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Every parent wants their child to be happy. For many, it is the deepest hope they carry, not just for today, but for a future they may not always be present to shape. Yet beneath this shared wish lies a harder question. What does happiness truly mean, and how do we raise children, who can hold on to it long after we are gone?

Happiness is often mistaken for comfort, success or constant affirmation. It is not found in stars on worksheets, top grades or the latest gadget. Nor does it come from shielding children from every frustration or failure. Deep and lasting happiness grows from something quieter and far more enduring. It comes from a sense of peace with oneself, from feeling secure in who you are, even when life becomes difficult or unpredictable. This kind of happiness cannot be given to a child. It must be built slowly through experience, setbacks and a steady inner belief that is not shaken by comparison or external approval.

Yet somewhere along the way, often out of love and concern, many parents begin protecting children from life rather than preparing them for it. In trying to smooth every path, we may unintentionally weaken the very qualities we hope to nurture. Some children, who appear highly successful, struggle deeply when faced with disappointment. Others, with fewer visible achievements, meet the same challenges with calm determination. The difference is rarely intelligence or talent. It is resilience. And resilience grows not in comfort, but through struggle.

Many of us, who grew up in the Generation X or millennial era, remember childhood as a time of trust and autonomy. Walking to a friend’s house, riding bicycles through the neighborhood or spending hours outdoors without close supervision often began at a young age. The world felt big, but children were trusted to navigate it. Of course, not all of that early independence was safe or wise, but those unsupervised moments demanded problem solving, conflict resolution and independent decision making. Confidence developed quietly through lived experience.

Parents today are understandably more cautious. The world feels more complex and more threatening. But in our efforts to protect children, it is easy to overdo it. Many members of GenZ were not granted similar independence until much later. Safety matters, but so does autonomy, because confidence does not come from praise alone. It comes from doing, from failing, and from trying again. It comes from stepping beyond comfort and discovering a steady sense of self that is not defined by others.

When children are constantly monitored and directed, they miss the small, everyday risks that teach judgment, decision-making and confidence in their ability to recover from failure. Instead of growing more capable, they may grow more dependent. In shielding them from discomfort, we can unintentionally leave them anxious, unsure and constantly seeking reassurance.

This reflection is not only about physical independence. It is also about emotional freedom. Children need space to feel joy, sadness, anger, frustration and disappointment without fear or shame. Emotional maturity is not a personality trait. It is a skill. And like any skill, it develops through practice.

When adults rush to fix every problem or respond with strong emotions of their own such as anger, fear or sadness, children learn that emotions are something to avoid. The intention may be care, but the message received is often one of doubt. You cannot handle this. Over time, this message becomes internalized and forms the child’s inner voice.

One of the hardest tasks of parenting is sitting with a child’s pain without trying to fix the problem. Yet this is often where growth begins. Children learn to regulate their emotions not by avoiding difficult feelings, but by experiencing them in an environment of love, trust and calm. When parents acknowledge emotions with simple acceptance, children learn that discomfort is part of being human. They also learn that they are strong enough to face difficult feelings and that they are not alone while doing so.

This becomes especially important during adolescence. Teenagers are naturally present-focused. Developmentally, they struggle to understand that emotional pain is temporary. This is one reason adolescence is such a vulnerable period. When adults attempt to remove every discomfort, or react with overwhelming emotion themselves, young people may come to believe that negative feelings are dangerous and must be solved by someone else. Without intending to, we risk raising children, who feel emotionally unprepared for life’s realities. If the goal is protection, the answer is not to eliminate pain, but to equip young people to face it with empathy, support, and trust in themselves.

One of the simplest and most overlooked ways to build self worth is through taking responsibility at home. When children contribute by setting the table, folding laundry or helping in the kitchen, they learn that they are useful and capable. These are not small acts. They quietly reinforce a sense of purpose and belonging, reminding children that they matter, that they are needed, and that they can make a meaningful contribution.

Above all, children need to feel loved unconditionally. They need to know their worth is not tied to grades, trophies or praise. Even when parents believe this wholeheartedly, subtle messages can suggest otherwise. Extra excitement when a child receives an A on a report card or heightened warmth upon winning a trophy, can quietly teach that approval is linked to perfection. Over time, this belief shapes how children see themselves and what they believe they must do to be valued.

Every experience a child has is a means to an end, not an end in itself. Adults may focus on the incident, the poor grade, the missed goal or the emotional outburst. What matters more is what the child learns from the experience and how they remember being treated in that moment. The adult’s voice, tone and presence become the child’s inner voice. This inner voice forms the foundation of self-image, values and emotional strength long after childhood ends.

So what will that voice sound like for your child? Will it reassure them that they can face difficulty and remain whole? Or will it echo doubt, shaped by moments when understanding was needed but judgment arrived instead?

As we search for ways to support children, perhaps we can look inward to our own roots. In Nepal, the birthplace of the Buddha, emotional balance and inner awareness have been valued for centuries. Practices such as reflection and mindfulness are not trends. They are timeless tools. Teaching children to pause, breathe and observe their emotions gives them an internal compass, one that guides them through uncertainty with calm.

Raising happy children does not mean removing struggle from their lives. It means walking beside them as they face challenges, stepping back when needed while remaining emotionally present, and trusting them to navigate discomfort, frustration, and pain, knowing they always have a secure base to return to. Real happiness is not about avoiding difficulty, but learning to move through it with courage and self-trust.

Because one day, we will not be there to catch them. If they are truly prepared, they will not need us to.

In most classrooms across Nepal, you won’t see children with diverse learning needs, not because they don’t exist, but because they’ve been made invisible. Undiagnosed, unsupported, and excluded, these children are left behind long before the first lesson begins.

