A young boy smiles brightly while standing at the beach, wearing a navy blue rash guard with a colorful sun and wave design that reads “Let’s Ride.” The ocean waves and blue sky stretch out behind him on a sunny day.

It’s been almost five years since I last shared anything here.

Not because the stories stopped—but because sometimes the moments are so full, so complex, so consuming, that they’re hard to shape into words. And, if I’m being honest, I’ve wrestled with whether or not this space is something I should keep up at all.

Because while these experiences are deeply personal to our family, they are also not solely mine. I never want to center myself in my children’s stories. But the truth is—they are the center of mine. And writing has always been the way I process, the way I untangle the ache and find meaning in the mess.

I wrote Square Peg, Meet Round Hole years ago about my oldest son, Julian. He was around the same age then that his younger brother, Abrian, is now. I didn’t expect to write a companion piece—but here we are.

Different child. Same ache. Same love.

Abrian had his school talent show rehearsal yesterday. He’s been working so hard on his song—one his older brother sang with just as much heart and spirit only a month ago during his junior high school musical. He was dressed up in the outfit he picked himself (one to mirror Julian’s), doing the moves he planned with care. It was a big deal for him. It was brave. It was adorable.

But as I watched from the floor, I noticed something that flattened my smile. A few kids laughing. A gesture that looked like it was mimicking his excited hand flap stim. Maybe it wasn’t about him? Maybe it was the perceived silliness of the song. Maybe they were talking about something else. Maybe they didn’t realize the optics of standing front and center laughing while someone was putting on a brave face only a couple of feet away. Maybe? Maybe. I’m telling myself that. I want to believe that. But the truth is, I saw it with my own eyes and have watched the playback on video more than a dozen times, and each time I feel that familiar drop in my stomach.

And then there was music class.

I got a message saying Abrian had been sent to the office again. For handing out headphones when he wasn’t supposed to. For not sitting when asked. For “wandering too far” during class. The music teacher mentioned a pattern of “defiance” that has been escalating over the past several weeks.

But what really stopped me in my tracks was the realization that this teacher didn’t even know Abrian had an IEP. Didn’t realize he was navigating the world with his unique hurdles, with specific supports and accommodations he’s entitled to. And this is with a mere 30ish days left in the school year.

I don’t know what to feel about that. Part of me is proud of Abrian—because I suppose that means he’s been doing his very best to hold it together in a setting that isn’t built for him. But the other part of me? The bigger part? I’m so deeply frustrated by a system that continues to fail kids like mine. A system that is reactive instead of proactive. That places neurodivergent kids into overstimulating, crowded classrooms—like our specialist classes that often have 40+ students—with few (or zero) supports and expects them to function typically.

And when they don’t? When the noise and movement and unpredictability becomes too much? The response is discipline, not support.

When Abrian gets overstimulated, his body has a hard time regulating. He hyperfocuses. He locks into whatever he’s doing—handing out headphones, humming a tune, wandering across the room—and it’s like this invisible shield goes up. He stops hearing requests. He stops responding. It’s not defiance. It’s dysregulation.

And we ask him to fit in, to keep up, to sit still, to listen, to comply—without giving him the environment and tools he needs in order to even the playing field.

It’s not lost on me that the teachers are overwhelmed, too. I can only imagine how hard it is to manage that many kids at once. But I can feel compassion for them and still want more for my child.

Because I know he is trying. Every single day. And once again, I’m reminded: the problem isn’t the peg.