The Beginning: A Mother’s Fight for Help
When Elijah turned two, his world was already a little different from most kids his age. His words came slowly, and his pediatrician referred us to speech therapy. Soon after, occupational therapy became involved because his therapists also noticed behavioral and sensory challenges.
Those sessions became little lifelines. Every new sound, every calmer moment, we celebrated like we’d won the lottery.
But there’s a hard truth no one tells you when you start: Early Childhood Intervention (ECI) ends the day after your child turns three. It doesn’t matter if they still need help. It just… stops.
Our options were bleak:
* Pay thousands for private therapy, impossible without insurance.
* Or go through the public school system.
We planned to keep Elijah home and take him in once a week for speech therapy. It wasn’t perfect, but it was what we could manage.
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The Pressure
That’s when the push began.
“If you really want what’s best for him…”
“He needs early intervention and structure.”
“Keeping him home is selfish.”
They made it sound like school was a magic cure. They promised one-on-one speech therapy. Help with potty training. Progress in social skills. They said he’d be speaking in short sentences by the end of May.
I remember leaving that meeting with a knot in my stomach. My gut told me this wasn’t right. But my husband believed them. Our family repeated their talking points.
I told myself maybe I was just scared to let go.
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Trusting Strangers with My Boy
I made the hardest choice of my life, to trust strangers with my sweet angel boy.
My boy, who couldn’t tell me if he was sad or scared.
My boy, whose smile lit up every room.
I put him on that bus and prayed they’d protect his light.
From the start, the cracks showed. He missed the first few days with a cold. When he returned, I wasn’t allowed to walk him to class, because it wasn’t “the first day” anymore.
By the end of the first month, they’d stopped potty training him. Stopped giving him the promised one-on-one therapy. Group therapy replaced it, and in that setting, Elijah simply disappeared into the background.
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Regression, Not Progress
He didn’t improve. He went backwards.
When I raised concerns, I was told:
“It’s normal.”
“He’s adjusting.”
They said he was happy in class, even though he got off the bus every day upset, drained, and on the verge of tears.
By summer, we saw his spark return. Away from school, he smiled more. He played more. We realized sending him back was not an option.
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Another District, More Red Tape
We reached out to another district, desperate for help. Instead, we were met with stall after stall:
* “Call back later.”
* “We’ll need to review.”
They dragged their feet until every deadline for funding or placement had passed.
Our choices narrowed to:
1. Send him back to the school that failed him.
2. Homeschool on our own, with no financial help.
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The Bigger Problem
This isn’t just about Elijah.
In Amarillo ISD, and across the country, kids with special needs are treated as problems to be managed, not children to be nurtured.
Teachers aren’t to blame. They’re drowning too, underpaid, overworked, and managing too many kids with too few resources.
This year, AISD hired a new superintendent for $300,000 a year, plus relocation costs. Meanwhile, classrooms are overcrowded, budgets are “too tight” to take on new kids, and red tape keeps kids like Elijah out.
This is how kids are denied before they even start.
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Our Reality Now
We homeschool. We cobble together therapies. We work harder than we ever have, not because we’re “difficult,” but because Elijah deserves more than to be another statistic.
I’m telling this story because Elijah isn’t alone. Thousands of kids are pressured into programs that fail them, while parents are told to be quiet and “trust the experts.”
We need a system that fights for these kids, not one that abandons them.
Until we have that, I will continue to speak out.
I will not be quiet.
And I will not let Elijah be forgotten.
Because no child should be denied before day one.
Denied Before Day One
They refused to listen behind closed doors. So we opened a door for everyone else.
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We are exhausted.
My husband and I have spent months trying to get our autistic son the education he deserves.
What we’ve been met with?
Rejection. Red tape. Silence. And now, nowhere left to turn.
Our son is four.
He’s non-verbal.
He has moderate to severe autism, ADHD, sensory processing disorder, and a language processing disorder.
He elopes. He requires close monitoring—for his safety.He is not “a challenge.” He is a child.
And the systems that are supposed to support him have already failed him.
It started with the classroom.
There were promises: parent training’s, consistent support, clear communication.
We got none of that.No training’s.
No collaboration.
Just surface-level responses like:“He had a good day.”
“He had a rough day.”
“He’s doing fine.”Meanwhile, at home, we were drowning.
Trying to figure out why he wasn’t making progress.
Why everything felt stuck.
Wondering if we were the problem.We weren’t.
Behind the scenes, without telling us—they stopped potty training.
They stopped helping him engage.
They strapped him into a high chair every day, gave up on trying, and told us nothing.They let us carry the guilt for their neglect.
We tried to find a better option.
We reached out to another district—one known for stronger special education programs.
We followed every direction, submitted all documentation, asked for guidance on placement.And what did we get?
Weeks of waiting.
Unanswered emails.
Conflicting responses.
No clear direction.
Just delay after delay after delay.Now school starts in days.
And because they dragged their feet and never gave a real answer, we’re out of time.Our only option now?
Send our son back to the same classroom that failed him in the first place.
And we won’t do it.
We can’t knowingly put him back into a place where his needs were ignored.
Our son is not broken.
He is not disposable.
He is not “too much.”He is autistic. He is disabled. He is bright. He is loved.
And he deserves a school that gives a damn.
If you’ve ever been pushed aside, blamed, or punished for advocating for your disabled child—
If you’ve ever sat in silence while a system ignored your kid—I want to hear your story.
You are not alone.
We were #DeniedBeforeDayOne—and we’re done staying quiet.
We’re not just sharing our story.
We’re building a space for every story like this—because ours isn’t the only one.You can follow along, submit your story, and learn more at:
DeniedBeforeDayOne.blogThey refused to listen behind closed doors. So we opened a door for everyone else.
Denied Before Day One 