The end of the school year never feels like a celebration

Author’s name withheld to protect their family’s privacy.

I’ve been envious, over the years, of parents of neurotypical (NT) kids—non-disabled kids—who get to read their children’s report cards and revel in their achievements, laid out so neatly within the grading scale: “Proficient.” “Extending.”

They don’t have to look for progress like we do.

We are reading between the lines

We—parents of students with disabilities—are scouring the comments for signs that our kids are OK. Supported. Happy. Trying not to let our minds spin when we read “developing,” “emerging,” or when we don’t see those familiar phrases like “It was a pleasure to have your child in my class this year!” or “I enjoyed teaching your child this year!”

We’re searching for evidence that our advocacy has been sufficient this year. Hoping for confirmation that we don’t need to spend $6,000 on tutors or $3,500 on some kind of assessment.

Is “liked” too much to ask?

Our anxieties—our feelings of inadequacy—are loud when we’re reading those progress reports.

We’re reading between the lines, scanning for signs that our child may have, somewhere in there, actually enjoyed their year. That they felt valued and seen and liked.

Is liked too much to ask? Maybe just not disliked? Maybe they didn’t feel like a burden.

I feel like a burden.

Trying to be the “team player” parent

I feel envious of parents of non-disabled students because it must be so easy to just pack their lunch every day, send them off, and know their kid is going to have a good day.

Those parents aren’t sitting at 8 p.m. trying to carefully word an advocacy email to the teacher—one that’s supportive, one that doesn’t undermine the teacher’s efforts, one that begins with a demonstration of understanding: that your kid is facing systemic failures, not the fault of any individual teacher.

Because you’re a team player parent. You don’t want to get shut out. You don’t want to be seen as a “problem parent.”

I am tired of proving myself to you

Guess what though? Some days, I am tired of shouting “I am on your team!” What I want to say is: “I am on your team—but proving it to you, over and over, takes away from the capacity I have to actually help my child.”

“I am on your team—but proving it to you, over and over, takes away from the capacity I have to actually help my child.”

— Another Parent

It takes so much energy to carefully word those emails. To not send “too many.” To advocate through the correct channels. To provide “gentle” advocacy, “casual” advocacy—so as not to be seen as a burden.

When what I really want to scream is: “You are all failing to see and support my child.”

The trauma of a system not built for our kids

Yes, I am envious of parents of non-disabled students—because they don’t experience the residual trauma of working within a system that isn’t actually designed to support their child.

Instead, I am sitting here, after scouring the comments and reflections for signs that my kid learned something. That they weren’t too much of a burden. I am holding a letter for our pediatrician that carefully lists all of his deficits.

A letter meant to help me advocate.

But instead, I’m sitting here with hot tears on my cheeks because it reads like a list of failures. A list of things to overcome.

This is why parents pull their kids

I am carrying the weight of knowing I have two months to try and make med adjustments, find a way to pay for a tutor and occupational therapy—with money I don’t actually have—so that my kid and I can go into his fifth year of public school without constantly being reminded that we are burdens on a stretched system.

It is so hard to summon the energy to keep going.

I know this is why parents pull their kids. I don’t have that option.

I want to feel proficient too

I know we should be celebrating all the effort it took to advocate and support and survive this year. “Hey, let’s go for ice cream and celebrate how we made it through, kid!”

But I am going into my twelfth year as a public school parent of two neurodivergent (ND) kids, and today, it feels really hard not to wish I could stare at multiple “proficients” on their report cards and feel that maybe I, too, am proficient at this parenting thing.

Yes. It must be so easy to have a child who fits neatly into the system.

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Author’s note:
I’ve spent the past year deeply involved in advocacy—trying to improve supports for students, teachers, and staff. I hoped the government would invest in change. But instead, we’re seeing the opposite: public sector unions under attack, meaningful improvements being worn down in bargaining.

I believe we’re entering a time of extreme austerity in public systems. And when resources shrink, the people most often framed as burdens are disabled students and their families. We will be told—sometimes silently, sometimes directly—that there isn’t enough to support our children. That we’re asking too much. That we are the problem.

This is what happens in times of scarcity. They leave us to fight among ourselves.

Eat or be eaten.

Editors note:
We are grateful to this anonymous parent for sharing their story with such honesty and courage. Their words speak to the invisible emotional labour so many families carry at the end of the school year.

If you have a story you’d like to share—about advocacy, exclusion, burnout, or what it means to parent and persist—we welcome contributions from parents, students, and educators. Please get in touch if you’d like to submit.