When Fighting for My Child's Education Almost Cost Me My Life
Author: Laura E. Belarbi
Published: 2025/08/17
Publication Type: Submitted Article
Category Topic: Blogs / Writings / Stories - Academic Publications
Page Content: Synopsis - Introduction - Main - Insights, Updates
Synopsis: This article presents a deeply personal and alarming account of systemic failures in disability education advocacy, where a mother's attempts to secure appropriate educational services for her autistic six-year-old daughter led to institutional retaliation, conflicts of interest between Regional Centers and school districts, and ultimately a mental health crisis that resulted in a suicide attempt. The piece exposes how families with disabilities face not only educational barriers but also language discrimination, geographic service limitations, and vindictive responses from the very agencies meant to protect vulnerable children, making it particularly relevant for parents of disabled children, disability rights advocates, and policymakers seeking to understand the human cost of inadequate special education systems - Disabled World (DW).
Introduction
This article is part of an ongoing conversation about disability rights, education, and the systemic barriers families face when advocating for their children.
I never imagined that advocating for my child's right to an education could bring me to the edge of my survival. But that is precisely what happened.
Main Content
My daughter, Layel, is six years old. She is autistic, has ADHD, and, like every child, deserves the opportunity to learn and thrive. From the moment she entered school, I asked for help through an Individualized Education Program (IEP). Instead of support, I was met with denial, delays, and gaslighting. Teachers, administrators, and attorneys—the very people who should have stood with us, dismissed my concerns and left me questioning my judgment as a mother.
Systems That Failed Us
It wasn't just the school district that failed us. The Regional Center, which is supposed to help families access disability services, also turned its back. My requests for help were downplayed, delayed, or outright denied. At times, I felt punished for speaking up—especially after I disclosed my autism diagnosis. When I asked for legal assistance to navigate special education, I was told no, because of personal ties between leadership and the school district.
Even basic accommodations were ignored. My husband, who has limited English, was repeatedly denied translation support. This left him excluded from critical conversations about our daughter's future and placed an even heavier burden on me to carry the fight alone. Families should not be penalized for language barriers, yet we were treated as though our needs were an inconvenience.
The systems that exist to protect children with disabilities and their families instead became another source of harm.
Conflict of Interest and Retaliation
Having worked at a Regional Center, I witnessed the complexities of conflicts of interest. Vendors agencies funded by the Regional Center also contracted with school districts. Rather than focusing on the children's needs, these vendors sometimes navigated both systems, resulting in delays and denials of essential services. It underscored the importance of advocating for what truly matters: the well-being of our children.
When I brought up my concerns, I genuinely hoped that leadership would adhere to the Regional Center's core values of putting clients first. However, I felt disappointed to see a different reality. There seemed to be a tendency to make excuses for inconsistencies, with friends and vendors often prioritized over those in need. It was disheartening to witness the voices of dedicated staff who truly wanted to help being overlooked. This has ultimately led to a concerning situation where our most vulnerable children are not receiving the essential support they need during these critical early stages of their development. There was often a coordinated effort to ensure the district was never pushed to provide services. This frequently resulted in conflicts of interest, whereby personal relationships of those in positions of power were able to profit from the limited services children received through the school district. Staff within the regional center are often informed they should not "advocate hard" and are usually warned that if they do, it would result in personal consequences to their children, who need district services.
When I formally raised these issues in a whistleblower complaint, I did not receive the accountability I sought. Instead, my family became a target of retaliation. The very vendors and systems I criticized transformed what should have been a support system into an additional barrier. Those in positions of power to influence my child's education misused their authority, potentially to obscure their failures. The individuals who evaluated my child for regional center eligibility expressed differing opinions when it came time to provide my child with an IEP. My inquiries concerning the facts and evidence were dismissed and characterized as harassment. This situation highlights a significant challenge for autistic individuals, as our communication methods are frequently misinterpreted, perceived as character flaws, and used to undermine us. We must continue to advocate for understanding and equity in educational settings.
