A few weeks ago, I signed Dudut up for a 2-day online teen writing workshop.
At that point, I thought it was just another enrichment class. Something fun. Something related to her interest.
Nothing more than that.
The coach, Brindha, had taken a quick look at some of Dudut’s writing before the workshop started.
But she didn’t say much about it.
So I assumed everything was normal.
Then the first workshop session ended.
Six minutes later, my phone buzzed.
Message from Brindha:
“Dudut writes well.”
Now maybe she wasn’t sitting there waiting for the Zoom to end so she could text me.
But my dramatic mother brain immediately imagined exactly that.
I replied:
“Really? I’m so pleased. 😍
FYI, she’s a high-functioning Autism + ADHD kid.
She self-learned creative writing through courses on Skillshare.
I hope she didn’t cause any trouble during the workshop. 😅”
Brindha replied:
“Not at all. She did well and she worked fast. She was easy to teach.
No patience required.”
No patience required.
I don’t know if other autism parents will understand this.
But sometimes we’re so used to hearing about support needs, accommodations, challenges and difficulties that a sentence like that lands differently.
The next day, after the second and final workshop session ended, Brindha messaged me again.
“Dudut is only turning 13 next year?”
I replied:
“Today is actually her 12th birthday. 😁”
Then came the messages that made me stop and stare at my phone.
“She writes like someone older. Like 14.”
“There is maturity.”
And then:
“Would you be interested in putting her in my weekly class as we prepare her for Junior Writers?”
I just sat there.
Because this wasn’t me asking for extra classes.
This wasn’t me trying to convince someone to take an interest in my daughter.
This was a professional writer approaching me.
And suddenly all those years of journals, stories, notebooks, random documents, unfinished drafts and late-night writing sessions didn’t feel so invisible anymore.
Maybe the biggest surprise wasn’t that Brindha saw a writer.
Maybe it was realizing that for years, while I was busy trying to understand autism, ADHD, sensory needs, homeschooling and everything else…
there was also a young writer quietly growing in front of me.
And somebody else could see her too.
A daughter who spent years filling journals with stories.
A daughter who taught herself writing through online courses.
A daughter whose writing started out as a way to process the world.
I discussed it with my husband.
Then with Dudut.
I explained what a wonderful opportunity this could be.
A real writer.
A journalist.
A self-publisher.
A mentor.
This is like ‘rezeki terpijak’, although I feel bad for the ‘pijak’ part.
Then reality entered the chat.
The class fee was RM330 a month.
Now don’t get me wrong.
I believe in investing in my children’s education.
But reality is reality. Both Dudut and I are OKU card holders.
I’m a stay-at-home homeschooling mom. Between therapies, support needs, classes and homeschooling expenses, we still need to limit our budgets.
So I decided to be honest with Brindha.
Not because I wanted sympathy.
Just honesty.
A while later, her reply came.
Three short sentences.
“Then, no fee. Just come. Happy to guide her.”
Allahuakbar. Ketar tangan aku. I didn’t even actually open the message, I just read the notification, and that was it.
I cried, but still wanna keep my cool before revealing it to Dudut or my husband. I was suppose to wait for Maghrib prayer and want to break the news to them after that.
But my body had other plans – it was trembling.
The trembling got worse. The emotions got bigger.
And honestly, ever since autistic burnout entered my life last year, I’ve become a lot less capable of pretending I’m okay when I’m not.
Whether the feeling is grief, relief, joy or gratitude.
When it arrives, it arrives with its full luggage set.
So when my husband came into our room I just blurted the news at him and suddenly tears fell from the side of my eyes.
The funny thing is…
the tears weren’t really about the money. Of course the financial help means a lot. It truly does.
But what broke me wasn’t the fee waiver. It was the fact that all of this happened in this order:
First she saw the writing.
Then she saw the potential.
Then she invited Dudut into her class.
And only after that did she remove the financial barrier.
Those things matter.
As parents of neurodivergent children, we spend so much time advocating.
Explaining.
Adjusting.
Accommodating.
Defending our choices.
Wondering if we’re doing enough.
And then every now and then, Allah sends someone who simply sees what you’ve been seeing all along.
Maybe that’s why I cried.
Not because someone offered a free class.
But because someone looked at my daughter and saw a writer.
And then made room for her to become one.
Alhamdulillah. ❤️
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