Perfectly Imperfect

25/10/2026

NSW's newly announced preschool inclusion funding reforms raise an important question. Why have we made accessing support so dependent on paperwork, when the child's needs are already right in front of us?

From January 2027, NSW is introducing a new Inclusion Funding Program for eligible community and mobile preschools, with additional funding based on children's functional support needs.

And here's something worth paying attention to.

A formal diagnosis isn't always required to demonstrate those needs. A child shouldn't have to wait months, sometimes years, for a diagnostic assessment before educators can document the support they need to participate. Because disability doesn't suddenly begin the day someone signs a diagnostic report.

The child who can't tolerate the noise of group time? Their needs existed yesterday.
The autistic child who spends the entire preschool day masking, only to fall apart at home? Their needs existed yesterday. The child who needs an adult to help them transition, communicate, feel safe or access learning? Their needs existed yesterday. And the child whose distress gets labelled as a behavioural problem? They don't need to become more distressed before someone takes their support needs seriously.

More funding doesn't automatically mean more inclusion. Not if we're still expecting children to tolerate environments that overwhelm them. Not if we're using additional staff to enforce compliance instead of building relationships. Not if we're measuring success by how quietly a child sits rather than whether they feel safe, connected and able to participate.

Inclusion funding should fund inclusion. Not better behaviour management.

The new program is due to begin in January 2027, with applications expected to open in November.

So if your child attends a NSW community or mobile preschool, now is the time to start asking questions. What adjustments does my child need? Are their support needs being documented? How will additional funding improve their actual experience?

25/10/2026

14 years of A. 14 years of being his mummy.

The one who made me a mother. The one who introduced me to neurodivergence and made me question so much of what I thought I knew about parenting.

And the one who has had to live through me learning how to parent him in the way he needed. That part makes me emotional.

Because I love this boy fiercely, but I haven’t always got it right. There were things I didn’t understand. Times I listened to advice I wish I’d questioned. Moments when I needed to slow down, listen more closely and reconsider what I was asking of him.

He deserved understanding while I was still learning how to offer it. And I wish I’d known some of it sooner.

Being his mama has meant learning to trust him, to question the expectations around us, and to recognise when I’m the one who needs to change course. I’m still learning. I’m still making mistakes. And I’m still responsible for coming back, owning them and doing better.

A is the reason Perfectly Imperfect exists.

My love for him, and everything I was learning about what families actually need, became the reason I started this business. I wanted other parents to find understanding sooner. I wanted their children to be understood sooner, too.

And now he tells me he’s going to work in the business one day. There is something about that which gets me right in the heart. The little boy who inspired it all is turning 14 and imagining his own place in it.

A, I’m so proud to be your mama. I love getting to know you as you grow, hearing what matters to you and seeing you develop your own ideas about your future.

You don’t owe me a job at Perfectly Imperfect, although I would obviously love having you around. You get to choose your own life. And I get the enormous privilege of loving you through it.

Happy 14th birthday to the boy who made me a mama. I love you more than I will ever manage to put into a birthday post.

24/10/2026

I’ve been working on this for a while now but have had no nerve to open the can of worms until now- this isn’t aimed at anyone or anything specific- it’s because in the past few weeks if not longer, the vibe of social media advocacy spaces feels like it is getting ick. So I’m putting my big girl pants on and I’m hoping we can discuss this in curiosity and respect if we disagree…

I’ve been thinking a lot about lateral violence in the disability advocacy community, particularly how it plays out on social media.

It’s something I’ve wanted to talk about for a while, but I also feel pretty uncomfortable doing so, because I know I’ve got this wrong myself.

There have been times when I’ve let my anger and frustration become personal, rather than keeping the focus on the issue or the actions I was challenging.

And I bitterly regret that.

I can’t go back and change those moments, although I really wish I could. All I can do is acknowledge them, take responsibility and try to do better.

I think one of the really difficult things about disability advocacy is that so much of what we’re advocating about is deeply personal. We’re talking about decisions that affect our children, our families, our communities and ourselves. Decisions that can have absolutely devastating consequences for people’s lives.

So of course people are angry. Hard relate to feeling burning rage about how our community is being treated by government and society and the general feeling of the world falling into scary places and scary things all over the world. It’s like the darkest days lately and the world is literally on fire everywhere it seems.

Plus- I actually think anger has an important place in advocacy. Rage fueled is too often my advocacy jam…

But there’s a difference between being angry about what someone has done and turning that anger on them personally.

If a Minister makes a decision that undermines the rights of disabled people, absolutely name them. Challenge their decisions, question their public statements and hold them accountable for the responsibilities that come with their role.

