Before They Know What They’ve Lost
Time and time again, as I advocate for my son’s access to education, I find myself carrying more than just his story. I see the quiet, often invisible toll of denial—the way so many children have been refused their right to a meaningful education, and how that refusal is rarely, if ever, restored.
You can see it in the eyes of young adults as they’re pushed across crosswalks in wheelchairs, shrinking in their bodies, silenced by systems that never let them in fully. There’s a weight they carry—not just of their disability, but of exclusion, of being sidelined from the world they were meant to be part of. Their posture speaks of shame, not because of who they are, but because of what they’ve been denied: access, dignity, community, and the belief that they matter.
And what breaks my heart is that this shrinking begins early. The window of opportunity closes far too soon—before the child understands what was taken from them, and before the parent realizes what they’ve missed. That’s how systems operate: they make it easy to accept what’s offered, to assume this is the best it can be, and to stop asking for more.
But I’ve seen enough to know better. I’ve felt what it means to push back against convenience, to walk into IEP rooms not just to quote law, but to bring the heart of the law with me. Because these protections weren’t handed down freely—they were born out of the long history of exclusion. They came from people who refused to accept silence and segregation as the norm.
So no, I’m not just here for my son. I’m here for all the kids who didn't get their chance. For the ones no one pushed for. For the ones whose timelines were shortened before they ever found their voice. And for the parents who are only now realizing what they weren’t told—what they were too overwhelmed or too isolated to demand.
This is why I circle back. This is why I won’t yield. Because meaningful access isn’t a luxury. It’s a legal right. And it's a promise that too many schools have quietly abandoned.