I Knew the System and How It Worked. Then My Own Child Became Part of It.

For more than 32 years, I have been a member of IEP teams.

I have been there as a special education teacher, working to understand what a child needed and how to help them make progress. I have been there as a school administrator, helping teams build programs, solve problems, and make sure students received the support they needed. I have been there as a Director of Special Education, reviewing, developing, and guiding thousands of IEPs, evaluations, behavior plans, and services.

I knew the process.

I knew the regulations.

I knew the conversations happening around the table.

I knew the questions families asked and the concerns schools carried.

But there is one day - and one memory - that changed everything.

One day, I sat there as the parent.

And suddenly, the child everyone was discussing was mine.

That experience changed the way I saw everything.

Before becoming a parent, I understood the importance of communication, collaboration, and trust because I had spent my career helping others build those things. But when it is your own child sitting at the center of the conversation, the experience becomes deeply personal.

The questions feel different.

The decisions feel heavier.

The uncertainty feels bigger.

You are no longer simply listening to a discussion about educational needs. You are listening to a discussion about your child.

And I learned something that I could never have fully understood until I lived it myself:

Knowing the process does not make you immune to the emotions of being a parent.

I remember sitting across the table from an occupational therapist.

Not just any occupational therapist.

She was someone I knew well. She had worked in my own self-contained classroom with my students. I respected her expertise. I trusted her as a professional. Years later, she would become a friend as our children grew up the same age.

But at that moment, I was not sitting at the table as the Special Education teacher.

I was sitting there as a mother.

And I screamed across the table.

I told her she DID NOT know my child.

I told her she DID NOT know my hopes and she ABSOLUTELY DID NOT know my fears.

And I told her not to tell me that everything was fine when I knew, deep down, that something was not.

That moment has stayed with me for years.

Not because I am proud that I raised my voice.

But because it reminded me of something every parent feels.

When it is your child, your heart gets there before your professional knowledge does.

The truth was, she was not my enemy.

She cared about children.

She cared about my child.

She was trying to help.

But at that moment, I was afraid. I was afraid that something important was being missed. I was afraid that my child’s needs were not being fully understood. I was afraid that the person sitting across from me did not see the whole child that I saw every day.

And that experience changed me.

It changed the way I listened to parents.

It changed the way I interpreted questions.

It changed the way I viewed advocacy.

Because I finally understood something I had spent years telling others:

Parents are not difficult because they ask questions.

Parents ask questions because they love their children.

But my journey as a parent also taught me something else.

Sometimes, the thing we want to protect our children from is the very thing that helps them grow.

I learned that lesson in kindergarten.

When I received the school supply list, I immediately noticed one item: glue.

I knew my child.

I knew that she did not like the feeling of glue on her hands. I knew the texture bothered her. I knew that experience could quickly become overwhelming and could potentially lead to a meltdown.

So I did what many parents do.

I tried to prevent the struggle before it happened.

I told her kindergarten teacher that I would not be sending glue.

I would be sending glue sticks instead.

I explained why.

I explained that this was not about avoiding work. It was about understanding my child and helping her be successful.

Her teacher listened.

And then she calmly told me, “No. You will not bring a glue stick.”

I was surprised.

She explained that she understood my concern, but she also believed my child was capable of learning.

She told me she would put a sponge nearby so my child could wipe her hands if needed. She would support her. She would teach her. She would help her work through the discomfort.

And then something amazing happened.

My child learned to use glue.

She did it.

The experience I wanted so badly to protect her from became an experience that helped her grow.

That lesson has stayed with me.

Because as parents, our instinct is to remove every obstacle, every frustration, every moment of discomfort. That instinct comes from love.

But sometimes success does not come from removing every challenge.

Sometimes success comes from having the right support while facing the challenge.

That kindergarten teacher did not dismiss my concerns.

She did not ignore what I knew about my child.

She respected my love for my child while also seeing possibilities I could not see in that moment.

That is what the best teams do.

They listen.

They understand.

They support.

And sometimes, they gently help us see beyond what we fear.

Over the years, I have learned something important: most parents and educators want the same thing.

They want a child to learn.

They want a child to grow.

They want a child to be successful.

The challenge is that sometimes the path to getting there becomes complicated. Special education has its own language, processes, timelines, and requirements. Parents can feel overwhelmed trying to understand what questions to ask. Educators can feel overwhelmed trying to balance the needs of one student with the responsibilities of an entire classroom and school system.

Somewhere along the way, people who care deeply about children can begin to feel like they are on opposite sides.

But they do not have to be.

A parent who understands the process is not the enemy.

A school team that understands the requirements is not the enemy.

The child is the reason everyone is there.

Always.

That realization is what shaped Same Team.

I created Same Team because I believe parents deserve more than information — they deserve understanding. They deserve tools that help them participate confidently. They deserve expert guidance that explains the process without creating fear or conflict.

I also believe schools deserve families who feel informed, prepared, and ready to work together.

Because when parents and schools have the knowledge they need, conversations change.

Questions become more productive.

Meetings become more focused.

And children benefit.

My career has given me the opportunity to see special education from many perspectives. I have seen the challenges. I have seen the misunderstandings. I have also seen what happens when everyone comes together with a shared commitment to a child.

That is what Same Team represents.

Not parents versus schools.

Not winning an argument.

Not proving who is right.

A team.

Because when everyone is on the same team, students win.