The same goes for advocates, organisations and anyone with a public platform. We should absolutely be able to challenge positions we believe are harmful, and question people’s actions.

But we can do that without disparaging someone as a person, making assumptions about their perspectives or motivations, or encouraging others to pile on.

We can be incredibly critical of what someone has said or done without making it about who they are as a human being.

And I think this matters particularly within our own community.

We’re not always going to agree. We have different lived experiences, perspectives and approaches to advocacy, and sometimes those differences are going to be pretty significant.

That’s okay. I don’t think we need to agree on everything (although some things- like human rights- are non negotiable here).

What I find really upsetting is how quickly disagreement on social media can become personal. Someone says something, people take sides, others pile in, and before long the actual issue has been completely lost.

And I want to be really careful here, because I don’t want conversations about lateral violence to become another way of silencing disabled people who are speaking up about discrimination, abuse or harmful behaviour.

Being held accountable isn’t lateral violence just because it makes someone uncomfortable. And at times those conversations absolutely need to be public, direct and uncomfortable.

I’m definitely not suggesting we need to be quieter, more polite or less willing to call out discrimination, exclusion or failures to uphold human rights.

Not for a second. Not even maybe suggesting anyone shut down the loud unapologetic advocacy- hard no to that one.

But I do think there’s value in asking ourselves whether we’re challenging someone’s actions or whether, somewhere along the way, we’ve started trying to hurt the person because we’re angry.

And I’m including myself in that.

One of the things I try really hard to teach my kids is that every human being deserves basic dignity and respect because it is their human right. Every human being deserves that- kids and adults and every human now and forever.

Not just the people we like. Not just the people we agree with. Everyone (even the a$$holes)…

We can disagree with someone, be furious with them, challenge them and hold them accountable without stripping away their dignity.

And there’s something pretty humbling about realising that something you work so hard to teach your children is something you’ve sometimes struggled to put into practice yourself.

Hands up if anyone else feels pretty icky thinking about their own actions versus what they tell their kids because same, friends.

I’ve made mistakes that I wish I could undo. And I’m under absolutely no illusion that I’ll never make them again.

I’ll probably f**k up again at some point too because I’m human (I definitely will…)

But I can commit to owning it when I do, listening when I’ve caused harm, apologising where I need to, and continuing to try to do better.

I suppose what I’m trying to say, probably in far too many words, is that I don’t want us to lose sight of each other’s humanity, even when we fundamentally disagree.

Human dignity isn’t conditional on whether we like someone, agree with them or approve of what they’ve done.

And if that’s something I believe strongly enough to teach my children and spend so much of my time advocating for, then I need to keep working on it in my own interactions too (even when I’m reeeeally angry about things and it’s reeeeeally hard).

I’m not writing this because I think I’ve got it all figured out. Sadly, no high ground here, because I’m writing it as someone who has got it wrong (lots and lots of times), regrets it enormously, and is still learning - and still making mistakes as I do that.

What I’m hoping is this - I really hope we can find ways to give each other the space to learn, reflect and do better, without letting go of accountability in the process. We have got to, because we can’t keep biting each other and paying the price.

Image is ai - words are me.

Love
Symone
(And the team that probably wishes I hadn’t opened the can of worms on a Saturday night relax moment…)

23/10/2026

This!!

I know I am not the first person to say this and I won’t be the last…. But honestly I am SO fu***ng tired of the pile-ons and toxic mean assholery online, including within OUR OWN neurodivergent communities. I mean, for f***s sakes folks, or, as my teen would say “are we deadass?!”

We ask others to respect our lived experiences. We need to extend that same respect to our fellow neurokin, including when their experiences don’t reflect our own.

Paris Hilton saying SHE feels her ADHD is HER superpower is something I want to celebrate. She has spoken about growing up feeling misunderstood and being sent away to residential programs for “troubled teens”, where she experienced horrific abuse.

No amount of money, privilege or family connections makes that any less fu**ed up. Wealth didn’t keep her safe. She has since used her platform and influence, alongside other survivors, to expose abuse and fight for laws to protect children in these programs.

Now she stands before us as a proud ADHDer, expressing confidence and celebrating her neurotype. Good on her! Why should having wealth, privilege and power mean she can’t say she loves this part of herself?

Of course privilege matters. Money, safety, acceptance and access to support make a difference. People with large platforms have a responsibility to consider the messages they share, and we can ask them to recognise experiences beyond their own. But privilege doesn’t erase someone’s trauma or mean every positive thing they feel about themselves can be credited to money.

