Borrow my steadiness

For the meeting. For the parking lot. For the long haul.

The Wellness Grove — No. 6

I belong in this room.

If you’re walking into a meeting soon, let this be a handrail: you can be calm and still be clear.

By the time you’re reading this, I’ll be walking into another meeting for my child—notes in hand, questions written down, doing that quiet thing special education parents learn to do: keeping my face calm while my nervous system tries to sprint.

I’m not writing this from a pedestal. I’m writing it from the parking lot.

Because advocacy isn’t a vibe. It’s a practice. It’s paperwork, yes—but it’s also nervous system work. It’s learning how to stay steady while you ask for what your child is entitled to, and while you push back against systems that sometimes mistake “informed parent” for “problem parent.”

Too many times, I’ve been the only parent voice in the room—outnumbered, rushed, talked around, and left emotionally drained. If you’ve ever walked out to your car and just sat there for a minute to breathe, you’re not alone.

So let me say it plainly:

I’m in your corner, too. Not in a vague “you’ve got this” way—in a practical way. With language you can use, questions you can ask, and steadiness you can borrow if yours feels shaky today.

What twice-exceptional looks like in real life

All three of my boys fit the twice-exceptional profile—and if you’re expecting that to look like a quiet child reading chapter books in the corner, let me lovingly correct the picture.

In our house, “gifted” has come with sound effects.

One of my boys currently announces at jiu-jitsu—on parent night—that he’s going to choke out his dad. (It has yet to happen. His dad remains undefeated… for now.)

Another time, one of my kids stood on top of his desk at school and informed the entire class that he was a pterodactyl—because they were starting a dinosaur unit and he was genuinely thrilled. Wings, noises, the whole thing. Not disruptive in his mind. Just… fully committed to the theme.

And then there was kindergarten—the year he sincerely announced to the class that wolves come out at night and eat you. That little detail did not land the way he intended. It caused mass hysteria, left one girl in tears, and the poor teacher—who truly tried—could barely keep it together when she called me.

That’s the thing about twice-exceptional kids: the intensity isn’t a flaw. It’s a feature. Their joy is loud. Their curiosity is physical. Their brains don’t tiptoe.

And in the same breath, I’ve watched one of my boys notice the child who couldn’t access the playground—wheelchair bound, left out—not because anyone was being cruel, but because the world wasn’t built with him in mind. He chose him anyway. Sat with him anyway. Played with him anyway. Made sure he wasn’t alone.

And the truth is, they’ve all had moments like that—different moments, different ways—where their humanity shows up so brightly it stops me in my tracks. That’s the part that gets lost when a child is reduced to a file: the compassion is real, even when regulation is hard.

So no—this isn’t about fixing my kids. It’s about building a system that can hold them.

So when I say advocacy is harder with 2e kids, I don’t mean they’re “harder kids.” I mean systems struggle to hold the full picture:

A child can be brilliant and dysregulated. Funny and overwhelmed.Kind and impulsive.A leader and a kid who needs scaffolding.

And parents like me end up translating our children—over and over—so the adults in the room don’t reduce them to a single story.

Research has been warning for years that twice-exceptional students are often underidentified—missed by gifted programs, missed by special education, and misunderstood in both.

Special education isn’t a corner. It’s a whole wing.

Since 2013, I’ve been advocating.

And if you’re reading this thinking, “Special education is such a small corner of the school world,” it’s not. In 2022–23, 7.5 million students ages 3–21 were served under IDEA—about 15% of public school enrollment. That’s not fringe. That’s a whole section of the building.

So when parents speak up, it isn’t “extra.”

It’s infrastructure.

Why it feels heavier now

If it feels like more families are filing complaints, requesting meetings, documenting everything—you’re not imagining it. National dispute-resolution tracking shows written state complaints surged to 9,927 in the 2023–24 school year—about a 79% jump over the previous 10-year average.

Parents didn’t suddenly get dramatic.

Parents ran out of informal options.

And when the “friendly route” stops working, families move toward paperwork—not because we want conflict, but because we need clarity.

The churn is real—and parents become the continuity

Since 2020, it can feel like the system is always shifting—new administrators, new staff, new initiatives, new procedures.

For neurodiverse kids, consistency isn’t a luxury. It’s scaffolding.

But schools are dealing with churn too. One national analysis found that 23% of teachers left their school in the 2022–23 school year.

And special education staffing is even tighter. Reporting and analysis show shortages remain widespread—nearly all states and about half of districts reported special education teacher shortages in 2023–24.

So yes, parents get louder. We have to.

Not because we want to be difficult—because the plan can’t work if the people who carry it keep changing.

When capacity breaks, kids feel it first

Here’s what the public conversation misses:

When a child is flooded, you’re not dealing with “choices” the way schools like to frame it. You’re dealing with a nervous system in survival mode.

