For the Underdog, Always

I have always been a little hyperactive.

Okay, maybe more than a little.

I was the kid who was curious about everything, asked a million questions, had a lot to say, and wasn't particularly interested in sitting quietly when there was something more interesting to investigate.

Some things haven't changed.

I was also always for the underdog.

If someone was being left out, underestimated, misunderstood, or treated unfairly, that was probably the person I wanted to sit beside. It didn't really matter if taking their side was the popular thing to do.

In fact, sometimes that made me want to do it even more.

Looking back, I think special education found me long before I realized I was looking for it.

I Went to Alabama With Sunshine and Rainbows

When I arrived at The University of Alabama, I had a very simple—and incredibly naïve—plan.

I was going to become a special education teacher and teach children with Down syndrome.

My inspiration was a family friend named Joey, who had Down syndrome, and I adored him. In my young, sunshine-and-rainbows view of special education, I imagined a classroom filled with children just like Joey.

I had absolutely no idea what I was getting into.

And thank goodness.

Over the span of my career, I was blessed to teach all ages and grades, from 3-21, and somewhere along the way, the students I thought I was going to teach became some of my greatest teachers.

They taught me that progress doesn't always look the way a textbook says it should.

They taught me to celebrate accomplishments other people might overlook.

They taught me that behavior is communication, independence looks different for every person, and inclusion means much more than simply being present in the same room.

Most importantly, they taught me never to confuse disability with inability.

Then Special Education Became Personal

Along the way, I became the mother of two beautiful, amazing daughters. They were—and still are—the light of my life. They were everything I had hoped for, everything I had prayed for, and more.

What I never expected was that they would be born with a genetic disorder—something no parent plans for, prepares for, or ever imagines will be part of their story.

Suddenly, hospitals, specialists, procedures, testing, waiting rooms, surgeries, questions, and uncertainty became part of our family's life.

What came next changed my life and my career in the most unexpected, challenging, and beautiful way - and transformed the mother and educator I am today.

My oldest child was diagnosed with Autism at age three.

I knew special education. I knew evaluations. I knew services. I knew the terminology.

But knowing all of that doesn’t change what it feels like when the child everyone is talking about is your child. I had spent years sitting across the table from parents, helping them navigate the process and understand what their child needed. Now, I was sitting on the other side of the table.

And suddenly, everything I had told my parents felt different. I wasn’t just talking about someone else’s child anymore. I was talking about mine. And that changed everything.

That little three-year-old eventually learned to navigate a world that wasn't always designed for the way she experienced it.

And she didn't just navigate it.

She thrived.

She attended an SEC university, thrived in Greek life, and by age 24 had earned an undergraduate degree and two master's degrees. Today, she is an expert in behavior who spends her career changing the lives of children and families.

My other daughter taught me an entirely different lesson.

She developed scoliosis and endured three major back surgeries.

I wanted to put her in a bubble.

A really good bubble.

One that would protect her from falls and injuries and pain and every possible thing a mother can imagine at 2:00 in the morning. And still to this day, does.

She burst it.

Thank goodness she did.

She refused to let my fears determine the size of her life. Today, she is thriving in a major role in our nation's capital.

Together, my daughters taught me one of the most important lessons of my life:

Sometimes our fear of what might happen keeps a child from discovering what could happen.

As parents, we can do that because we love them.

As educators, we can do it because we want to protect them.

But our job isn't to build the bubble.

Our job is to give children the skills, support, opportunities, and confidence they need to burst it themselves.

I've Lived on Both Sides of the IEP and 504 Table

My career has now spanned more than three decades.

I've been the teacher.

I've been the administrator.

I've been responsible for programs, services, compliance, instruction, behavior, difficult decisions, and systems serving thousands of children.

I also have the incredible privilege of serving as an adjunct professor at The University of Alabama—the very place where that sunshine-and-rainbows special education student began this journey.

Talk about coming full circle.

Roll Tide forever.

But I've also been the mom.

