Help Special Need Kids/Siblings Learn From Groups

The First Ray of Light After Emerging from Darkness
Rediscovering a Child's Strengths, Not Their Weaknesses ~ Zongjing's Mom

"Autumn is here~ Autumn is here~ The leaves are changing color~"

This is a song my child learned in the percussion room at the An'an Association. Every time I hear him softly humming this melody, my heart warms slightly—because it's not just a song, but the first ray of light after we've emerged from darkness.

Before encountering the An'an Association, I was a constantly anxious, almost overwhelmed full-time mom.

From the day my toddler teacher told me, "Your child needs a developmental delay assessment," I felt like I'd fallen into a bottomless abyss.

Watching him consistently lag behind the other children, I broke down countless times in the bathroom at night, crying and asking myself:

"Where did I go wrong?"

"Am I not good enough? Am I bad at teaching? Is that why he's like this?"

In fact, before that, I was too afraid to take my child to any group activities.

Because other parents had once yelled at me—

"Control your child!" Those words were branded into my heart, making me doubt myself time and again, and fearing my child's vulnerability.

Until I met the An An Association.

The empathy, encouragement, and acceptance of the association's teachers were like a pair of warm hands supporting me. For the first time, I mustered the courage to bring my child back into the group, and I began to see my child's strengths again, rather than his weaknesses.

The first time in the percussion class, the other children could immediately follow the rhythm, but my child ran around the classroom—
He wanted to touch the instrument that had just been demonstrated; he wanted to immediately hit the big drum; and then he started running around the classroom again.

At that moment, my heart suddenly ached. Images of past reprimands flashed before my eyes, and my eyes welled up with tears.

Just when I was about to collapse, a teacher from the association came to my side and gently said,

"It's okay, all the children here are the same, don't worry."

I looked up and around the classroom—children were crawling around, some were screaming, some were crying for hugs.

And for the first time, I realized:

Here, no one looks at the children with accusatory eyes.

Here, children can be themselves.

And the teacher? Would the teacher think he was "naughty"?

I turned to look at the teacher, and saw her smiling, patiently demonstrating the instrument, striking out clear sounds again and again, gently asking:

"Listen, is it the same as before?" One by one, the children quieted down, and I was surprised to find—

My child, without me noticing, had obediently sat back in his chair, his eyes fixed intently on the teacher's hands.

At that moment, I couldn't help but tear up.

It turns out that as long as you give him an accepting environment, he can be just as focused, just as engaged, just as seen, just like other children.

After several lessons, I was increasingly amazed: He would tap on chairs and tables at home, observing the sounds of different materials; he would suddenly hum melodies from class; and he would excitedly imitate rhythms taught by the teacher.

And I finally understood—it wasn't that the child couldn't do it, but that he needed a place willing to accompany him and wait for him.

Without these teachers, associations, experienced parents, and everyone willing to invest resources and support, my child and I might still be lost, directionless, and wounded.

Thank you to the An'an Association for giving us the courage to start anew.

Thank you to every teacher who was willing to kneel down, wait, and understand.

Thank you for making my child no longer afraid of being "different."

On a slightly chilly winter morning, I saw my child sitting in the classroom, his eyes shining, raising his hand and shouting:

"Teacher, I arrived very early today! I want to help arrange the chairs and help carry the instruments!" He hummed that familiar song as he moved his small chairs.

"Autumn is here... Autumn is here... The leaves are changing color..." At that moment, I knew—my child, truly, was slowly emerging from the darkness.

May every child like my child deserve to be seen, deserve to be affirmed, and deserve to be cherished.