When Nick was in first grade, his teacher sent home paperwork indicating he needed some extra help in school.
He was struggling, and the school was recommending that he be evaluated for disabilities that were affecting his ability to learn in the same manner as his typical peers.
Seeing that paperwork was hard — really hard.
The school was telling me something was wrong with my kid.
That he was different than other kids.
And that was something I already knew.
I knew it when he cried for most of the first six months of his life.
I knew it when unfamiliar people picked him up and he went stiff as a board.
When he cried because certain clothes rubbed him the wrong way.
When he didn’t speak until he was 4½.
When he sat in front of my parents’ new washing machine, mesmerized, watching it spin.
So many moments. But none were as difficult as reading that paperwork.
And I think schools sometimes forget that.
They forget there is a parent behind every struggling student.
A parent who is not used to the ins and outs of special education.
A parent who finds terms like evaluation and IEP scary — terrifying.
The paperwork sat untouched for a few weeks.
A few weeks where I tried not to think about it.
The school sent reminder emails, making the paperwork impossible to ignore.
But what the school didn’t consider was the emotional side of signing it.
It’s one thing to quietly acknowledge that your child is different.
But this paperwork was a whole other level.
Before I could sign it, I needed time —
time to accept what I already knew was true,
time to cry and grieve the child I thought I was raising,
time to pretend — for one more day, one more hour, one more minute — that my kid wasn’t that different.
But the school’s timelines didn’t allow for that.
Ten days for this, thirty days for that — none of it included time for parents to be scared, to cry, or to process a new reality.
Sometimes schools forget that this might be a parent’s first public acknowledgment that something is different with their child — different enough to require special testing and special services.
And with that acknowledgment comes fear.
If I sign this paperwork, will my kid be bullied?
Will he need help forever?
Where will this lead us?
What does this mean for his life?
But if I don’t sign it… what happens to his future then?
It was a conflict that wasn’t really a conflict, because deep down I always knew I would sign it.
And I did.
I signed it long before I was ready.
Long before I had accepted this future.
Long before my brain could make sense of it all.
I didn’t sign it because I was brave.
I signed it because I already knew my kid was different.
I signed it because it was what Nick needed.
I signed it because, in the long run, none of this was about my feelings — it was about Nick and his future.
Signing that paperwork was a commitment —
my first step into the world of evaluations, IEPs, meetings, and FAPE.
A world with a language all its own. A language I would learn over time.
So the timer started.
In Massachusetts, an IEP meeting must be held within 45 days of the district receiving the consent forms.
And in 45 days, we had an IEP meeting —
days that somehow crept by and sped by at the same time.
Forty-five days is not enough time for a crash course in special education law.
But we were very lucky that the head of our team, Mrs. G, was deeply invested in helping parents learn the process. She answered all our questions and made sure we understood what was going to happen.
And despite her support, it was still an emotional experience — isolating and lonely in a way that feels familiar to so many special needs parents.
As glad as I was that he would receive help, I was heartbroken that he needed it so badly.
It was a confusing spectrum of emotions — ones I would battle before, during, and after many future meetings.
Schools provide the structure for kids to learn, but the emotional fallout lands on the parents. At least once a week, Nick would meltdown after school. Sometimes it was because he had a tough day, and other times because school was hard, learning was hard, life was hard. For him, everything was just so difficult.
Teachers told us Nick should be doing 20 minutes of homework per subject — about an hour each night. Many nights, that was impossible. How could he study for a test in 20 minutes when he was struggling to understand the information?
It was tough to see how hard he tried and how little his schoolwork and tests reflected that effort.
Seeing him struggle broke my heart. I can’t imagine what it must have felt like for Nick.
We learned that quality mattered more than quantity. We learned to stop him 20 minutes into homework and write a note letting the teacher know Nick had put in his required time. We learned the do’s and don’ts of special education — do’s and don’ts that changed every year, teacher to teacher, class to class.
And so time marched on.
New grades, new team leaders, new IEPs, new struggles, new services, new failures, new successes.
But no matter what changed, the emotional impact remained.
IEP meetings stayed emotional, even after we learned the language. The team worked hard to support his learning needs, but they rarely saw his frustration. They rarely saw the tears or meltdowns. While the school addressed the academic side of his disability, we shouldered the emotional side.
People often tell me they couldn’t do what I did — that they couldn’t raise a special needs child. Others tell me God gave him to me because I was strong enough.
I don’t believe either of those things.
I became strong because I had Nick.
And I rose to the challenge because I had no other choice.
No one else was going to fight for his educational needs.
I could jump in and support him, or I could let him flounder — and to me, that wasn’t a choice. If watching him struggle with support was difficult, how much harder would it have been without it?
A lot of Nick’s struggles are behind us now. He graduated a few years ago — the IEP meetings are over.
He still has his frustrations and his (very rare) meltdowns. They look different than they used to, but they’re still part of who he is.
And the emotions remain. Most are good — happiness, pride, relief. But sometimes, the old fears creep back in. The what-ifs of parenting a special needs child who is now an adult. A child who still needs me a little more than his peers. A child who has overcome so many hurdles, but doesn’t understand how far he has come.
Parenting a special needs child is a long road. It’s physically and emotionally demanding. And for many parents, it is a lifelong commitment.
But it is also rewarding.
It’s an experience so rooted in love that you’re willing to take on a school district just to get your kid what he needs.
Author’s Note: I mention FAPE as part of the special education language. FAPE stands for Free Appropriate Public Education — the legal right of every child in the United States who receives special education services. If you need help navigating the special education process, consult an advocate or an attorney. And remember: your child has rights.
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