Welcome to Accidental Homeschool

Imagine this: you're seated beside your partner, a quiet strength radiating between you. Dressed in your professional attire—black loafers, slacks, and a blazer in your collegiate orange—you sit in a space that’s not a boardroom but a sanctuary, across from your child’s teachers and the program director. Today, you’re not here to challenge the teachers; you appreciate them deeply. You’re here to assert one essential truth to the director: “We are the subject-matter experts in our child’s life. We know what’s best for him.”

Our son is twice-exceptional: a bright, curious, happy child who thrives at home but faces challenges in traditional educational settings. Diagnosed with a speech-language impairment, he’s a textbook example of Einstein Syndrome—a term describing late speech development in exceptionally bright children (Thompson, 2016). Our pediatrician agrees: his quirks are simply part of his unique growth journey, and it’s too early for a full evaluation. But the program director, who holds a degree in special education and has a few years of teaching experience, has positioned herself as the expert on our child, challenging our understanding of his needs and placing labels that feel limiting.

In a previous meeting, she voiced a fear that “your child is doomed to fail special education.” I regret not walking away from the program right then, yet, as someone who works in equity and inclusion, I’ve been trained to meet bigoted statements with curiosity, asking questions to understand. This approach, however, left me vulnerable. When it comes to my own child, I should have set a firm boundary, not extended curiosity.

In the U.S., mothers are often failed by the economy and childcare system, and our town is no exception to the shortage of quality care options. According to Moms First USA, “More than half of American parents struggle to find adequate childcare, which costs an average of 20% of a family’s income, resulting in a significant economic burden” (Moms First USA, 2023).

In that same conversation, I said, “We’re perfectly comfortable with the neurodivergent spectrum,” to which the director replied, “I think there’s something wrong beyond neurodivergence.” Her statement not only lacked sensitivity but also showed a narrow understanding of neurodiversity—a term that encompasses a range of neurological differences, each as complex as it is unique (Armstrong, 2011).

Our son may exhibit traits associated with ADHD and sensory processing needs, and perhaps autism as well. But here’s where the director and I diverge. Where she sees limits, I see possibilities. Neurodivergence does not equate to deficiency; it’s a spectrum of brilliant, diverse minds, each capable of thriving in the right environment (Silberman, 2015).

As a social scientist, I’m often concerned with how psychology and educational systems pathologize differences, focusing on deficits rather than strengths. In my work with young adults, I’ve seen students labeled with dyslexia struggle with reading but excel in spatial reasoning—a common strength in neurodivergent individuals (Eide & Eide, 2011). Just as one might use astrological signs as a tool for self-awareness, I believe psychology can be a framework for understanding—not limiting—ourselves.

The reality is that our son was in the wrong school. I initially chose this program for its reputation, but I began noticing signs that didn’t align with our values. As an educator, I’ve seen students thrive with structure and freedom to think creatively, yet our current system often stifles that. Our children are not only facing a narrowing educational experience; they’re vulnerable to gun violence and political maneuvering (American Psychological Association, 2018).

We tried to work with the director, but after six more weeks of her insistence on having the final word, I wrote to the board, citing her inappropriate overreach into areas of expertise that belong to us as parents. Our research discovered that a diagnosis would provide the school with additional funding—money that could enhance the director’s resources (U.S. Department of Education, 2023).

So, we made a decision: it was time to leave. In a nation facing a childcare crisis, leaving a program is hard, yet we felt empowered to redefine learning on our terms. And that’s how “Accidental Homeschool” began. For six months, we’ve followed my intuition, incorporating activities rooted in research and adjusting for our son’s needs. Every day, I witness his growth. He asks questions, explores, plays with friends, and, most importantly, he thrives.

The difference? Intentional care that meets him where he is—not forcing him to conform to arbitrary norms. Welcome to Accidental Homeschool. Together, we’ll build a home and curriculum where your children can thrive.