Michelle Jensen: Redefining Inclusion in Education & Disability

An Easter surprise I wasn’t expecting… 🐰💛

This honestly brought me to tears.

Every year since I was little, I’ve had a Darrell Lea nougat egg, and this year? Nowhere to be found. Devastating, obviously 😅 So I settled for some backup chocolate.

But the chocolate didn’t even matter.

Because this was waiting for me.

What makes this even more surprising is that I was the one behind the Easter Bunny notes for my boys this year (after a… let’s just say, challenging 24 hours 😬).

But this one? This one was for me.

And I think it hit so hard because it said the quiet part out loud… that I show up, that I handle things, that it’s not easy… but I keep going anyway.

And if I’m honest, even when you’ve got support, even when your partner has your back… it can still feel really lonely sometimes.

So to be seen like this, in such a simple way?

It meant more than the chocolate ever could.

Sometimes it’s not the grand gestures, it’s just the words 💛

Happy Easter 🐣 x

Today was a tough day.

I’m not going to share details, because one day my son will be able to read this, and his dignity matters more than anything. But what I will say is this... today was preventable.

And that’s the part that’s hard to sit with.

This isn’t about one event, one teacher, or one decision. It’s about a pattern that I think many families experience but don’t always say out loud.

When you have a child with a disability, you become very aware of how often systems rely on “choice” instead of support.

“My child chose to participate.”
“My child wanted to do what everyone else was doing.”

Of course they do.

They want to belong.
They want to fit in.
They want to be like everyone else.

But there’s a difference between a child’s choice… and an adult’s responsibility.

If a child chooses something that isn’t in their best interest, we don’t just step back and let it happen. We guide. We adjust. We plan.

That’s what inclusion is.

Not just access.
Not just participation.
But participation that is safe, appropriate, and sets a child up to succeed, not struggle.

What’s been weighing on me is that this isn’t new.

For over a years now, I’ve been raising small, practical adjustments that would make a big difference. Things that are not expensive, not complex, and in many cases would benefit other students as well.

And yet, too often, those adjustments are:
– delayed
– partially implemented
– or only acted on after something goes wrong

And I find myself asking the same question over and over again:

Why does it keep getting to that point?

I don’t believe for a second that this is just happening to us.

I think there are many families quietly navigating the same thing... trying to advocate, trying to collaborate, trying to get ahead of issues before they become problems.

And I also want to say this clearly... this is not a teacher-bashing post.

Teachers are working within a system that is stretched, under pressure, and not always set up to do inclusion well.

But that doesn’t change the impact when things aren’t done right.

As a parent, I don’t have the option to step back and “see how it goes.”

Because I know what happens if I do.

I’ve seen the difference when support is in place, and I’ve seen what happens when it isn’t.

And the gap between those two outcomes is not small. It’s life-changing!

My goal isn’t perfection.
It’s not unrealistic expectations.

It’s simply this:

That we plan ahead.
That we listen early.
And that we make small adjustments before they turn into big problems.

Because today didn’t need to happen the way it did.

And I know we can do better... not just for my child, but for many others as well.

Muesli is my new ciggy 🚬➡️🥣

I feel kind of silly writing this… but I know you’ll get it.

I remember the first home visit our beautiful OT did years ago.
It was meant to be about my child… but somehow, the focus landed on me.

Because mornings in our house?
They weren’t just “busy.” They were survival.

I used to wake at 5:15am to get ahead of the toilet/bathroom cleanup.
By school drop-off, I’d already done a half a full time day… and I hadn’t even eaten.
Cold coffee (if I was lucky), picking at scraps while making lunches, running on empty.

And the thing is…
this isn’t just a “mum life” issue.

When you’re parenting a child with additional needs,
when regulation, routines, behaviours, therapies…. all sit on top of normal life…

👉 you become the system holding everything together

And no one checks if the system is resourced.

When I went away (by myself) recently, something small shifted everything.

Every morning, breakfast was just… there.
Simple. Prepped. Nourishing.
Muesli, fruit, yoghurt, honey.

No thinking. No rushing. No chaos.

And for the first time in a long time…
I ate.

Since coming home, I’ve changed one thing.

I don’t start my day at the service of everyone else.

From 6–7am, I am off duty.

I eat.
I drink my coffee hot.
I sit in the sun.
I breathe.

And then — and only then — I show up for everyone else.

And here’s the funny part…

I realised what I actually missed wasn’t ci******es —
it was what ci******es gave me.

