An Email I Sent the School and District

This email was sent in April 2025, when I escalated ongoing concerns about my child’s safety and wellbeing at school to district officials.

The text appears as originally written except for minor redactions to protect privacy.

Since my daughter was in kindergarten, I have been doing everything I can to advocate for her needs at school. I’ve offered education about Autism, been transparent about her struggles, and explained—again and again—that the pain and exhaustion she experiences at home are the direct result of how much she is suffering at school.

Each time, what we’ve been offered is a review of her 504 accommodations and minor adjustments to how her breaks are managed throughout the day. It has never been enough. My daughter is drowning at school. She is barely surviving her school day through sheer grit and determination.

I’ve been telling the school this for two years. Her dad, has told you. She, in her own ways, has told you. Look at her absences over the last two years. But it’s as if you see a child treading water, smiling at you—because that’s what masking is—and you shrug and say, “She seems fine,” and walk away while she drowns. At this point, it no longer feels like a lack of understanding. It feels like willful disregard for what I’ve shared.

At her fall conference, I addressed with a classroom teacher the fact that she asks my daughter if she can wait when she asks to use the bathroom. I explained that, as an Autistic child, my daughter has an underdeveloped interoceptive sense—she doesn’t feel the signals in her body until they are urgent. She doesn’t know she’s hungry until she’s starving. She doesn’t know she needs to pee until she’s about to wet her pants.

The teacher explained that she encourages kids to use the bathroom during more convenient times between classes. I said frankly: my daughter cannot do that. Then she said that if she asks her to wait, my daughtr can say no and she’ll let her go. I explained that my child wants to please adults and won’t say no.

Despite all of that, the teacher looked at my daughter and said, “If I ask you to wait, you can say no if you really can’t wait. Can you do that?” And of course, my daughter said yes. After we left, I asked if she really meant it. She said no. She just didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

I share this not to single out this teacher, but because this is representative of the larger issue: you are not listening. Not to me. Not to her dad. And not to her. This is not a teacher problem. This is a systemic issue that has impacted my daughter since she started kindergarten. It spans multiple years, multiple staff members, and multiple conversations where I have done everything I can to help you understand her needs. And still, she is not getting the support she needs to be safe, regulated, and well at school.

I’ve explained that my daughter will always appear well-behaved at school. She is a high masker. I’ve described, in multiple meetings, how the cost of her needs not being adequately met at school shows up at home. I’ve shared openly and transparently about those costs. And still, you are letting her drown while telling yourselves she’s fine—because she looks fine to you.

That’s the essence of masking. She will always look fine to you. The distress is happening internally.

My child goes to the nurse’s office regularly—sometimes multiple times a day. This is one of the few places in the building where she can try to find relief. She is doing everything she can to care for herself in the absence of adequate support. The frequency of these visits is not incidental. It is communication. It is a coping strategy. It is also a red flag. And yet, it has not prompted meaningful change.

If you had a student who, during a meltdown, was ripping out hair, scratching her face and neck until they bled, hitting herself with her fists, arching her back and sobbing uncontrollably—you would respond with urgency. You would change the environment. You would ask, "How do we stop this child from suffering so deeply?"

Well, that is my child.

You don’t see the behaviors because she holds them in all day until she gets home. But the suffering is real. How many of your 7-year-olds have made a noose and said they want to die?

Let me be clear: my child’s suicidal gesture this fall is directly related to the ongoing distress she experiences at school. This is not coming from what she experiences at home, where her needs are met in real time, she has autonomy over her body, and she can safely name her experience. It is school that is wearing her down.

For two years, I’ve raised concerns that my daughter may have a learning disability. I requested an evaluation in Fall 2023. I was told she wasn’t far enough behind academically and that request was denied. I’m not an educator—but I know Autistic kids. I know twice-exceptional kids. It is not unusual for Autistic children who are highly intelligent to mask over a learning disability so completely that it never gets identified.

You cannot determine how my daughter is doing based only on the output you see. She is struggling. And I am tired of asking for help, of begging for someone to take that seriously.

She’s missing school not because she’s oppositional, but because she is burned out. My 8-year-old is experiencing Autistic burnout because the school continues to prioritize minimal accommodations over real, meaningful change.

My daughter doesn’t just need a revised list of supports. She needs the school to understand that the environment itself—the structure, the assumptions, the norms—is neurotypical by design. It is hurting her. She needs you to recognize how courageous and strong she is for surviving a school day that is, for her, a gauntlet of distress, confusion, and pain.

I’ve come into every meeting and conversation hoping that if I explained things clearly, you would understand. But it’s become clear that there is a lack of foundational understanding about Autism, about ableism, and about what anti-ableist practice actually requires.

I am a single mother. I do not have the time, money, or resources to pull my daughter from her neighborhood school and place her in a specialized setting. I shouldn’t have to. But I know many parents who’ve had to make that choice—not because their children failed school, but because school failed their children.

Given the ongoing concerns and the lack of adequate response at the school level, I am now bringing this matter to the attention of district officials, including the Section 504 Coordinator, Civil Rights Coordinator, Title IX Officer, and Superintendent. I hope this will prompt a more comprehensive and effective approach to addressing my daughter's needs.

You are failing her. She is suffering. And whether intended or not, the school’s ongoing failure to act in response to her needs amounts to disability discrimination.

I am asking you to start responding to my daughter’s needs with the urgency you would show if her distress were visibly erupting in the classroom. Her pain is no less real because she keeps it hidden.

And for the love of god—please stop asking her to wait when she says she has to use the bathroom. Even when she says yes, she means no. She can’t wait. Please trust her with her body. That is a basic form of dignity and respect every child deserves.

My daughter is not a neurotypical child. She does not need help building resiliency—she is resilient. She has to be in order to survive an average day at school. What she needs from you is not more pressure to cope, but a deeper understanding of her neurodivergence and a genuine willingness to change the environment to meet her needs. That is what true inclusion looks like. And that is what she deserves.

Sincerely,
Stacey
aka, mom