If you need emergency help, call...

Do you ever feel exhausted by the weight and burden of advocating for your children, dear reader?

I'm a veteran.

I've been decoding and naming my son’s needs from his earliest days, but that’s not to say I’m any good at it. Mostly I

advocate without success, an equally frustrating and futile experience.

What would motherhood be like without all this advocacy?

More time, and more energy for family, friends, and career. It's not a choice I can make. I don’t have the luxury of deleting

advocacy from my maternal position description. I spend my weekends reading about the Disability Discrimination Act

1992, and the Disability Standards for Education 2005.

How do I pare back my expectations for my son’s education, inclusion, and access at school?

My ambition for my son is not unlike that of other parents, yet in this school, he will continue to experience failure in almost

every class and struggle to reach his academic potential.

It is a heartbreaking cycle of striving with exhausted hope and helpless failure: mine and his.

After a recent meeting at his school, I wonder if I am asking too much of these educators and learning diversity leaders.

How will we survive this educational system for another five years? I went prepared for this meeting. Another weekend

bites the dust. I consulted the relevant documents, read his Individual Learning Plan ready to substantiate his request for

extra time, and teacher’s aide assistance with assessments. I was ready to praise the teacher’s efforts, no matter how

small.

Is this all too much to ask?

These things would help my teen show what he knows with a chance to reveal his competence rather than stifling his

education, self-esteem, and self-respect, and limit his pathways to a life in the world of paid employment.

‘We’re keen to work together with you to support our son’ I say, always striving for collaboration.

'He's doing so well; he doesn't need any help from the teacher’s aide,' the Director of Learning Diversity purrs, scribing the

notes across the page as she goes. Yet at home, I see the signs of strain and shame of failing lesson after lesson, day

after day. At home, I see the messy malaise fuelled by the exhaustion of endlessly masking. Everything about going and

being at school is hard for him. Knowing where to be and when. Decoding the social nuances and dodging the bullies.

Getting to know all the teachers and their unique expectations. A different teacher for every subject.

Arms crossed, these professionals greet my request for reasonable accommodations with annoyance, as if I’m asking for

the moon, coated in a double layer of dark and delicious chocolate. The tone of the meeting is chilly like the wind blowing

against the windows. It was the kind of school meeting that leaves you feeling disorientated and distressed, by the

willingness of these professionals to dismiss and deny my son's disabilities and his rights.

If my advocacy made a difference, perhaps I would feel better about it, and more willing to persevere. But what is the

alternative?

Accept the innate discrimination and ableism imposed by others?

Accept that my son won’t have the support to reveal his knowledge and skills.

Accept that my son won't be able to reach his academic and likely employment potential.

Accept that my son will live a life stifled and diminished more by the barriers imposed by others than his disabilities?

These are all painful and real possibilities.

So, what now? I hear you ask, dear reader.

I am deflated. Like my son, I am worn down and disengaged. I am not equipped with enough energy to continue to

advocate in such a hostile environment. A blunt hopelessness swirls around me like a dense fog. I gaze through the

window, aching for respite. The sun hides coyly behind the clouds. There is no hopeful wintry warmth to be found in its

wake today.

I breathe into the pain of this exhausting moment, the fatigue, the discrimination, and the fear.

Long, lazy inhalations. Pause. Gentle sigh on exhalation.

I pause and ponder the awe of the dancing wren outside, calling my attention.

I exhale, feeling the air tickle my vocal folds on the way out, and realise I will not tire of helping my son. I cannot give up

on striving to ensure his competence is revealed.

My mind wonders. I need solace and community to fully understand the breadth of the ableism and discrimination that so

many of our children experience at school.

It’s time to ask for help.

I rouse the energy for one last conversation. I reach for the phone and tell the warm voice that answers the hotline, I'm

calling because we need help securing my son’s right to an education. I’ve called the Association for Children with

Disabilities where I find a kind and insightful supporter, an advocate ready to listen, and poised to help.

Advocacy is never empty. It is purposeful, and our children depend on us to keep naming their needs and rights. We need

to ask for help so we as weary veterans of advocacy can fill our tank with support.

We need to keep going. Always.

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