That pause.
That breath in, hold, slow release.
That moment where no one asked anything of me.

So now?

My breakfast is my new cigarette.

And the impact?

✔️ My nervous system is calmer
✔️ I’m not starting the day triggered by news and noise
✔️ I’m actually taking my medication properly
✔️ My gut health (which has been a mess for years) is improving
✔️ I have more capacity for my kids — especially the one who needs it most

This is what advocacy doesn’t always show you.

It’s not just fighting systems.
It’s rebuilding yourself inside them.

Because if we burn out —
everything collapses.

So here’s my challenge to you:

What’s your “cigarette”?

Not the thing that harms you —
the thing that holds you.

The pause.
The breath.
The moment that’s yours.

Tell me 👇
Let’s share them — because I reckon a lot of us have been running on empty for far too long.

Last Tuesday in Geelong my girlfriend took me to the Cattery.

Full disclosure… I am not an AFL person.

I grew up with Rugby League. I don’t follow AFL closely and I struggle to understand how the game works.

But a couple of years ago I happened to watch a grand final, mostly for the halftime entertainment, and something unexpected happened.

I fell in love with the way the Geelong Cats carried themselves.

The class.
The respect.
The quiet, authentic inclusion.

It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t a PR moment.

They included their support staff, they celebrated the water runner who lives with a disability with genuine respect, and Joel Selwood running out with a young boy absolutely broke me. It was just done with such dignity and authenticity that I sat there in tears thinking…

That’s what inclusion actually looks like.

And somewhere in that moment I quietly became a Geelong supporter for life.

Last year I was having a tough conversation with a close friend. Someone I care deeply about had told me I needed to “pick my battles”.

People say that to me a lot.

“Michelle, who are you fighting now?”
“Maybe you should just let this one go.”
“Pick your battles.”

But the thing people don’t understand is this:
When you’re parenting a child with a disability, you don’t get the luxury of picking battles.

If I don’t fight, my son doesn’t get included.

If I don’t fight, he doesn’t get educated properly.

If I don’t fight, he doesn’t build the skills he needs to be independent, to work, to contribute, to live the life he deserves.

I actually know the difference because I also have three younger boys who don’t face those same barriers. With them, I absolutely can choose my battles.

With my eldest… that luxury simply doesn’t exist.

So when people say “pick your battles”, what they’re really asking is for me to accept a system that leaves my son behind.

And I can’t do that.

During that conversation my best friend laughed and said something that stuck with me.

“Mate, you’re the Bailey Smith of life.”

Now at the time I barely knew who Bailey Smith was.

But she explained it like this.

He’s the player who runs straight at the contest.
The one who goes all in.
The one who will take the heat if it protects his teammates.

Sometimes he gets criticised.
Sometimes he gets in trouble.
Sometimes he sticks up the double bird.

But underneath it all there’s loyalty, authenticity and absolute commitment to the team.

And she said,

“You’re not built to sit on the sidelines.
You’re built to run straight at the ball.”

For the last eleven years my nervous system has lived in fight mode.

Most mornings it feels like there are lions chasing me.

Some days there really are battles.
Other days I’m just waiting for the next one.

Last week in Geelong was the first time in a very long time that I woke up and realised…

There were no lions.

And it was confronting.

Because somewhere along the way you realise how long you’ve been running.

So when I got home, I changed the screensaver on my phone.

It used to be a beautiful photo of my kids.

Now it’s Bailey Smith giving the double bird.

Not because I want to be rude.

But because it’s my reminder.

A reminder that I’m in the arena.

As Brené Brown writes in Daring Greatly, the only opinions that truly matter are from the people who are also in the arena — the ones showing up, getting knocked down, getting back up, and daring greatly for something that matters.

My children are a worthy cause.

Inclusion is a worthy cause.

And if that means occasionally getting knocked around while running straight at the ball…

Well, so be it.

PS:
The downside of this new screensaver is when my kids grab my phone.

Our five-year-old is obsessed with Ryan Pappenhausen.

We don’t watch AFL in this house, so he looks at my phone and goes,

“Look Mum! It’s Pappy!”

Parenting is wild. 😅

Wow!!!

I genuinely did not expect this to land on the front page of The Chronicle

When I first reached out to Bella, it wasn’t because I wanted attention. It was because I recognised a feeling.

After the tragedy in WA involving a family who had reportedly experienced recent NDIS cuts, I felt sick. Not because I would ever harm my children (I never would) but because I understood that crushing, isolating, breaking-point feeling when support is removed while needs remain.

