Fierce Advocacy

The first time you advocate for your child, it rarely feels fierce.

It feels uncomfortable.

It feels like you might be overreacting.

It feels like you might be “that parent.”

You question yourself before you question the system. You assume there must be something you’re missing.

Until the evidence becomes too loud to ignore.

I am often referred to as a strong — or even fierce — advocate. It’s a label I wear proudly, because I know it reflects my willingness to be a strong voice for my children.

But advocacy is not a role most of us imagine stepping into when we picture what parenting will be like.

And yet, I believe every parent who has had to advocate for their child can pinpoint the first moment they truly had to step into that role.

---

For us, it wasn’t one single event. It was a series of moments that slowly revealed how Dawson was being treated every day when we dropped him off at daycare.

As educators, my husband and I made a commitment early on to support teachers. So when our three-year-old began having reported behavioral issues in his daycare classroom, we immediately went into action. We collaborated. We problem-solved. We supported.

I created visual “first-then” boards and behavior charts to help him understand expectations. We implemented consequences at home when behaviors escalated. We maintained constant communication with the center director. We trusted the process.

But the behaviors didn’t stop.

In fact, they escalated.

The first real breaking point came when Dawson began coming home and engaging in self-harm — banging his head against the wall while yelling, “Naughty Dawson! Naughty Dawson!”

The phrase stopped me cold.

“Naughty” was not language we used in our home. At the time, Dawson had just been identified as having speech delays. He struggled to string together multiple intelligible words.

But he could say that phrase.

Clearly. Repeatedly.

The second red flag — and ultimately a saving grace — came through the courage of other adults.

One afternoon at pickup, two teachers quietly asked to speak with me in private. What they shared changed everything. The behaviors being reported to us were not simply Dawson “acting out.” They told us that two specific teachers had been consistently targeting him. Every single day.

Every morning, I had unknowingly been sending him back into an environment that was harming him.

They described incidents from a different perspective — moments when he was screamed at, when his first and middle name were shouted across the room, when he was taunted, when he received consequences even when other children had instigated the situation.

I was stunned.

We had been defending these women. Supporting them. Trying everything in our power to eliminate behaviors that were, in reality, direct reactions to the verbal mistreatment he was experiencing.

I immediately went to the director. Dawson was moved into a different classroom with a new teacher. And almost instantly, everything shifted.

She loved him. She cared for him. His behavior improved.

But then she moved away.

And almost as quickly as her departure approached, the behaviors returned.

We reported concerns. We asked questions. We persisted.

Nothing changed.

At one point, my husband showed up unannounced and sat outside Dawson’s classroom, hoping to observe the environment for himself so that we had our own observations and facts to guide our decisions. The teachers noticed him — and their behavior immediately shifted. That alone told us everything we needed to know.

We felt trapped. Childcare options in our area were limited, and we believed this was our only choice. We kept hoping something would change.

Our final straw came when our youngest son — an infant at the time — had an interaction with the very teacher who had targeted Dawson.

The infant room staff reported to me that while this teacher was holding my baby, she commented on how sweet he was and how she hoped he would “never turn out like his brother.”

I was done.

That night, I wrote our required one-month notice. I made it clear that those women were not to have contact with either of my children during that time, or I would withdraw them immediately and demand a refund.

The next day, my husband requested additional information about the staff entrusted with our children. Within an hour and a half, we received notice that we were “causing stress to the staff” and that our boys were no longer permitted to attend the facility.

A blessing, yes. But also an instant loss of childcare.

Thankfully, we had already secured a new daycare for the following month. We had planned to move them, but her program had only just received final approval to open and was in its very first days of operation. The timing simply hadn’t allowed us to transition any sooner. I called immediately and begged her to take them the next day.

She said yes. She had witnessed firsthand what Dawson had endured and wanted to help in any way she could. She was our light at the end of a very dark tunnel.

That evening, I was unraveling. My hands were shaking, my mind was racing, and I could barely keep my composure. I was angry. I was heartbroken. I was exhausted. A coworker insisted on coming with me to pick up the boys and their belongings, because she knew I shouldn’t have to face that moment alone.

And somehow, beneath all of that, I still felt embarrassed — as though advocating for my children, protecting them, had been the wrong thing to do.

Because they had made it feel wrong.

When I look back, I remember what it felt like in the beginning — to worry that I was being difficult, that I was asking too much, that I was an imposition for expecting my minimally verbal child to be treated with dignity.

And then I remember the shift.

The moment when you no longer care if you are an imposition — because your child’s safety and worth matter more than your image.

I don’t live in a constant state of defense. I give people the opportunity to know Dawson, to understand his needs, to learn how to support him.

But at the end of the day, we are his voice. We are his allies. We are his protection.

That is where fierce advocacy is born.

And that is where fierce advocacy lives.

Dawson with his fierce advocates