Becoming an SNA in a Primary School: My Story

The decision to become a Special Needs Assistant (SNA) in a primary school wasn't sudden. It grew from a quiet realization during my time volunteering at a local community center. Children with diverse needs would come in, each with their own way of seeing the world. I noticed how a little patience, a different approach, could make a difference. One child, in particular, struggled with communication. Traditional methods didn’t work, but when I tried using visual cards, something clicked. That moment stuck with me.

I started researching the role of an SNA, learning about the qualifications and responsibilities. The process wasn’t straightforward. There were courses to complete, certifications to obtain, and a lot of self-reflection. I remember sitting in a classroom during a training session, listening to an experienced SNA share her stories. She talked about the small victories—the first time a child she worked with tied their shoes independently, the day another finally felt comfortable joining group activities. Her words resonated with me. As educator and author Parker Palmer once said, "Good teaching cannot be reduced to technique; good teaching comes from the identity and integrity of the teacher." This role wasn’t just about following a manual; it was about bringing your whole self into the work.

The application process was rigorous. I had to demonstrate not just my qualifications but my understanding of inclusivity and adaptability. I spent hours preparing for interviews, thinking about scenarios where I’d need to adjust my approach on the fly. One interviewer asked how I’d handle a situation where a child was overwhelmed by sensory input. I recalled an instance during my volunteering where a child covered their ears during a loud activity. Instead of insisting they participate, I guided them to a quieter space and used a weighted blanket to help them calm down. The interviewer nodded, appreciating the practicality of my response.

Once hired, the real learning began. Every day brought new challenges and rewards. I worked closely with a child who had autism, and our sessions were a mix of structured activities and spontaneous moments. Some days, progress felt slow, but then there’d be a breakthrough—a word spoken clearly, a task completed without prompting. These moments were subtle but profound. Psychologist Urie Bronfenbrenner’s words often came to mind: "Much of what children learn, they learn not from what we say but from what we do." My actions, my patience, my consistency—these were the tools that mattered most.

The support system within the school was invaluable. Teachers, therapists, and other SNAs collaborated constantly, sharing strategies and insights. I learned the importance of documentation, tracking progress, and communicating effectively with parents. There were days when I felt uncertain, questioning whether I was doing enough. But then a parent would share how their child had started using a new skill at home, and I’d remember why I chose this path.

One feature of this journey that surprised me was the emotional resilience it required. It wasn’t just about supporting the children; it was about managing my own expectations and emotions. There were days when frustration crept in, when I wondered if I was making a difference. But then I’d see a child light up when they mastered something new, and I’d know this was where I was meant to be.

Looking back, the process of becoming an SNA taught me more than I anticipated. It wasn’t just about gaining a certification or landing a job. It was about understanding the nuances of human connection, the power of patience, and the impact of small, consistent efforts. The role demands creativity, empathy, and a willingness to learn continuously. It’s not a position for those seeking quick results but for those who find joy in the incremental steps of growth.