“I wish I could hear her speak, hear her call me Mom, tell me what she needs, where it hurts.”
These heart-wrenching words stay with you long after you’ve heard them. They come from a single mother in Montréal-Nord, whose youngest daughter was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder at age three, and it’s a glimpse into a larger, shared reality, especially among many newcomer families in a neighbourhood as multicultural as this one.
Montréal-Nord: A Mosaic of Lives
With nearly half its population born outside of Canada, Montréal-Nord is one of the most diverse boroughs in the city. According to a 2017 report by the regional public health agency, around 7 per cent of asylum seekers in the metropolitan area were already living in the neighbourhood. Local community organizations say that number has grown, particularly with the increase in immigration from the United States in recent years.
This is the context in which Entre-Parents, a community organization, steps in. For over 40 years, it’s been supporting families in vulnerable situations. In an interview at their office, executive director Isabelle Alexandre paints a picture of the people they work with every day.
“Right now, we’re working with over 600 families. Of those, 90 per cent are asylum seekers. Most of them are from Haiti, but we also see Latin American and North African families. Many arrive with significant trauma—both children and adults.”
When Needs Pile Up
A child with special needs is one who, due to developmental disorders, disabilities, or learning challenges, requires extra support, whether it's at school, at home, or in the community. That can include autism, speech disorders, developmental delays, or attention issues.
For migrant families, this need for support piles onto other ones. It layers onto an already difficult reality: precarious immigration status, unfamiliarity with public systems, language barriers, poverty, social isolation. Where other families might lean on a network or a well-oiled system, these families face an uphill climb.
“These kids don’t get the same start in life as others. Some have crossed multiple countries, been separated from parents, or experienced trauma. That changes everything in their development. Some of the kids we support here were conceived through rape—often during their mother’s migration journey. So the needs, and the kind of support required, are different,” says Alexandre.
Invisible in the System
Despite the growing need, Montréal-Nord lacks specialized services for children with special needs. Families often have to travel to Laval or other boroughs to see specialists. For a single mother without a car, without steady work, and sometimes without legal status, that’s an enormous hurdle.
“I started worrying about my daughter before she turned one. She didn’t respond to her name, she didn’t babble. I started looking for answers. It took a whole year to get a diagnosis,” one mother recalls.
“Every mom wants to hear her child speak, answer back. Mine still hasn’t responded to her name,” she adds.
Getting a diagnosis is only the first step as it opens the door to services. But the fight doesn’t end there.
Childcare Access and a Daily Struggle
As an asylum seeker, this mother didn’t qualify for subsidized daycare. When she first arrived, she had to pay $40 a day for an unsubsidized spot which led to her dealing with an unbearable financial burden that forced a painful decision.
“What’s the point? I remember thinking, ‘Go to work and spend that kind of money? I’d be better off staying home to care for her,’” she explains.
And when a subsidized space did finally open up, her daughter’s autism became the problem.
“I tried two different daycares. They were ready to accept her, but once they learned she had autism, they said no.”
When Child Protection Gets Involved
Barriers don’t end at the daycare door. In Montréal-Nord, Direction de la protection de la jeunesse (DPJ) reports are far higher than the city average: 45.5 per cent of cases for children aged 0–4 involve serious risk of neglect, and 38 per cent involve domestic violence.
But those numbers don’t tell the full story, say those working on the ground.
“There’s a double challenge for parents when they arrive. First, it’s cultural. There’s a shock in having to learn how things work here. Then, there’s the developmental pace of their child, which may differ from what they’ve been taught or read,” explains Sandy Forge, a special education educator at Entre-Parents.
Forge, who is also a mother of two autistic children, understands why some parents hesitate to seek a diagnosis.
“I get it. I’ve been there. I didn’t want my child to be diagnosed. I was scared of the label.”
The mistrust of the system, whether it’s the DPJ, health care, or schools, often stems from a cultural gap between families’ experiences in their home countries and the norms in Quebec.
“When we talk about ‘risk factors,’ we’re usually talking about neglect or abuse. But in some communities, raising a child may include things like using a belt or threatening to send them back to the home country. They’re living in fear, and those practices just don’t line up with what’s considered acceptable here,” notes Alexandre.
Research into Quebec’s DPJ has pointed to the complex relationship between immigrant families and the institution. There’s mistrust, cultural barriers, and a lack of shared reference points—all contributing to an overrepresentation of visible minorities in the system. The final report of the 2021 Laurent Commission addressed this very issue.
Mon enfant à défis!: A Community Response
To meet these growing needs, Entre-Parents launched Mon enfant à défis!, the first program of its kind in Montréal-Nord. It offers tailored support, group workshops, educational resources, and most importantly, a space where parents of children with special needs feel heard and understood.
“If a child is diagnosed with autism or an intellectual disability, that’s a lifelong diagnosis. It won’t disappear with time. It’s crucial to invest early to help them progress,” stresses Forge.
Through this initiative, the organization hopes to reduce DPJ referrals, engage more professionals, and support 70 families and about 30 children within a year.
Despite the exhaustion, the sacrifices, and the endless appointments, the mother we met has never stopped fighting for her daughter. When asked how she keeps going, she doesn’t hesitate.
“The love I have for her… I can’t even explain it. I don’t know if it’s because of her… well, I don’t want to say disability… her problem… but I feel so deeply connected to her,” she says.
The stories of these families are stories of resilience in the face of an often rigid system. But they’re also clear calls for change—for better training, reformed institutions, and real investment in community-based support.