My son was denied access at school—now the system that protects him is being gutted

When my son was in third grade, he had a swimming unit at school. One afternoon, as I unpacked his backpack, I noticed his swimsuit and towel were dry.

“Didn’t you swim today?” I asked.

“I wasn’t allowed to go,” he told me solemnly. “A teacher needs to come with me because I have bad behavior. And today, there wasn’t an extra teacher available.”

His words sent a chill up my spine.

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My son is autistic. He is sweet, gentle, and deeply affectionate. He has encyclopedic knowledge of music and an uncanny ability to remember names, stories, and long stretches of movie dialogue. He has a rich inner world and can immerse himself in imaginative play for hours. Like many autistic people, he can become dysregulated when overwhelmed and may seek sensory input—chewing on objects or asking for tight hugs—to help his body feel calm and safe.

These are not “bad behaviors.” They are human responses to sensory overload.

These are not “bad behaviors.” They are human responses to sensory overload.

So I was shocked—and angry—when he told me he had been excluded.

I immediately contacted the principal, who promised to investigate. We soon learned that a swim instructor had deemed my son a “safety risk,” reporting that he had been “unresponsive to instruction” and had an “outburst” on the pool deck the previous week.

But what the instructor described as an “outburst” was actually stimming—my son slapping his legs to regulate himself in a loud, chaotic environment. What looked like “unresponsiveness” may have been a lack of eye contact, inattention to a non-preferred activity, or the additional processing time he requires. In other words, his autism.

It remains unclear why my son was labeled a safety risk. By that point, he had years of swim lessons under his belt and a solid understanding of basic water safety. More likely, the issue was the instructor’s lack of understanding of autism—or his lack of willingness to accommodate a child who presented as “different.”

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What should have happened–and did

We were fortunate. The principal responded quickly and decisively. In written guidance to staff, he affirmed that my son’s Individualized Education Plan (IEP) guarantees him equal access to school programming. He made clear that my son could not be excluded from swimming simply because additional support wasn’t readily available. He outlined strategies to support my son’s participation—and even offered to accompany the class himself to ensure he was included.

But long after the situation was resolved, it has stayed with me. It serves as a constant reminder of how easily and routinely exclusion can occur. How vulnerable my son is to discrimination.

But long after the situation was resolved, it has stayed with me. It serves as a constant reminder of how easily and routinely exclusion can occur. How vulnerable my son is to discrimination.

I shouldn’t be surprised. Autistic students face many forms of discrimination in schools. Some are denied assistive technology that could help them communicate and learn. Others are excluded from general education classrooms because they are labeled “disruptive.” Many are disciplined for behaviors directly related to their disability—like stimming or reactions to sensory overload, stress, or social demands. At the extreme, students with disabilities—particularly autistic students and students of color—are disproportionately subjected to restraint and seclusion, practices that can be deeply traumatic.

Sometimes, as in our case, these issues can be resolved through conversations with school and district personnel. But often, families must escalate—filing complaints at the state or federal level to ensure their children’s rights are protected.

That’s why what is happening now is so alarming.

What’s at stake

The U.S. Department of Education’s Office for Civil Rights (OCR) is the primary federal agency responsible for enforcing disability rights laws like Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act. It is where families turn when schools deny children equal access to education.

But as part of its effort to dismantle the Department of Education (DOE), the Trump Administration has severely weakened this enforcement capacity. They shuttered seven of the DOE’s 12 regional civil rights offices, fired more than half of its personnel, then forced those staff members to remain on leave when the firings were blocked by the courts. As a result,the agency has been hobbled, unable to effectively investigate allegations of discrimination. A recent Government Accountability Office (GAO) report found that OCR dismissed roughly 90 percent of the 9,000 complaints it received between March and September 2025, raising serious concerns that many cases were never even reviewed.

No parent wants to file a civil rights complaint. We simply want our children to learn, grow, and belong. We want them to be supported in inclusive educational environments that meet their needs.

No parent wants to file a civil rights complaint. We simply want our children to learn, grow, and belong. We want them to be supported in inclusive educational environments that meet their needs.

But knowing there is somewhere to turn—that there is a federal office charged with holding schools and school districts accountable—matters. It allows parents to advocate without feeling entirely alone. It creates the possibility of fairness when local systems fail—and provides recourse for students that were wronged.

Lately, that sense of security has begun to erode. As enforcement weakens, I find myself increasingly anxious—not just for my son, but for the many children whose families may not have the time, knowledge, or resources to fight these battles on their own.

I am just one mother. I cannot ensure my child’s—or any child’s—rights by myself.

And that is precisely the point.

Acceptance is action

April is Autism Acceptance Month—a time to celebrate neurodiversity and promote understanding and inclusion. But acceptance is not just about awareness campaigns or kind words. It rests on something more fundamental: the right of every child to access education, receive appropriate support, and be free from discrimination.

Without enforcement, those rights are only promises on paper.

The Department of Education’s ability to uphold students’ civil rights is what turns those promises into reality. Having a strong, well-functioning OCR is essential to true autism acceptance—for my son, and for millions of children like him.

And this is where all of us—not just policymakers, but parents, caregivers, and community members—have a role to play. We can call our representatives and demand full funding and staffing for the Department of Education’s Office for Civil Rights. We can ask concrete questions in our schools about how autistic students—and all students with disabiities—are included in every activity, how behaviors are understood and supported rather than punished, and whether accommodations in IEPs and 504 plans are being fully honored. And when children are excluded or denied access, we can insist that schools take corrective action—requesting meetings with staff, documenting the problem, and, if necessary, filing complaints to ensure their rights are protected. 

Many parents of autistic children are already taking these steps. But we need a larger army of parents—of autistic and neurotypical children alike—linking arms with us in support. Because autism acceptance is not a slogan—or a celebration that ends at the classroom door. It is a commitment to action.

A commitment to ensuring that no child is left sitting on the sidelines, watching their peers dive in—simply because the adults responsible for their education failed to understand, support, or include them.

Our children are counting on us to do more than accept them. They are counting on us to stand up for their rights; their dignity; and schools that see, support, and include them.

source https://www.mother.ly/uncategorized/autism-discrimination-in-schools/