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I AM A Special Needs Assistant. Most mornings, before I even take off my coat, a child runs to me.
Sometimes they are dysregulated. Sometimes they are anxious. Sometimes they just need to know that someone safe is there. That someone sees them.
That someone is often me.
Being an SNA in Ireland right now means holding children through emotional storms, supporting families who are exhausted from fighting for assessments and services, and trying to stretch ourselves further each year as resources feel tighter and expectations grow heavier.
We are told we are “non-teaching staff,” but anyone who works in a classroom knows that what we do goes far beyond supervision.
We regulate children who are overwhelmed. We help non-verbal pupils communicate.
We support toileting, feeding, mobility, behaviour plans, sensory breaks, social integration and academic access. We are crisis prevention. We are de-escalation. We are the calm in chaos.
And lately, it feels like we are doing all of it while standing on increasingly shaky ground.
There is constant uncertainty. Cuts are discussed. Allocations are reviewed. Roles are redefined.
Every budget announcement sends a ripple of anxiety through staff rooms. Will hours be reduced? Will posts be lost? Will children lose the support they depend on?
The impact of these decisions isn’t abstract. It lands directly in classrooms.
When an SNA post is cut or hours are reduced, it doesn’t just change a rota. It changes a child’s day. It means a child who needs help regulating might not get that timely support.
It means a teacher is stretched further. It means other children receive less attention because one child’s needs can’t be met safely.
And then there are the families.
Parents of children with additional needs are already navigating waiting lists, assessments, therapy shortages and paperwork that feels never-ending.
Many are burned out.
Many are grieving the support their child should have but doesn’t. When school support becomes uncertain, it compounds that fear.
We see that fear. We sit with it at pick-up time. We reassure as best we can, even when we don’t have reassurance ourselves.
What people don’t always see is the emotional toll this work takes.
We absorb a lot.
We are scratched, kicked, bitten, headbutted – not out of malice, but out of dysregulation.
We are told we’re “just SNAs” by people who don’t understand the skill, training, intuition and resilience the role demands.
We manage personal care for children with dignity and respect.
We advocate quietly. We celebrate milestones that others might overlook: a first full day without distress, a new word spoken, a successful transition between activities.
Those wins matter. They are everything.
But the system feels increasingly strained. More children are presenting with complex needs. Classes are fuller. Access to outside services is slower. Schools are doing their best to plug gaps that shouldn’t exist.
And SNAs are often the glue holding those gaps together.
We don’t do this job for status. We certainly don’t do it for the pay. We do it because relationships matter to us. Because inclusion matters. Because every child deserves to feel safe and understood in school.
When a child who once couldn’t sit in a classroom for five minutes manages a full morning – that is huge.
When a child learns to ask for a break instead of lashing out – that is growth.
When a parent tells you their child feels happy going to school for the first time, that is why we stay.
But staying is becoming harder.
Morale dips when we feel invisible in national conversations about education. When changes are announced without consultation.
When media narratives reduce support to numbers on a spreadsheet rather than real children with real needs.
We are not “extras.” We are not optional add-ons. We are part of the educational ecosystem that allows inclusion to function in practice, not just in policy.
If inclusion is to mean anything, it must be resourced properly. It must value the adults doing the day-to-day work of supporting it. It must recognise that children with additional needs are not burdens on a system but children with rights.
Behind every allocation number is a child who deserves stability. Behind every SNA post is a relationship built on trust.
Right now, many of us feel anxious about what the future holds. But we will still show up tomorrow.
We will still greet our students with warmth. We will still co-regulate, advocate, adapt and protect their dignity.
Because that’s what we do.
We are SNAs.
We are tired.
We are committed.
And we are asking to be seen – not as a cost, but as a cornerstone of inclusive education in Ireland.
Oneesa McWeeney is a proud SNA. She is also an advocate for the profession and has founded the SNA Support and Inspire National Award.
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