A mothers voice when their child can not use their own. Standing up against North Kitsap School District Series.
The news that the North Kitsap School District has quietly shut down its Special Education department at Pearson Elementary school, feels like a cruel betrayal to families like mine. As a mother of a son with autism, I have watched him blossom from a three‑year‑old in the start‑preschool program at Wolfle Elementary into a thriving, almost‑high‑schooler thanks to the consistent, compassionate support he receives. The thought of losing that lifeline in elementary school is terrifying how could any child survive without the dedicated services that have become his safety net? This decision shows a shocking disregard for the most vulnerable students and the families who depend on them. We cannot stand by while our children’s futures are jeopardized; we must raise our voices, demand accountability, and fight to keep these essential programs alive. Especially on the heels of St. Micheals taking away the same type of services that these families need.
So when Kaitlyn first heard the news that her daughter’s program was being cut, fear hit her before anything else could form. Not anger, not questions, just terror. As the mother of a nonverbal autistic child, her mind went immediately to regression, emotional distress, and losing the stability that took years to build for her daughter Tessa.
Kaitlyn does not know how to explain to Tessa that she won’t be going back to Pearson. Tessa doesn’t process language the way other children do, but she absorbs energy, change, and emotional tone like a sponge. Kaitlyn never wants her daughter to feel like she did something wrong, like she is being sent away from a place where people finally saw her. The staff at Pearson know Tessa’s signals without her having to speak. They know when she is overstimulated, when she is shutting down, when she is happy. Watching her daughter trust people outside their home for the first time was one of the biggest gifts Kaitlyn has ever received as a mother.
If Tessa could put into words what that school meant to her, Kaitlyn believes she would say, “I feel safe here.” She would say she was seen as a person, not a problem to manage. This year, after years of mostly babble, Tessa started using real words. She became happier, more connected, more independent. Those moments might seem small to someone else, but to Kaitlyn they are everything. They are proof that when you give a child the right environment, they will show you who they are.
Now Kaitlyn spends so much of her energy just fighting logistics. Transportation, transition planning, meetings, advocacy. She is a single mom, and her mother helps her raise Tessa. There are nights when they are both too tired to talk but too worried to sleep. Kaitlyn wishes she could pour that energy into simply enjoying her daughter instead of constantly battling systems. The longer bus ride to the new school scares her because she knows how much sensory overload and exhaustion it will cause Tessa before her day even begins.
If Kaitlyn could whisper one thing to the person who made this decision, she would tell them that these children are not numbers. Their ability to learn depends on stability, routine, and trusted relationships. Decisions like this ripple through every part of their lives. For Tessa, doing more means saying one new word, tolerating a difficult transition, making it through a day without becoming completely dysregulated. Progress for her happens in moments that most people overlook, but those moments are monumental to Kaitlyn’s family.
The hardest goodbye is to the people who helped Tessa feel safe enough to grow. A staff member recently told Kaitlyn that Tessa says hi to her in the halls now. She never used to do that. Those relationships, that community, that sense of being understood without long explanations, it is incredibly hard to lose. And when Tessa has a meltdown at the new school because of sensory overload and Kaitlyn is forty minutes away, she needs the staff to see her daughter as a person, not a problem. Kaitlyn knows Tessa is overwhelmed, not misbehaving. She communicates through behavior because she cannot always use words.
Attending school board meetings, sitting in a plastic chair, speaking about her child to people who have already voted, it feels defeating. Vulnerable. Like pleading for humanity to be seen behind policy decisions that already feel finalized. If Kaitlyn could rewrite the budget, she would prioritize smaller classrooms, more paraeducators, communication supports, and services that directly impact students. She believes families are tired of hearing there is not enough funding while administrative salaries grow.
But even with all of this, Kaitlyn holds onto a fragile hope. The hope that Tessa will continue to grow, that she will find another person who sees her, that she will keep using her words, that they will somehow make it through. Because that is what mothers do. They carry the weight and keep walking forward, even when the ground beneath them has shifted.
The one thing that stuck with me from this interview with Katelyn is, "We have to stop treating special education like numbers on a spreadsheet and start treating these children like the human beings they are." As a mom of a special needs child I 100% couldn't agree more.