For so many of us growing up in the ’90s and early 2000s, ADHD wasn’t something anyone considered for girls like us. We were labelled lazy, flaky, stupid, too much, not trying hard enough. Our difficulties became supposed character flaws rather than signs we needed understanding and support.

Paris built a hugely successful public persona around the “dumb blonde” stereotype. I’m not going to pretend I know all her reasons for that, but I do wonder what it means to take control of a stereotype people have already decided defines you.

For those of us who know how it feels to be constantly bombarded with negative messages about ourselves, the relief and validation a diagnosis can bring is enormous. Finally having an explanation can change how we understand our entire lives. Getting to a point where we actually like ourselves deserves some fu***ng celebration.

Especially in a world where our insecurities are constantly monetised. There is always another cream, product or program being sold to fix something we’ve been told is wrong with us. Frankly, being able to love parts of ourselves after all that feels like a bloody achievement.

You don’t have to love being Autistic or having ADHD. You don’t have to call it a superpower, find a silver lining or celebrate something that makes your life incredibly difficult. Equally, someone else finding joy, strength or pride in their neurodivergence doesn’t automatically mean they’re dismissing your disability.

There is a difference between saying “MY ADHD is MY superpower” and telling everyone else that theirs should be too.

I understand why the superpower narrative gets called toxic positivity bu****it. When it’s used to minimise disability, dismiss our support needs or pressure us to find some exceptional talent to make up for our struggles, it deserves to be challenged. But there’s a difference between having that narrative imposed on you and choosing that word for yourself. We can challenge the expectation that everyone should love their ADHD without tearing down someone who does.

There are parts of being AuDHD that I love and parts that make everyday life fu***ng hard and I hate. I need support and accommodations. I also want to enjoy being me without having to provide a detailed account of everything I struggle with before I’m allowed to say something positive. Nobody should have to keep presenting their pain to prove they understand disability.

I don’t want people with power and privilege to look at how we treat them and decide it’s safer to say nothing about being neurodivergent. Their platforms can reach people who might otherwise never hear these conversations. That doesn’t put them above criticism, but why would we want to make them feel unwelcome for speaking openly about their own lives?

We can talk about the opportunities their privilege gives them without dismissing their experiences or making them feel they have no right to be proud of who they are.

I want our communities to be places where we can speak honestly about disability, support needs, privilege and inequality, and still celebrate the things we love about ourselves. Where we can learn from each other without being humiliated for getting something wrong.

Whatever your personal feelings about Paris Hilton or Chloé Hayden, I’m bloody glad younger generations have strong, openly neurodivergent women to look up to. Women who speak about their experiences, challenge the shame so many of us grew up with and show that being neurodivergent is something they can be proud of.

They won’t represent every neurodivergent person’s experience. Nobody could. That’s why we need more people from diverse backgrounds to be seen and heard. Everyone deserves to see people like themselves represented, regardless of their race, gender or neurotype.

People shouldn’t have to hide their struggles to belong. They shouldn’t have to hide their joy either. We owe our fellow neurokin room for both.

Image Description: Paris Hilton, left, and Chloé Hayden, right, pose together against a bright pink event backdrop. Both are smiling broadly with their outer arms raised and one leg bent behind them. Paris wears sunglasses and a long blue patterned dress; Chloé wears a pink floral two-piece outfit and black ankle boots.

23/10/2026

A parent asked something in the comments that I’d like us to sit with: Who is supporting the parents who are supporting their children after distressing days at school?

Teachers and school leaders, I am sincerely interested in your perspective.

When a child holds everything together at school and then falls apart at home, how does that information feed back into what happens in the classroom?

When a parent says, “They’re not coping,” but school is seeing a quiet child completing their work, what happens next?

Because I sit with families through this. I am also this parent for my children! The parent spending the evening helping their child recover, then trying to work out how to get them through the gates tomorrow. The child who starts asking on Saturday whether Monday is a school day. The family whose concerns keep getting answered with, “They seem fine here.”

Some of these parents are also disabled. Some carry painful memories of their own schooling. They are trying to advocate while exhausted, frightened and sometimes struggling to put their concerns into words.

I know teachers can be exhausted too. I know individual teachers cannot provide every support a family needs. That is part of what I want to understand: what support does the system actually make available, and where does responsibility sit when a child’s distress continues at home?

For those saying the behaviour support template already addresses these concerns, please talk me through what that looks like in practice. How is the family’s experience included? What changes when home and school are seeing very different things? How do we know the support is helping the child beyond the school gates?

If your school does this well, I want to hear how. If you’re trying but hitting barriers, I want to hear those too.

