If you are a parent of a school-aged child with a disability, you already know that the system is broken. You likely feel helpless, judged, and as though you are failing your child. I want to assure you that you’re not, but the education system is failing them.

My 17-year-old son Alex* spends his days at home. He wants to get a job, but is going to need a lot of help to do that, and while we wait for months on end for a review of his NDIS funding, he can do little more than wait. He should be at school, but by the end of year 10 it was clear that school was doing more damage than good.

Alex has autism, a range of learning disabilities and a rare genetic syndrome, along with high levels of aggression when he is frustrated or perceives a threat. From primary to secondary school, I have watched his teachers bend over backwards, giving of their own family time to try their best to engage him and accommodate his needs. He has worked his way through countless teacher aides, burning out those who didn’t have the skills to adequately support him.

He spent most of his early primary school years isolated from his class, because the only choice the school had was for him to be in a room with 24 other students (where he often became distressed) or in a room on his own with a teacher aide. There was no option to offer smaller classes with higher teacher-to-student ratios, as there just isn’t the funding for that scenario. Often, he would come home and talk about helping in the office or collecting rubbish, but rarely about learning.

His funding at secondary school allowed for a teacher aide to support him in 30% of his classes, but it was rarely the same aide. Some had no idea how to engage him, and if aides were absent, then he sometimes did not get any support at all. Highly sensitive to noise and distraction, it was nearly impossible for him to remain for any length of time in a classroom. In classes where there was no aide, teachers were just not able to offer him the one-to-one support he needed.

So what happened? He spent most of his school days sitting in a corner of the library, isolated and watching YouTube. We tried all reasonable interventions, but they all failed. I tried to enrol him in our nearest specialist school, nearly an hour’s drive away, but he was not “disabled enough” to be allowed to attend. Am I angry? Absolutely! Am I angry at his schools and his teachers? I’m not – many of them are my colleagues.

In any one of my English classes I can expect around half of my students will have significant additional needs. From physical and mental health to learning and physical disability, the needs of students are significant and varied.

Last year I had to accommodate for 16 different disabilities and disorders, across 40 students in my classrooms; from autism and ADHD to hearing, language and visual disorders. Just to be clear, I have received limited or no professional training in these areas. I rely on parents and students as well as reports from allied health professionals to guide how I can best support these students.

I am a passionate supporter of inclusive education. When our children grow up in diverse and accepting educational settings, as adults they will expect to see this reflected in their workplaces, social lives and communities. We are more empathetic, interesting and intelligent when we live in an inclusive world. But when the decision was made to start closing specialist schools and move students with disabilities into mainstream schools, little consideration was given to how mainstream schools and teachers could ensure a positive experience for all students.

Despite promises of an easier process to attain funding for students with disabilities, the current model in Victoria requires an intense period of gathering data, often employing supports before there is funding available. Teachers devote significant time to documenting how they support a particular student, with no promise of funding at the end. If a student is lucky enough to receive additional funding, there are often barriers in how that funding can be used.

Many parents see having an additional adult in the room as the main source of support.

Let’s be clear, teacher aides are not teachers. They are not qualified (or paid) to design or modify work for students. They are not required to have any training regarding the disabilities their students live with. Due to staffing limitations, sometimes it’s not even possible to have a child work with the same teacher aide for their classes.

For many students with disabilities, just being in a room with 25 other students is enough for them to shut down completely. Teenagers aren’t quiet. They’re not even civil sometimes, and at junior levels they rarely consider the needs of those around them. Add in fluorescent lights, traffic and ambient background noise, and sometimes overstimulating classroom displays, and even with a teacher aide, some students are just not going to be able to attend school, let alone engage with learning.

If schools had the funding to create enabling spaces, markedly reduce teacher-to-student ratios, employ full-time allied health specialists in all schools and provide genuine ongoing professional development to all staff, then we might just start to see some positive changes.

Every child has a right to an engaging, relevant and inspiring education. Can I provide that to every one of my students? No.

But it’s not about individual teachers, or even individual schools. The entire way we fund education, build schools and deliver education needs radical change and investment. Australia could lead the way in inclusion to show the world how it’s done.

Will our government be so brave as to authentically invest in our children?