And when schools don’t have the staffing, training, or time to support a dysregulated child, outcomes can get harsher—not safer.

The U.S. Department of Education’s Civil Rights Data Collection shows students served under IDEA were 14% of K–12 enrollment, but 28% of students mechanically restrained, 68% of students secluded, and 76% of students physically restrained.

Those aren’t “bad kid” numbers.

That’s an adult-capacity problem.

The camera conversation: accountability isn’t the same as access

This is why cameras in special education settings keep coming up.

Not because parents want to “spy.”Because when implementation is inconsistent, documentation becomes protection.

Cameras are one measure families reach for when a child can’t always explain what happened—or when the story shifts between the classroom and the paperwork. It’s not about catching people. It’s about confirming that services are delivered, plans are followed, and dignity is protected.

In Louisiana, this has become part of the state’s legal landscape. La. R.S. 17:1948 addresses cameras in certain special education settings, and Act 479 of 2025 includes changes with key provisions effective February 1, 2026.

But here’s what nobody tells you until you’re living it:

Having cameras is not the same as having access.

Under FERPA, when a video directly relates to a student, parents generally have the right to inspect and review that record. But FERPA generally does not require schools to provide a copy, and access gets complicated fast when other students appear in the recording (which is most of the time).

So even “transparency” can become another hurdle—requests, delays, scheduling, restrictions—more process, more waiting.

And parents do what parents always do: we build the paper trail—because the paper trail becomes a bridge.

Complexity isn’t rare. It’s normal.

A lot of our children aren’t simple on paper because they aren’t simple in the body.

ADHD alone is common. In 2022, about 11.4% of U.S. children ages 3–17 had ever received an ADHD diagnosis. And among kids with current ADHD, 77.9% had at least one co-occurring condition.

Complexity isn’t rare.

It’s normal.

Which is why “just try harder” isn’t motivation—it’s dismissal. It asks the child to carry what the system refuses to hold.

The medication conversation is not a moral debate

Public discourse loves extremes. Real families live in the middle.

Among children with current ADHD, about 53.6% received medication, 44.4% received behavioral treatment, and 30.1% received neither. Many families aren’t choosing extremes—they’re navigating access gaps.

Advocacy is nervous system work

Here’s the Wellness Grove truth: you can’t separate advocacy from balance, because the parent’s nervous system is part of the plan.

If you’re dysregulated, everything costs more. Every email feels like a conflict. Every meeting feels like a threat. Every missed accommodation becomes a personal injury.

So if you’re in this for the long haul, regulation isn’t indulgence.

It’s strategy.

This is the framework I use—simple enough to remember, strong enough to hold you:

The STEADY Method

S — Stay written.If it matters, put it in writing. If it’s said out loud, follow with:“Thank you for meeting today. My understanding is…”

T — Tie it to access. Not only “my child feels…” (even when true), but:“This impacts access to instruction and progress toward goals.”

E — Evidence over opinion. Ask for data, not interpretation:“What data supports that?”“How will progress be measured?”“What does weekly implementation look like?”

A — Ask for specifics. Who is responsible, when it happens, and how it’s documented. Vague plans fail kids.

D — Don’t go in alone (when you can help it). Bring your notes. Bring your timeline. Bring a support person if you can. Your steadiness matters.

Y — Your body is part of the plan. Eat before the meeting. Hydrate. Ground your feet. Take the decompression walk after .A regulated parent is harder to derail.

Why I’m becoming a stronger advocate

This is also why I’m pursuing my bachelor’s in behavioral science with an emphasis in adolescent disorders.

Because I’ve lived what it’s like to fight for a child’s access with no roadmap, and I want to help build better ones—so fewer parents leave those rooms shaking, second-guessing, and alone.

I don’t want special education to feel like a private battle fought in parking lots.

I want it to feel like what it was meant to be: support.

Before you walk in: one more time

If you’re walking into your meeting soon, let this be your reminder:

You don’t have to be loud to be powerful. You don’t have to be perfect to be effective. You only have to be present—and specific.

I belong in this room. And so do you.

References

1. NCES: Students with Disabilities served under IDEA (2022–23 totals; ~15%).

2. CADRE dispute-resolution tracking/reporting: written state complaints (2023–24; 9,927; +79%).

3. U.S. Department of Education OCR CRDC: restraint and seclusion proportions (2021–22).

4. CDC / Danielson et al.: ADHD prevalence, co-occurrence, treatment estimates (2022).

5. Education Resource Strategies: teacher turnover (2022–23).

6. Brookings + related analysis: special education teacher shortages (2023–24).

7. Jolly (2024): underidentification of twice-exceptional students.

8. Louisiana: La. R.S. 17:1948 + Act 479 (effective Feb 1, 2026).

9. U.S. Dept. of Education FERPA guidance: inspect/review video records; copies not required; multi-student complexity.