes — until the reenactments start, or the self-chatter kicks in. Then come the stares. The confused student glances. Teachers are sometimes unsure how to respond. And he starts to notice. Starts to feel it.

He knows he’s different. And not in a “celebrate diversity” kind of way, but in a way that feels like he doesn’t belong. And that cuts deep, for him and us. It culminated not long ago in the kind of meltdown that he hasn’t had in years — the result of feeling like an outsider.

We understand that it’s the first term of a new year, a new school, and that students, teachers, and staff are still getting to know one another. But the strength of this connectedness is highly dependent on the teachers in the classroom and their capacity to foster collaborative, cooperative learning environments.

Belonging doesn’t just happen — it must be created. And from the many student voices we’ve published through our Mila’s Books, the reality they describe is far from promising as the years pass by on this high school journey, especially for our neurodiverse and Pasifika tamaiti. And our son is both.

All I can think is that we’ve created a system of schooling that doesn’t value emotional safety. That rewards conformity over creativity. That focuses on box-ticking and data-gathering instead of preparing tamaiti for the real world with lifelong skills.

Part of the problem is that teacher training often falls short of equipping educators to meet the vast array of learning, social, and cultural needs present in today’s classrooms. And while the government rolls out a Curriculum Refresh, what we really need is a System Refresh — one that rebuilds teacher training and schooling from the ground up, with all learners at the centre. Because right now, the system isn’t serving our kids — or their teachers.

Our tamaiti are expected to adapt, to keep up, to cope. But what if the pace of life — of school, of people, of communication — is simply too fast? What if the pressure to meet standards is crushing the very spirit we’re meant to be nurturing?

I know other families in this space. I’ve sat with mothers who’ve quit their jobs to support their child’s school journey because their child comes home upset four out of five days. Or they’ve had to pull their child out altogether to homeschool them because of inadequate support.

I’ve seen the tears of many mothers whose autistic tamaiti are bullied daily, with no one stepping in. One mother was told: “That’s just kids.” But “just kids” should never mean “just let them suffer.” Our autistic tamaiti feel deeply. And when they’re unheard or unseen, they carry those wounds silently.

Mason won a Wellington College gold medal with his TK classmates for netball this term.

Don’t forget that as parents of autistic tamaiti, we are always on. We’re the voice when our child can’t find the words. We’re their advocate, their interpreter, their safety net. We manage routines, soothe anxieties, prepare for transitions, anticipate meltdowns, and try to navigate a system that demands we fight for every little thing — every support, every adaptation, every ounce of understanding.

And it’s exhausting. Not just for us. But for our kids. For the teachers. For everyone trying to swim upstream in a system that wasn’t built for difference.

The world races ahead, addicted to instant results, likes, clicks, and performance. But our kids? They need time. They need space. They need to go slow. They need to feel connected to people, to learning, and to who they are. They need to feel that they matter, too.

So, to all the parents out there — those holding back tears in carparks, adjusting work hours, holding your child together and then falling apart in private — you’re not alone.

To the students who pause, who show kindness, who choose to include rather than exclude and ridicule — thank you. Your small acts of empathy will help to build the kind of world we all deserve.

To the teachers doing your best and doing the work: Fa’afetai lava. Thank you for giving us hope. I know it’s hard. I know many of you feel unsupported, undertrained, underpaid and overwhelmed. I know many of you feel this system is failing you, too — and it is. It’s okay to say that. Because the truth is that the system is working against all of us: parents, educators, and most of all, our tamaiti.

And to our precious neurodiverse tamaiti: You are not the problem. You are the light. You are the lesson. You are exactly what this world needs — if only we stop long enough to notice.

This was just Term 1. We have many more to go. Let’s use every one of them to do better. To be better. To push for the kind of educational experience where every child — especially those who move through the world differently — feels safe and valued. And where they’re not just included but made to feel like they truly belong.

Dahlia Malaeulu is an award-winning author and the founder of Mila’s Books, the only all-Pasifika publishing company of children’s books in the world. Dahlia has garnered numerous creative, business, and book industry accolades, including the Bologna Prize for Oceania’s Best Children’s Publisher of the Year 2025.

Vāsifika — Our Autism Journeys. WherePasifika families living with autism share their lessons, hopes and dreams of awareness and acceptance. This book is an open invite to connect, to talanoa, to strengthen the vā with those living with autism. It was released in April 2023 by Mila’s Books and created with the support of (PASG) Pasifika Autism Support Group, Your Way Kia Roha, Altogether Autism, Te Pou. Available from www.milasbooks.com

Autism Support:

(PASG) Pasifika Autism Support Group — http://www.asdpasifika.org.nz/

Altogether Autism — https://www.altogetherautism.org.nz/

Autism NZ — https://autismnz.org.nz

E-Tangata, 2025