Share Your Story
Our stories are powerful and can lead to positive change. It can be difficult to share your experience, but it can be a powerful way to influence change.
While they can be difficult to share, our stories are critical for influencing change. Our stories help others to realize that they are not alone and that they too can influence change. Our stories can influence members of the media to investigate and write articles that can inspire change. Our stories can connect with lawmakers who can change the law to protect our children and our loved ones. Please share your story and let us know how we can use it to influence change.
Share Your Story
Your story can make a difference. Share your story and help us influence change. Please use the form below to send us your story. We will touch base with you within 72 hours of your submission.
Read Stories from Others
Here are stories from parents, advocates, educators, and others related to the use of restraint and seclusion.
I have always had a passion for running. I don’t run fast, and I’m not breaking any records, but that doesn’t matter because running means so much more to me. Running is my release, a way for me to process my emotions and whatever is happening in my life at any given moment. I didn’t realize how much deeper that meaning would become until our son Cole was born nineteen years ago.
Nearly a year ago, I addressed this Board with significant concerns about the use of seclusion in our District. At that time, I specifically spoke about the practice of surrounding children with mats, enclosing them against a wall for unrestricted periods of time. During that time, I addressed Bloomingdale’s higher reporting of restraint and seclusion than other neighboring districts.
Internalized echolalia is one of those things people rarely talk about because they rarely know it exists. For me, it’s not some quirky feature of being autistic. It’s my brain’s operating system. It’s the language I speak in silence. While the world pushes me to say things out loud and to follow the scripts they wrote for me, I’ve always had my own looping phrases, echoing thoughts, and repeated sentences playing in my mind. They aren’t distractions. They’re how I make sense of everything.
As an autistic person, school was never a place I felt truly safe, included, or supported. Recently I came across a social media post based on the Autistic Not Weird 2022 Autism Survey. Seeing statistics like these—where almost 70% of autistic students reported having a negative school experience—unfortunately doesn’t surprise me at all. I was one of those students. My struggles in school weren’t just because of my autism but because of the way I was treated because I was autistic. And if that wasn’t enough, early puberty made things even worse for me.
Today, I stand before you to share the story of a remarkable child, a boy whose light shone brightly in a world that too often failed to see how innocent and loving he was. His name was Joshua Andrew Sikes—Joshie—a boy who loved Halloween, pumpkins, and the simple joy of human connection. He was a child whose innocence remained untouched by cynicism, whose heart knew only love, and whose spirit was as pure as the autumn air on the day that he entered this world.
Several years ago, I heard Brené Brown share a story about her son, who was struggling with friendship lessons. She encouraged him to surround himself with people who would celebrate him when he was shining brightly—not those who would blow out his candle to make theirs appear brighter. While I wouldn’t call myself a Brené Brown superfan, this particular wisdom stuck with me.
At one point during my college experience, I was called into a meeting with several of my professors. They informed me that some of my classmates had told them they were scared of me. I was stunned. I couldn’t understand how I had come across as frightening.
My college experience was shaped by the challenges of navigating an environment that often did not fully understand or accommodate my needs as an autistic student. As someone who had been non-verbal until age 5, I still faced difficulties in social interactions, communication, and adapting to the expectations placed on students. Although I had made significant strides in my early education, college presented a whole new set of challenges, as I found that much of the focus in academic settings was on managing behaviors or meeting societal expectations rather than fostering my unique strengths.
“I’m stupid; my brain is wrong, and the only way to fix it is to die.” How many parents have heard these words from a neurodivergent child? How does one respond? “I wish I could die and come back with a new brain.” How many parents have ever felt this way about themselves because of their own neurodivergences? How unsettling is it to relate to their child’s words? “I’m stupid; my brain is wrong, and the only way to fix it is to die.” How badly have their hearts been broken? How helpless have they felt hearing their children express this belief?