You write the email. You name the problem. You describe, in detail, what your child is experiencing and what they need to be able to participate. You’re respectful, clear, and solution-focused. And then—you wait.
For many families, especially those raising disabled or neurodivergent children, this scenario is far too familiar. The moment you speak up—especially about harm, exclusion, or unmet needs—you risk becoming a problem instead of a partner. The response is not always overt hostility. Often, it’s erasure. You’re ghosted.
To be fair, most school staff care deeply about the students they serve. But they are often under intense pressure, stretched thin across multiple crises. In that triage mindset, your child’s needs may be deprioritised—not because they are invisible, but because someone else’s pain is louder, riskier, or more disruptive. That doesn’t make it right. But it does help explain the silence. And it’s exactly why parents must be persistent, precise, and documented in their advocacy.
Document everything
The main thing I’ve been told by every advocate is to document things. It’s kind of nerve-racking because you’re like—document for what? For eventually having to take legal action? Nobody wants it to come to that, but the documentation is critical. And a lot of the time it seems like parents are the only ones documenting anything. By keeping a detailed record of what has happened, you are establishing the official narrative—the version grounded in evidence and experience.
Keep every email you send. Use clear subject lines that escalate with each message—“Urgent: Second Request – [issue],” “Urgent: Third Request – [issue],” and so on. This signals persistence and builds a paper trail. Avoid phone calls unless absolutely necessary; they leave no record. If you must call or talk face-to-face, follow up with an email: “As discussed by phone today…”
Exhausting collaboration
In the Vancouver School District (VSB), the formal appeals process requires you to first exhaust efforts to resolve the issue at the school level. But the policy doesn’t define what exhaust means. It’s all very exhausting! IMHO, a couple of unanswered emails—especially after involving management—should be enough. You should not have to beg for a reply about your child’s safety or access to learning.
If you think there’s still a chance for resolution on the ground, try once more. But don’t let it drift. In my experience, a threat unacted on becomes a permission slip. The longer you tolerate silence, the less responsive your school is likely to be.
“a threat unacted on becomes a permission slip”
Filing an appeal is easier than you might expect. It’s a one-page form. You only need to challenge a single decision. And no, you don’t need to quote policy. You just need to name the harm.
I like this framing: “failure to provide appropriate support and accommodation to create an inclusive and safe environment for my child.” That wording avoids bureaucratic traps—like endless debate over whether an IEP was “technically implemented”—and instead invites a real conversation about what your child needs and why those needs are going unmet.
You’re not asking for perfection. You’re asking for presence. For good faith. For basic responsiveness from the people responsible for your child six hours a day.
That said, filing an appeal—even when it feels futile—can shift the dynamic. In my experience, the appeals process (if you can call it a process) is often unsatisfying and rarely delivers meaningful long-term change. But knowing that you will take formal action—and that this additional layer of bureaucracy will fall onto school staff—can suddenly make collaboration seem more appealing to them. At least for a while.
What’s really going on here?
Part of what makes this process so demoralising is the endless retelling. Parents are expected to recount their child’s story—again and again—to people with unclear authority and inconsistent expertise. Often, those listening default to restating internal policies, as though boilerplate guidance holds more weight than the legal rights of disabled children. The conversations feel performative. Full of platitudes. Empty reassurances. Delays disguised as empathy. The tone is collaborative, but the actions rarely are.
You’re forced to explain—sometimes plead—for the most basic forms of inclusion, while the system responds with repetition, inaction, and quiet deferral. It’s not just exhausting. It’s erasure by design.
After nearly a decade of navigating this system, I’ve come to believe that delay isn’t just a byproduct, but part of the design of the system. Every September, families like mine are forced to start from zero. We ask again. We explain again. We wait again. Those months of delay aren’t accounted for in any budget, but they save districts money. No EA hired. No accommodation delivered. Meanwhile, our children lose time, trust, and often their sense of belonging at school.
When a school ghosts a parent, it isn’t just impolite. It’s institutional harm. And when it happens to families raising children who need the most support, it’s discrimination. So speak up, if you can.
