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A few weeks ago, I opened my inbox and saw an email from my attorney:

“They can meet June 9th.”

It was the fifth meeting since December. Same issue. Still unresolved.

To someone else, this might sound like movement. But to me—as the mother of a disabled child who has spent over a decade navigating systems that rarely listen—it landed like a gut punch. June 9th meant the summer school program I’d asked for was off the table.

One more thing. Denied. Deferred. Discarded.

My son is autistic and has a rare chromosomal condition. He’s been in special education since age three. He’s now 15. And just this year—after years of evaluations, diagnoses, and repeated pleas—the school district finally acknowledged that he qualifies as intellectually disabled.

We are now in due process because they refuse to also recognize his autism diagnosis, even though he has already been identified by multiple doctors and an outside agency.

But due process doesn’t move with urgency. It moves with paper. With policies that act as technicalities to obstruct the law. With silence.

And while the adults debate, my son waits—even though the school continues to send emails saying they are “ready, willing, and able” to provide him the appropriate services.

But true readiness isn’t just writing words in an email that sound legally appropriate. It’s about seeing the humanness in a child crying out to be taught and constantly being ignored—seen as difficult or defiant instead.

I know how the educators likely feel on the other end. They too are probably exhausted, not only by bureaucracy and red tape, but by parents like me.

I spent 19 years in schools—as a teacher, school counselor, and 504 coordinator. I supported families sitting at Individualized Education Program (IEP) tables, trying to get services for their children. All the while, the teachers would walk away venting about how difficult that parent was, with no real understanding of what it’s like to raise a disabled child—and no real understanding of how a parent becomes “difficult” after years of not being heard.

Back then, I thought I understood those parents. I felt for them.

Now, I’m the one at the table. The one holding back tears. The one getting angry and pushing back while everyone looks at me like I’m the problem. The one watching eight professionals speak in careful jargon while my child is regressing—and unseen. Being gaslit as a mother who was once a professional on the same side of the table they sit at.

When I know they know I know—it hits different.

The truth is, many educators want to help—but they’re working in systems that burn them out, underpay them, and hand them impossible expectations.

And still.

Our children who go unserved, who are labeled difficult, are waiting.

So, what do I continue to do?

I document everything. Every conversation. Every delay. Not because I want conflict—but because promises evaporate.

I’ve been told the sky is red while staring right at the blue one too many times. I’ve offered to collaborate. I’ve followed up and done all I can on my end and will continue to—but it doesn’t mean I’m not tired.

To the parents waiting for the system to catch up: if you’re juggling IEP meetings, therapy coordination, medication updates, meltdowns, late-night Googling, and quiet panic—while also holding a job and pretending to be okay—I see you.

You are not too much.

You are not asking for special treatment.

You are not being “difficult.”

You are asking for what the law already promises. You are asking for dignity, not just for your child, but for you.

And you are doing it in a system that delays, deflects, and denies—and that honestly sets everyone up for failure, including the teacher.

There’s no polished ending here. We’re still in the middle of the story. But I’ve learned something that might matter: advocacy isn’t about being unbreakable, because we all have our limits and internal capacity. It’s about staying rooted in what’s real. Even when they say the sky is red—and you know it’s blue, because you’re looking right at it.

So, if you’re tired, if you’re angry, if you’re exhausted from pushing against a system that makes you feel invisible—you’re not alone. You are carrying more than most will ever understand.

And you are not wrong for saying “This isn’t good enough.”

Because it isn’t.

And our kids deserve better.

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