And that feeling needs to be spoken about honestly.

We’ve been part of the NDIS since the pilot program. This was the first time our son’s plan was more than halved. It was devastating.

Yes, the NDIS must be sustainable.
Yes, it is life-changing for many.
But something is not working the way it should.

When supports are cut, the need doesn’t disappear. It doesn’t evaporate.

It transfers.

It transfers onto parents. Onto teachers. Onto families already running at capacity.

I was nervous seeing the funding figures printed. There’s shame around that number, as if it’s money sitting in a parent’s bank account. It isn’t. When allied health is nearly $200 an hour and orthotics cost thousands, the funds are allocated quickly and strictly to disability-specific supports.

We were out of funds by December.

And here’s the part people don’t see.

Disability isn’t just appointments. It’s daily administration.

It’s extra washing. Extra cleaning. Meal modifications. Bowel management. Coordinating multiple allied health teams. Self-managing invoices to reduce cost to taxpayers. Preparing reports every year. Advocacy with schools. Risk management. Forward planning.

None of that applies to my other children.

This is disability-specific life administration.

The emotional load is constant. The planning never switches off.

And when support hours are reduced to “just implement the program at home,” the assumption is that parents have spare capacity.

We don’t.

Not because we don’t love our child.
Not because we’re unwilling.
But because there are only so many hours in a day.

Early intervention worked for our son. His growth in the early years was significant and documented. That’s the point of an insurance scheme… invest early to reduce long-term cost.

Cutting early support doesn’t reduce need. It shifts cost forward.

I am proud of my son. He is kind, determined, and gentle. The people who actually spend time with him see that immediately. He is not a burden. He is not a behavioural issue. He is a child who thrives when supported.

This isn’t about attacking the NDIS.
It’s about asking whether the interpretation of “reasonable and necessary” has shifted in a way that unintentionally increases pressure on families.

There is a difference between sustainability and transferring responsibility.

There is a difference between upskilling parents and replacing funded support with unpaid labour.

And there is a difference between inclusion as a word and inclusion as practice.

If this conversation makes people uncomfortable, that’s okay.

It should.

Because disability doesn’t disappear when funding changes. It simply changes who carries it.

I am incredibly proud to have spoken up. Not just for my son, but for families who don’t have the energy to.

And I’m grateful to Bella for telling the story with care, balance and respecting my son’s dignity.

This isn’t about outrage.

It’s about honesty.

— Michelle x

P.S. Those beach photos were taken during our one family break each year by a beautiful friend J Duffus Photography. Even on that week, I’m still taking calls from therapists and medical teams, because disability doesn’t take holidays. But it’s the one time we try to breathe a little and just be a family.

Two photos.
One bag tag.
And a small lesson that hit me harder than I expected.

Last year I made a packing reminder and shoved it in the side pocket.
Useless.

If it’s not visible, it doesn’t work.
(And yes… we still have two drink bottles at school and none at home.)

This year I made it obvious.

This morning my five-year-old asked,
“Can I have one like my big brother?”

And that stopped me.

Because the tag wasn’t “for everyone.”
It was for him.

Same with the mirrors.

We’re working on body awareness at breakfast. Motor planning, sensory processing, not always feeling food on his face. The mirror helps.

I bought two.

I should have bought four.

Because when I got home from drop-off, the two- and three-year-old were sitting there, carefully eating, checking themselves… just like their big brother.

They didn’t see therapy.
They saw routine.
They saw leadership.
They saw someone they want to be like.

And here’s the uncomfortable reflection:
Am I truly inclusive at home?

Or am I unintentionally singling one child out because of an area of difficulty?

The real lesson for me wasn’t about mirrors or bag tags.

It was about choice.

Did I offer everyone the option?
Or did I assume?

Sometimes we create adjustments for one child, at home or in a classroom, and forget to ask:

• Does everyone want access to this?
• Have I given choice?
• Am I normalising the strategy, or isolating it?

Because when only one child gets “the special thing,”
we risk reinforcing difference.

When everyone has the option,
we build culture.

And here’s the truth… giving everyone choice often makes life easier, not harder.

Less resistance.
Less stigma.
More buy-in.

So here’s the food for thought:
Where in your home or classroom are you providing support for one, but not offering choice to ALL?

Inclusion isn’t about doing more.
It’s about thinking differently.

Culture starts at the kitchen bench.
And in the classroom.