When the School Doors Close: A Neurodivergent Parent’s Journey Through Rejection, Resilience, and Advocacy

When the Cliff Disappears Beneath You

The day I felt like I was bleeding just to bleed

Have you ever felt like you’re bleeding just for the sake of bleeding?

Like every step, every mile you’ve trudged… every cliff you’ve scaled, every sleepless night you’ve sacrificed — when the peak is finally in sight — it just crumbles. And suddenly, you’re staring down another hundred miles and a thousand new cliffs.

That’s what today felt like.

I woke up with quiet prayers in my heart and hope clutched in my hands. After twelve months of fighting, planning, and preparing — today was decision day. The schools I’d worked so hard to get my daughter into were sending out their letters.

8:15 a.m. — Nothing.

8:30 a.m. — Still nothing.

8:34 a.m. — A mom friend texts:

“SO? Did she get in?”

8:36 a.m. — Me: “Nothing yet. I’m nervous.”

8:43 a.m. — Email from School #1 (our backup):“We greatly appreciate your interest… After thoughtful consideration, the admissions committee has determined that we are unable to offer Bella enrollment for the 2025–2026 school year.”

I held my breath and logged into the app, thinking:It’s okay, that was our second choice. Maybe this is a sign. Maybe our first choice is where she truly belongs…

8:53 a.m. — Decision letter from First Choice:“Thank you for the interest you have expressed… The Admissions Committee has given careful consideration… Regretfully, we must deny her admission this year.”

8:54 a.m.My heart sank. My chest tightened. And a tidal wave of thoughts hit all at once:

“Do I tell her now? What do I say?”

“She’s going to be devastated. I’m devastated.”

“Do I plead? Apply somewhere else? What about financial aid, transcripts, testing?”

“Was it the scores? The diagnoses? The request for aid?”

“Was it the dyslexia? The SPD? The fact that she’s neurodivergent?”“WHY?! We did everything they asked. Extra tutoring. More evaluations. More therapy. Everyone said she was doing amazing. So how?”

The truth is — I’m not just applying to schools hoping for smaller class sizes and elite curriculums. I’m applying because this is survival. This is everything.

My daughter is neurodivergent — in beautiful, incredible, challenging ways.And because I am too, and because I had the right support when I was young — I know exactly how critical the right environment is. I saw it in her at nine months old. I’ve fought for seven years to get her what she needs — diagnoses, therapies, interventions, schools — mostly not covered by insurance. Nearly $600,000 later, here we are.

So close to mainstreaming. So close to exhaling.

And today felt like the wind got knocked out of me.

We’ve come so far. But this next step — this next school — is pivotal. It’s the final bridge to the life she deserves.

Yes, we’ve looked into public options. Yes, we submitted all the paperwork, testing, applications. Yes, I’ve called and emailed and shown up in person. Two years later: no response. No action. Nothing.

So as any strategist would do — I pivoted. I took it at face value and moved forward. Because time is where opportunity lives. And the longer I wait, the more it slips away.

Today I feel like I can almost taste the freedom of that final exhale. But I’m not there yet. This is the last leg of the race — and my track coach’s voice still echoes in my mind:

“You don’t slow down on the final stretch. Even if you’re ahead — that’s when you push harder. Leave it all on the track.”

I will not give up. I will not fail her.

But I’d be lying if I said this morning didn’t shake me.I asked myself:Am I bleeding just to bleed? Is this all for nothing?Because today, it felt like that.

And now we’re back to the drawing board.

What’s next?

How fast can I move?

How much will this cost?

How do I make this work — again?

Because here’s the truth:Being the parent of a neurodivergent child doesn’t care about your class, your status, your resume, or your grit. It will test everything. The road is long, uncertain, and financially brutal — even for those with resources. I’ve been fortunate in my career. But I don’t own a home. I don’t have fancy vacations or designer things to show for the income I’ve earned.

What I do have?

A daughter who is bright. Resilient. Joyful. Inquisitive.She is everything.

And I will never let her feel like she’s less than, not smart enough, or not enough — because she is more than enough.

Today just wasn’t our day.

Tomorrow? That’s another story.The next steps are more research, more waiting, more trying. That’s the path. That’s the truth.

And if you’re walking this same road — I see you. I feel you.

Even the strongest of us break sometimes. Even the most resilient cry in the car or scream into the void.

And that’s okay.

Feel it. Be mad. Be heartbroken. Be real.

But then… get back up. Try again.Because your child is worth it. And so are you.

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If this post resonated, you’re not alone.

At Chloe Jasmine Living, we believe in telling the unfiltered truth of parenting neurodivergent children — the sacred, the scary, the lonely, the luminous.

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