I first glimpsed this invisibility as a child myself. At around ten years old, I was once waiting for results at an inter-school dance competition when a group of children from a school for the intellectually challenged performed. One of the girls left the stage and walked directly up to me, her face just inches from mine, and asked my name.

I wasn’t wary of her. I was scared of doing the wrong thing. Of saying something hurtful. Of not knowing how to respond. No one had ever talked to me about intellectual disability. No one had prepared me for what to do or how to simply be with someone who moved, spoke, or behaved differently. So I stood there, paralyzed.

Today, as a school leader trying to build inclusive classrooms in a deeply non-inclusive system, I understand that moment differently. It wasn’t just my discomfort, it was society’s silence. Our schools, our homes, and our media had never acknowledged children like her. That silence has hardened into systemic neglect.

More and more children with diverse learning needs are entering our classrooms. But they are still misunderstood, often mislabeled as lazy, disruptive, or incapable. The lucky few who are identified are either nudged out of mainstream schools or left unsupported within them, trapped in a system never designed to recognize their potential.

Globally, around 10-15 percent of children are estimated to have specific learning disabilities such as dyslexia, dysgraphia, or dyscalculia. Neurodevelopmental conditions like ADHD and autism affect an additional 4-10 percent. UNICEF reports that 12.5 percent of children aged 5-17 worldwide have moderate to severe disabilities that impact their access to learning. In Nepal, the numbers are even more stark. A national study found that over 35 percent of children aged 3-4 showed signs of developmental delay, particularly in areas of literacy and social-emotional development. While official disability data remains limited and often under-reported (ranging from 1.6 percent to 14 percent depending on the source), these figures highlight the widespread and urgent need for support systems that go far beyond current efforts.

Nepal’s Constitution, in Article 31, guarantees every citizen the right to education, explicitly committing to equitable access. It calls for education to be brought “within reach of all” and to create “equal opportunities for all.” Building on this, the Inclusive Education Policy of 2016 affirms that every child has the right to study in an inclusive, dignified environment. The policy assigns clear responsibilities to national bodies like the Curriculum Development Center and the National Examination Board, mandating the development of accessible curricula, resources, and assessment systems.

These are commendable commitments. But for educators on the ground, these policies often feel disconnected from reality. Ambiguity persists: Which needs are officially recognized? How are schools operationalizing inclusive education? Who ensures that teachers, counselors, and systems are ready to support this transformation?

Among the most visible barriers is Nepal’s standardized examination system. The Basic Level Examination (BLE) in Grade 8, the Secondary Education Examination (SEE) in Grade 10, and the School Leaving Certificate (SLC) in Grade 12 are all high-stakes assessments with rigid structures. Crucially, passing these exams is mandatory to move forward in the education system. But what about students who cannot pass, not due to lack of effort, but because of intellectual disabilities, neurodevelopmental conditions, or specific learning needs? These students are left without an option. The system treats academic performance as the sole indicator of worth and readiness, erasing the potential of those who learn differently.

The rigidity of these exams sits atop a shaky foundation. Schools lack access to trained professionals who can assess students, provide formal diagnoses, and participate in Individualized Education Plan (IEP) teams. In the absence of such expertise, educators are forced to make judgment calls they are neither trained nor authorized to make. To move forward, Nepal must invest in long-term solutions: teacher training programs focused on inclusive education, specialized university degrees in diverse learning needs and counseling, and ongoing parent education initiatives. 

There is also an urgent need for both national and local support systems staffed with experts in assessment, therapy, teacher and parent support, and school-based implementation to guide and empower schools.These systems must also include financial support for schools and families to access essential therapies, hire specialized teachers, and sustain meaningful inclusion. Without this comprehensive backing, inclusion remains aspirational rather than actionable.

Even when students are identified and supported in school, challenges remain in securing examination accommodations. The current policy requires requests to be submitted two months before the exam, yet in practice, schools often receive approval (or even information about the option) only a week before. This last-minute uncertainty discourages innovation and risks putting students in pedagogically unsound positions. Instead, the government should allow accommodations and modifications to be formally registered and approved as soon as a student’s needs are identified. This would allow schools to support the student throughout the year, not just in exams but in daily learning. Inclusion cannot be reactionary. It must be sustained and authentic.

Inclusion also requires flexibility in curriculum structure and certification. Some students could thrive with reduced subject loads. I currently work with a student with a language-based learning difficulty, for whom taking one language instead of multiple would make a world of difference. Yet the system doesn’t allow for this. We need an alternative School Leaving Certificate for such students that maintains the integrity of the curriculum but allows reduced subject requirements. Additionally, there must be a second type of certificate for students who require modified content entirely, for those whose cognitive development differs significantly from their biological age.

Crucially, these alternative certificates must carry the same procedural and social value as traditional ones. They must lead to further education and employment opportunities. Without this equivalency, these students remain excluded, their achievements undermined, and their futures jeopardized.

Beyond Grade 10, there must be guaranteed continuity of accommodations through Grade 12 and higher. And for those unable to pursue academic pathways, vocational programs must be introduced, not as a last resort, but as a dignified, valuable alternative. Every student must have a path to self-reliance and social inclusion.

Inclusion is not charity. It is not a favor. It is a right. If Nepal is sincere about its promise of equitable education, it must recognize that inclusive education is not about bringing children into the system as it exists but about reshaping the system itself. This means rethinking policies, retraining professionals, redesigning exams, funding resources, and most of all, re-framing our understanding of human potential.

The invisible students of our nation are not invisible by nature; they are made invisible by our inaction. And how we choose to respond today will define the kind of nation we become tomorrow.