And those experiences have given me something I couldn't have earned through another degree.

I can authentically see an IEP and 504 team through two lenses.

I understand the school lens—the law, data, instruction, evaluation, behavior, services, resources, implementation, and the responsibility to provide an appropriate education.

And I understand the parent's lens—the fear, hope, questions, uncertainty, protectiveness, and overwhelming love behind the words, "But this is my child."

Neither lens is wrong.

And I don't believe we should have to choose between them.

My professional expertise allows me to understand the system.

My experience as a mother allows me to understand the heart behind the questions.

My life's work has taught me how to blend the two.

And That's Why We Founded Same Team

Over time, I became increasingly bothered by the "us versus them" mentality that can surround special education.

Parents sometimes enter an IEP meeting afraid the school isn't going to listen.

Schools sometimes enter the same meeting afraid the parent—or advocate—is coming to fight.

Everyone gets defensive.

Everyone prepares their position.

And sitting somewhere in the middle of all of that is a child.

I believe we can do better.

That's why we founded Same Team.

I believe parents deserve accurate, understandable information about special education so they can meaningfully participate in decisions about their children.

But I believe something else just as strongly:

Schools need informed parents.

A parent who understands their rights is not a threat to the school team.

A school team that understands its responsibilities is not a threat to parents.

Knowledge should bring the team together—not drive it apart.

An advocate shouldn't automatically mean there's about to be a battle.

Different perspectives aren't a problem.

They're exactly why we have a team.

The parent knows the child.

The educators know instruction.

The specialists bring their expertise.

The data gives us evidence.

The law provides the framework.

And whenever possible, the student brings the most important perspective of all—their own.

We need each other.

Nobody Needs to "Win" an IEP Meeting

I believe this deeply:

The goal isn't for the parent to win.

It isn't for the school to win.

It isn't to see who knows more acronyms, regulations, or case law.

The goal is to walk out of that room with a better plan for a child than the one we had when we walked in.

Sometimes the school needs to listen differently.

Sometimes a parent needs better information.

Sometimes someone needs to ask a harder question.

Sometimes the data tells us something none of us expected.

And sometimes we need the courage to say:

"We got this wrong. Let's fix it."

That's not failure.

That's what a good team does.

Same Team Isn't Just a Name

It's what I believe special education should be.

Not parent versus school.
Not advocate versus educator.
Not us versus them.

One team.

One purpose.

The student.

Parents deserve knowledge.

Educators deserve partnership.

Children deserve high expectations.

And nobody should have to navigate special education feeling afraid of the people sitting on the other side of the table.

Because there shouldn't be another side.

For the Underdog. Always.

When I look back now, the pieces of my life that once seemed completely separate don't seem separate at all.

Joey.

The hyperactive, curious kid who always rooted for the underdog.

The sunshine-and-rainbows student at Alabama.

Teaching children ages 3 through 21.

More than three decades in special education.

My two daughters, who taught me more about disability, courage, independence, advocacy, and possibility than any textbook ever could.

The University of Alabama, where my career began and where I still have the privilege of helping prepare the next generation of educators.

And Same Team.

It all led me here.

I'm still curious.

Still hyperactive.

Still asking a million questions.

Still willing to take the unpopular position when I believe it's the right one.

Still rooting for the child other people don't quite understand.

Still reminding parents that they deserve to understand what's happening.

Still reminding educators that an informed parent can be one of their greatest partners.

Still believing that disagreement doesn't have to mean battle.

And still believing that we have absolutely no idea what a child may become if we give them the right support—and then get out of the way.

I started this journey because I wanted a classroom full of children like Joey.

I didn't get that.

I got something much bigger.

I got a lifetime of children and families who changed me.

And after all these years, I still believe what that young woman at Alabama believed at the very beginning:

Every child deserves someone in their corner who refuses to put a ceiling on what their life can become.

For the underdog.

For the family.

For the educator trying to get it right.

But most of all, for the child.

Always.

Same Team. One team. One purpose. Your child.