When joyful autonomy matters so much more than curriculum outcomes

In this featured article from EduResearch Matters, Gem Clutton, lecturer in teacher education at the University of Canberra, explores how monotropism a form of deep, focused attention common in autistic learners offers educators powerful insights into inclusion, respect, and the role of passion in early learning environments. With 14 years of classroom experience, Clutton invites educators to consider how to honour children’s deep interests not as teaching tools, but as vital spaces of autonomy, identity and joy.

 

There is a particular kind of attention some children bring to the things they love. It is not casual curiosity. And it isn’t  interest-based learning. It runs deeper, providing a kind of cognitive home. A space where attention settles, and where the child feels most themselves. Some children spend long periods happily absorbed in these activities or topics, even when they do not show the same stamina for other activities.

 

These are the children we are working hard to engage in our increasingly inclusive classrooms; But they may remain sensorially overloaded or emotionally sidelined due to their limited interest in certain activities, and low motivation for peer interaction.

 

I’m reflecting particularly on my observations of younger learners, though many of these patterns continue or shift as children move through schooling. What follows is not a complete guide, but an invitation to consider how we might view monotropic focus differently at different stages of development.

 

What is monotropism?

 

Monotropism is a theory developed by autistic thinkers Dinah Murray, Mike Lesser and Wenn Lawson. It describes a style of attention that zooms in deeply, sometimes to the exclusion of everything else. For monotropic learners, a beloved topic or activity is not just a preference. It is a space where their cognitive and emotional energy flows most naturally.

 

In our training and professional development, many of us have been encouraged to build on these passions. We are taught to use them as bridges into broader engagement and connection with the child, and between the child and their larger world. And sometimes, that works well.

 

But for children with monotropic attention profiles, which are widely understood within autistic communities as a core feature of autistic cognition, this approach can easily go astray. For these learners, deep and sustained focus is not just joyful but also protective. Not every passion wants to be explicitly and publicly shared. Not every safe space should be mined for learning outcomes. Sometimes, the most respectful choice is to leave that space sacred between the child and their passion.

 

Why certain classroom approaches can be distressing

 

This understanding of monotropism helps explain why certain common classroom approaches can be experienced as distressing. Shifting away from that space is hard. Autistic people speak of the challenge of switching tasks. Their distress is visible when we try to redirect neurodiverse learners away from their interests. Some educators recognise the need to respect these patterns of attention. But there is less emphasis placed on the pain associated with having a monotropic interest co-opted or restructured into a new context. This practice can be distressing for the learner and detrimental in the longer term.

 

This is why a child who can talk for hours about dinosaurs might clam up when asked to write a report on them. Why a child who adores Peppa Pig might resist a Peppa-themed classroom unit. Why trying to use the monotrope can strip it of personal meaning. Or, why it may set young learners up for disappointment or withdrawal later in their schooling.

 

In my experience, this tension can become even more pronounced as children grow older. A young child’s monotropic play may be seen as a charming quirk or an entry point for learning. As academic expectations increase, there can be growing pressure on the child to adapt their passions to fit curriculum demands. Or, perhaps, to leave them behind altogether. This raises questions about how we, as educators, can honour these ways of being across developmental stages, not just in the early years.

 

The harm of misuse

 

I have seen this often, in high school as well as early childhood. Well-meaning teachers, eager to connect, create whole projects around a child’s special interest. But the child withdraws. The joy dulls. The sacred space has been reshaped into something performative or demand-driven. More common still, the child is inflexible in their engagement. They may be delighted at being encouraged to engage with the topic. But they are unable to manipulate their interest into the desired outcome being asked of them.

 

Other times, educators and sometimes family members do the opposite, banning or restricting the monotrope entirely. They worry that it is taking over, or that it is not age appropriate. That too is likely to cause harm. The child learns that their deepest sources of comfort and identity are unwelcome or wrong. 

 

In my experience as a high school teacher, this appears in students who are afraid to share their joy. They are wary of adults interacting with them, and often display defensiveness or protectiveness over their interests.

Well-meaning attempts to capitalise on an interest, sometimes labelled an obsession or fixation, can unintentionally strip away the joy and meaning from the subject, or turn it into a source of shame.

 

So what is the respectful path?

 

Here is what I have learned, and what many autistic adults have generously taught me.

 

Let the monotrope exist for its own sake. It does not have to be useful. It does not need to prove curricular value to deserve space in the classroom

 

Engage by invitation, not by design. If a child wants to share their interest with you, wonderful. If they are deep in their own play, let them be. This is a period of processing and regulation which can allow for more meaningful engagement and learning at other times.

 

Avoid dilution. Do not turn a beloved topic into a chore. If they love trains, not everything needs to be train-themed learning. Sometimes, trains are just trains.

 

Notice the regulation. Monotropic focus often helps a child feel safe and centred. Taking it away can destabilise them, even if done with good intentions

 

A wider invitation

 

Respecting the monotrope does not mean ignoring it or the child. It means recognising that for some learners, joyful autonomy matters more than curriculum outcomes in certain moments.

 

And it means knowing not every passion must be mined for teachable moments. It means understanding that deep focus is not a deficit. It is a difference.

 

And it means trusting that when we honour that difference, we build relationships of safety and respect. Relationships where learning can flourish naturally, in its own time.

 

I do not claim to have all the answers here. But I do wonder: if we allow monotropic play to remain sacred in the early years, might we better support children as they encounter the increasing structure and expectation of later schooling? Might we give them stronger foundations of trust, autonomy, and identity to draw upon as they grow? These are questions worth holding in mind as we continue to learn from the lived experiences of neurodivergent learners.

 

Attention! Passion is a strength

 

Many of us are used to celebrating adaptability in our students. Flexibility, shifting attention, joining the group. And those are valid strengths. But constancy is a strength too. Deep, unwavering focus is a strength. Passion is a strength.

 

Sometimes the best thing we can do is to leave the monotrope sacred.

 

To let it be what it is, not what we wish it could become.

 

Gem Clutton is a parent, and a lecturer in teacher education at the University of Canberra. With 14 years of experience across special education and mainstream classrooms, she has a particular interest in how we support complex and challenging behaviours. She is still learning, and often finds her best teachers are the children themselves.

 

Republished with permission.

 

This article was originally published by EduResearch Matters, the blog of the Australian Association for Research in Education (AARE). It is republished here with approval under a Creative Commons CC BY-ND 4.0 licence.

 

Read the original article here.