I’m asking because families and teachers need something useful from this conversation. Please respond to the question. I am listening.

Jess xx

23/10/2026

Challenge me. Absolutely.

Question my posts. Disagree with my reasoning. Bring evidence, another perspective or something I haven’t considered. Tell me where you think I’ve got it wrong.

I’m asking systems and professionals to reflect on their practice. I need to be willing to do the same. My experience, professional and lived, doesn’t put me above scrutiny.

But challenge what I’ve actually said. Ask before assuming. And leave room for an answer that might challenge you back.

Kindness doesn’t mean agreeing with me. You can be direct, frustrated and firm. You can say, “I think you’ve missed something here,” without deciding I’m incompetent, dishonest or don’t care about people.

Before you hit reply, please consider what you’re bringing into the conversation. Are you questioning my argument, or making assumptions about me? Are you asking a question and allowing time for an answer, or treating a delayed response as proof of something?

And please be aware that you’re seeing one small part of someone’s day. You don’t know what they’ve just come out of, what other advocacy is happening behind the scenes, what’s happening at home, or how much capacity they have left. That applies to me, and to the parents, disabled people and professionals commenting here too.

If a post is written by Jess, it’s me. We don’t use bots to reply or have other practitioners pretending to be me in the comments.

I’m neurodivergent. I’m parenting neurodivergent children. I’m supporting parents face to face, alongside managing our team of psychologists, behaviour support practitioners, allied health assistants, OTs and support workers.

And I’m still advocating for my own children across every system they need to access. The meetings, the emails, the explaining, the pushing back, the fight to have their needs understood. Being a practitioner doesn’t spare my family any of that.

It takes a toll on me too. Knowing how to advocate doesn’t make it less exhausting when it’s your own children.

So I cannot answer every comment, and I cannot always answer quickly.

Sometimes I’m with a client. Sometimes my children need me. Sometimes I’m dealing with the very systems I’m questioning here. Sometimes I’ve simply run out of words.

Please extend the same understanding of disability, overwhelm and capacity to the person behind this page that we’re asking people to extend elsewhere. Being able to write a post doesn’t mean I have the capacity for fifty separate conversations afterwards.

That doesn’t make my views exempt from challenge. It means I’m a human being with limits.

I want people to question, push back and help me see what I might have missed. I also want people to feel safe enough here to speak without being belittled.

We can hold each other accountable and still be thoughtful about how we do it. Bring the challenge. Keep the humanity.

Jess xx

23/10/2026

I wrote a post questioning a behaviour support template. Then I wrote another acknowledging how stretched teachers are, how much we value their expertise, and why the system needs to support them better.

And somehow, we are still arguing about whether I understand that teaching is hard.

So this will be my last post on this particular exchange. I want to explain why I raised it, what I think is getting lost, and where we go from here.

I am criticising the system that is asking teachers to do an increasingly complex job without adequate support.

The workload, the limited resources, the expectation that teachers can somehow meet everyone’s needs while also teaching an entire class.

Yes. That is part of the problem I am raising.

When you tell me that teachers have an almost impossible job, you are describing exactly why that system deserves scrutiny. Why is that being received as an attack on the people carrying it?

I have worked in schools, in behaviour support and in child protection. I have attended school meetings as a professional, a parent and an advocate. I employ former teachers and think their knowledge and expertise are incredible.

But a parent should not need my professional background to question a school practice. Families do not need to submit a CV before their child’s experience deserves to be heard.

There have been thoughtful responses to these posts. People discussing prevention, collaboration, practical constraints and what teachers actually need. I appreciate those contributions, including the ones that challenge my interpretation.

There have also been comments telling me I’m part of the problem because I’m not a teacher, suggesting I should go into a school, and accusing me of making money from making teachers miserable. Those comments don’t help us examine the issue. They make the conversation about my right to raise it.

For clarity: yes, I shared a template. A blank template cannot tell us how every teacher completes a plan or supports a child. Different documents also have different purposes, and that distinction matters. But templates can still be questioned.

Their prompts guide what people notice, discuss and record. We can examine those prompts, the training that accompanies them, and how the document connects with the child’s broader support.

If something sits in another plan, explain how those plans work together in practice. That moves the conversation forward.

“It’s just a template” doesn’t finish it.

What I feel is getting lost is the space between having paperwork and having support that works.

Where is the child’s perspective, including when they communicate through something other than speech? How are their sensory needs, communication, relationships, learning demands and early signs of distress understood? What changes before they reach crisis? Who helps the teacher work that out? Who has time to implement it? How do we check whether the child is safer, participating more, and recovering better? Those questions belong in the conversation alongside staff workload.