The Human Cost
As a mother and as an autistic woman myself, I tried to push forward, but every meeting felt like a battle. Every unanswered email deepened my isolation. Instead of being treated as a parent advocating for my child, I was cast as a "problem" to be silenced. My husband, without proper translation, was sidelined. We were stripped of our dignity at every turn.
The weight of my struggles became overwhelming. As the issues between the two agencies escalated, I found myself sinking deeper into despair and developing suicidal thoughts. There were moments when I would sit parked by the open water, wrestling with the haunting belief that my child might be better off without me. For months, these heartbreaking thoughts occupied my mind. At my lowest point, I seriously considered that my daughter would be better off if I were not in her life, and I attempted to end my life. While I survived, the trauma from those experiences continues to linger. I now cope with PTSD, and it has profoundly impacted my trust in the systems that are meant to support us. I share this not just to express my pain, but to highlight the importance of understanding and compassion for those who find themselves in similar struggles.
Location Is Not an Excuse
One of the most painful excuses I hear repeatedly is that my daughter is not entitled to the services she needs because we live in a small community. Agencies have told me that our location justifies offering less support, fewer specialists, or limited programming. Yet, disability rights transcend zip codes.
Our children deserve more, regardless of where they were born, where their families live, or their country of origin. Location should never dictate service and cannot excuse delaying or denying the help a child needs to thrive, function, and develop the vital skills that will empower them throughout their lives. Every child has the right to flourish—whether they live in a rural town or a bustling city.
A Larger Story
I am sharing my story not just for myself or Layel, but for countless families facing similar challenges. What happened to us is not an isolated incident; it underscores a profound issue where disabled children and their families are silenced, intimidated, and left without adequate support.
Parents should rise above despair and unite in advocating for their children to receive the fair education and services they are rightfully entitled to by law.
A Call for Change
We must illuminate the stark injustices faced by disabled children and their families. It is crucial that school districts, Regional Centers, and all organizations entrusted with the protection of these vulnerable individuals are held fully accountable for their actions. Families like mine deserve not only to be heard but also to receive the support and respect that uphold our dignity. Every child's future should be cherished, and no parent's life should ever be regarded as disposable or insignificant. Together, we can advocate for a world where every child's potential is recognized and nurtured.
What Needs to Happen — And How You Can Help
This issue extends beyond a single family. Real change will only occur when we unite—parents, advocates, educators, and allies—to demand it. Here's where we begin:
End Conflicts of Interest: Regional Centers and school districts should not share vendors who profit from delaying and denying services within the district. Independent oversight is needed to ensure decisions are made in the best interest of children, not institutions.
Protect Whistleblowers: Families and staff who speak up need strong protections against retaliation. Silence only helps those abusing the system.
Guarantee Advocacy Access: Every family deserves legal and advocacy support, including translation services, so no parent is left to fight alone.
Enforce Accountability: Vendors and agencies that retaliate must face consequences—loss of contracts, funding, and credibility.
Eliminate Geographic Discrimination: Location must never be used as an excuse to limit services. Children in rural areas deserve the same quality of support and early intervention as those in urban centers.
To every parent reading this: your voice matters. Share your story. Stand with other families. Demand better.
And to every ally, educators, advocates, policymakers, listen to us. Believe us. Act with us.
Because until these changes are made, children like my daughter will continue to be denied the future they deserve.
About the Author
Laura Belarbi is an autistic mom, writer, and advocate. She grew up with learning disabilities and an IEP, experiences that shaped her deep understanding of how schools and systems impact children. Now, she's raising her daughter, Layel, who is also autistic, alongside her husband, who comes from North Africa and speaks Arabic as his first language. Together, they navigate life in a blended culture of North African and American traditions while pushing for better support, inclusion, and dignity for disabled children and families. Laura writes to share her family's story, build understanding, and help ensure that no child is ever denied the chance to thrive.