As I walk into Nicole Chen’s modest Toronto apartment, the telltale signs of a household preparing for kindergarten are everywhere – tiny backpacks, colorful folders, and neatly organized school supplies. But beneath the typical back-to-school excitement lies a profound anxiety that’s becoming increasingly common among Toronto parents of children with special needs.
“I should be excited,” says Chen, watching her four-year-old son Ethan meticulously arrange a collection of toy dinosaurs. “Instead, I’m terrified about what happens when September comes.”
Ethan was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder at age three. He’s bright, curious, and particularly gifted at recognizing patterns – skills his developmental pediatrician describes as exceptional. Yet Chen fears these strengths will go unsupported in a system she describes as “collapsing under its own weight.”
Her concerns aren’t unfounded. The Toronto District School Board currently supports over 18,000 students with identified special education needs, according to their latest operational review. What’s troubling is that this number represents a 12% increase over the past five years, while special education funding has increased by only 3% during the same period.
“It’s simple math that doesn’t add up,” explains Dr. Renata Williams, an education policy researcher at Ryerson University. “We’re asking schools to do significantly more with proportionally less resources, and the breaking points are becoming impossible to ignore.”
For Chen, those breaking points manifest as waitlists, insufficient classroom support, and what she describes as a “constant battle” to secure appropriate accommodations for Ethan.
“I’ve been told to expect him to share an educational assistant with three other high-needs children,” Chen says. “His development team has been clear that he needs consistent one-on-one support during transitions. How is that supposed to work?”
The situation reflects a broader crisis affecting special education across the city. A recent survey by the Toronto Parent Network found that 78% of parents with special needs children reported significant concerns about adequate support in mainstream classrooms.
Jake Martins, president of the Toronto Educational Workers Union, points to staffing challenges as a critical factor. “We’ve lost nearly 15% of our specialized support staff over the past three years,” he notes. “When experienced professionals can earn substantially more in private settings or neighboring districts, we struggle to maintain consistent support teams.”
This staffing exodus comes as Ontario’s Ministry of Education implements a new funding formula that critics say fails to address the real-world complexities of supporting diverse learning needs in inclusive classrooms.
For parents like Chen, the consequences are deeply personal. “Ethan struggles with unexpected changes and sensory overload,” she explains. “Without proper supports, he’ll likely experience regular meltdowns that disrupt his learning and affect other students. Then he’ll be labeled a ‘problem child’ instead of a kid who just needs the right accommodations.”
She shows me a thick binder documenting Ethan’s needs, strengths, and strategies that work for him – information compiled through countless therapy sessions and assessments, most paid for out-of-pocket.
“I’ve spent over $15,000 on private assessments and therapy,” Chen says. “I maxed out credit cards and picked up weekend shifts. Not everyone can do that. What happens to those kids?”
It’s a question echoed by advocacy groups like Community Living Toronto, which has documented growing disparities in special education support across socioeconomic lines.
“We’re seeing a troubling pattern where children in higher-income neighborhoods receive more comprehensive support,” says Mei Lin Wong, the organization’s education advocate. “Parents with resources can fight harder, hire advocates, or supplement with private services. It’s creating a two-tier system within public education.”
The TDSB acknowledges these challenges. In a statement, spokesperson David Richards noted the board is “actively working to address the increased demand for special education supports within current budget constraints,” adding that “creative solutions and community partnerships” are being explored.
For Chen and parents like her, such statements offer little concrete reassurance.
“I’ve been told to be patient, to understand budget limitations,” she says. “But Ethan can’t pause his development while the system catches up. These early years are crucial.”
As our conversation ends, Ethan approaches with a drawing – a surprisingly detailed rendering of a school building with a small figure standing outside. When I ask about it, he simply says, “That’s me waiting to go in.”
The poignancy of his innocent illustration isn’t lost on his mother, who hopes the system will make space for her son’s potential rather than merely his diagnosis.
“Every child deserves to be more than a problem to solve or a budget line,” Chen says, carefully placing the drawing on their refrigerator. “I just want what every parent wants – for my child to be welcomed, supported, and given a fair chance to thrive.”
As Toronto faces this growing crisis in special education, the question remains whether policy makers will find the political will to address the fundamental gaps between needs and resources. For thousands of families like the Chens, the answer can’t come soon enough.
