In the field of education, particularly within early childhood and special education, integrity is everything. The truth is, many schools and agencies claim to be inclusive, but their actions often don’t align with their words. Recently, I was faced with this stark reality at a preschool that billed itself as an inclusive space. However, when the opportunity arose to truly support a child’s integration into the classroom, the preschool chose to isolate the child instead. This practice, though masked as inclusion, is dangerous, especially for children with disabilities or special needs. It’s a hollow form of inclusion—one that prioritizes appearance over the true work of belonging.
I was contacted by another provider to support a child attending this preschool. They asked me to provide special instruction, which should have included supporting the child stay integrated in the classroom. As soon as I took the case, it became clear that the preschool wasn’t truly interested in supporting the child’s participation in the group. Instead, they pushed for the child to be isolated and wanted me to be the one to actively facilitate that isolation by providing therapy separately, away from the classroom and in another part of the building.
Here’s where integrity comes into play. I raised concerns about this approach and refused to participate in the seclusion of the child. I reached out multiple times to offer resources, including research articles, online resources, and training for their staff, to help them better support all children in their program. But my concerns were met with silence. I was eventually removed from the case altogether. This is how gatekeeping operates in our systems. It’s not always overt—it’s more subtle. Children with special needs, neurodivergent children, and others who don’t fit the “ideal” mold are often pushed out, excluded, or not given equal access to opportunities. This type of behavior isn’t just an isolated incident. It’s a reflection of a larger pattern that exists in many of our systems.
The reality is that these actions come at a cost. When you stand for inclusion and challenge the status quo, as I did, it often leads to the same treatment the child faces-being pushed out, excluded, and denied access within your community. In my case, this led to being effectively excluded from the very networks I’ve worked hard to build. I’ve had to face the fallout of speaking up for what’s right, and it has been both isolating and discouraging. This behavior—of pretending to be inclusive while excluding others—doesn’t just hurt the child; it hurts everyone involved. It undermines trust, perpetuates exclusion, and prevents real progress. It creates a culture where people are punished for doing the right thing, and silence is rewarded.
What’s worse is that this type of gatekeeping isn’t confined to one preschool or one service coordinator. It happens across many systems—schools, agencies, and professional networks that claim to provide access and inclusion, but don’t back up their claims with real actions. Even our 4410 agencies, which are supposed to serve our youngest children with special needs, often engage in this behavior. They handpick center-based classrooms for the “ideal” children, leaving behind long waitlists of “less desirable” candidates. This is deeply problematic because it perpetuates a culture of exclusion, where only certain children are given access to the resources and services they need while others are left behind. When this happens, the very system designed to support all children fails to do so for the most vulnerable.
As a disabled professional, the refusal to work with me in this situation is not just disappointing—it’s deeply troubling. It exposes a troubling and ingrained bias: that professionals like myself, who are disabled, are somehow less qualified or capable of providing valuable insight and support. This perspective is not only harmful to me but to the children and families who need inclusive services the most. When the systems that claim to support children with disabilities, neurodivergence, and other needs continue to exclude professionals with lived experience and diverse backgrounds, they perpetuate a system that devalues inclusion at its core.
True inclusion isn’t just about checking a box; it’s about doing the difficult, necessary work of making space for everyone to be seen, heard, and respected. It means advocating for children to be integrated into their environments, supporting them to grow alongside their peers, and creating a community where their needs are understood and honored. At Rooted Beginnings, this is the work we’re committed to. We don’t rely on one-size-fits-all solutions. We understand that every child’s journey is unique, and we honor that individuality in every service we provide.
Inclusion isn’t just a buzzword at Rooted Beginnings—it’s a practice grounded in respect, empathy, and unwavering integrity. We do the hard work because we know it’s necessary. We stand up against systems that harm children, families, and professionals. And we create space for those voices that have long been marginalized and silenced.
The work of true inclusion isn’t easy, but it is vital. For every child, for every family, and for the broader community. We will continue to challenge systems that prioritize profit over people, appearances over action, and control over collaboration. The cost of integrity is high, but the cost of silence is even higher. At Rooted Beginnings, we’ll never stop fighting for a more inclusive and equitable world.