And they apply beyond autistic students. Understanding one child’s needs does not erase another child’s needs. That is the point of individualised support.

I am not suggesting that teachers can prevent every crisis. Clear responses to unsafe situations matter. The safety of staff and every child in the room matters. That makes it even more important to discuss prevention, specialist input, practical adjustments and properly resourced implementation.

Teachers deserve more than being handed a document and expected to make it work. Children deserve more than having their distress documented. Families deserve to raise concerns without repeatedly reassuring everyone that they appreciate teachers first.

I understand that criticism can feel personal when you are exhausted and giving everything you have. But when a post explicitly supports teachers and questions the system, responding as though the two are inseparable makes that system harder to challenge.

We need room for professional reflection without treating every question as an accusation.

I am accountable for what I write. I can hear corrections, consider another perspective and clarify my position. That expectation has to work both ways.

This is my last post on this exchange because I have explained my position, and I want to put my energy into the practical conversation: what children need, what teachers need, and what must change to make that possible.

I will keep advocating. I will keep questioning practices. I will keep listening to people who engage with the substance.

Supporting teachers cannot mean protecting the system from criticism. Especially when that system is letting teachers down too.

Jess xx

22/10/2026

Our post about the NSW behaviour plan template has certainly hit a nerve.

I’ve been told I’m not a teacher, that I don’t understand the document, and that I should be collaborating rather than criticising.

So I want to acknowledge this clearly: teachers are stressed, stretched and doing the best they can with what they have. Teachers deserve the staffing, time, resources and practical support to do their job safely and well. You shouldn’t be left trying to meet everyone’s needs through sheer personal effort.

We employ former teachers at Perfectly Imperfect, and their knowledge and expertise are invaluable. Their understanding of how schools work and what implementation involves strengthens our team, immeasurably. I also work incredibly closely with teachers and we have a mutual respect for each other, our expertise, values and the confines of working within the education system.

I have worked in schools in different capacities, as a behaviour support practitioner, in child protection, in children’s court and family court. I’ve attended school meetings as a professional, parent and parent advocate, and sat in those conversations from several sides of the table.

Being told I’m “not a teacher” doesn’t erase that experience, just as being a teacher doesn’t mean your expertise should be dismissed by allied health professionals. We need each other’s knowledge.

The system is what we at Perfectly Imperfect are disrupting and questioning.

The expectations placed on teachers. The guidance they receive. Whether promised support actually reaches the classroom. Whether the tools being used protect children’s dignity and help staff respond safely.

Some comments have raised fair questions. Teachers need accessible guidance. A brief response plan serves a different purpose from a comprehensive behaviour support plan, and that distinction matters. But calling something a template or a crisis response document doesn’t put its language and recommendations beyond scrutiny.

What we ask adults to do when a child is overwhelmed deserves careful attention.

Several comments raised the other 29 students. Yes. Their safety and learning matter. The teacher’s safety matters. Nobody should be expected to manage a dangerous situation alone. The distressed child is still one of the students we’re responsible for.

If the plan requires one teacher to teach the class, support a child in crisis and keep everyone safe simultaneously, we need to question how workable that plan is.

And to those asking for alternatives: that’s a fair question too.

I want a brief, individualised guide, developed with the child, family, educators and relevant professionals, that clearly identifies:

• The child’s early signs of distress, including withdrawal, freezing or losing speech.

• What adults can do to help: reduce language, pause non-essential demands, allow processing time and offer support suited to that child.

• What makes things worse for them, including whether repeated instructions, public correction or crowding increases distress.

• Who supports the child, who supports the class, how assistance is called and what happens when the usual person is unavailable.

• How recovery, reconnection, repair and supported reflection will happen afterwards.

Alongside that, we need prevention, accessible learning, communication supports, training and staffing, with clear responsibility for putting them into practice.

Teachers deserve guidance they can actually use on a hard Tuesday afternoon. Children deserve support that understands their needs. A teacher can be doing their absolute best within a system that still needs to change. A child can be struggling within that same system. Both deserve better.

And about the comments: disagreeing with me isn’t automatically ableism. Asking for alternatives isn’t ableism. Explaining the pressures teachers face isn’t ableism.

But treating a disabled child as less entitled to care, safety or education is something I will challenge. That is ableism.

I’m happy to discuss the document, clarify my wording and listen to different experiences. That’s part of doing this work responsibly. But collaboration must leave room for challenge. We can deeply respect teachers (and I do!) while refusing to accept the system as it stands.

- Jess xx