I am lost, luckily they are not.

I still remember the first time Joel sang Spider Monster in the middle of our session.

It wasn’t on the schedule. No prompt. No checkbox to mark it down.
We were sitting at the table, working on a structured program with picture cards. Joel was quiet, focused or maybe just drifting. Then suddenly, he looked up and sang:

“Spider Monster… Spider Monster…”

It was the Sesame Street version. A soft, silly song that caught me completely off guard.
I had two choices. Redirect him and get back to the program, or meet him where he was.
So I sang back. Just one line.
And he smiled. That kind of smile that’s rare, the kind that feels like a moment.

We didn’t finish the program that day. We didn’t get any clean data.
But the next morning, he came back to the table on his own. No resistance, no prompts.
There’s no spot on the data sheet for “built emotional trust,” but I know we did.

I didn’t grow up thinking I’d end up here.
I’m from a small mountain town in Malaysia. My grandmother was raised in a time and place where girls didn’t always get to go to school. She fought for better, and because of her, I had a chance to grow up with choices. That journey eventually brought me to the United States, into the field of special education, and recently, to Harvard.

But it’s not about the name or the title.
What keeps me in this work isn’t prestige. It’s these exact moments, the ones that don’t go as planned. The ones that sneak up on you. The ones where a child who’s often misunderstood gives you a glimpse into their world, and invites you in through a monster song.

This job is not cute or easy. It’s real. It’s wiping off spit. It’s getting through meltdowns. It’s repeating the same prompt 40 times and still showing up the next day to do it again. But it’s also joy. It’s celebrating when a student finally brushes their teeth without a fight, or crosses a doorway they’ve avoided for months. It’s hearing Joel sing and realizing he trusts me enough to share his imagination out loud.

I’m not here to fix anyone. I’m here to listen. To advocate. To build a classroom where being different isn’t just accepted, it’s valued.

Joel’s song didn’t teach me how to run a session. It taught me how to stay present.

And sometimes, that’s enough.