The fastest way to make a student feel like they don't belong is to make their accommodation sound like an exception.
I wish every teacher would think about that sentence at the beginning of the school year, especially when welcoming students with disabilities, dyslexia, dysgraphia, ADHD, or an IEP or 504 Plan into their classroom.
Because sometimes the first barrier we create for a student with a disability isn't an inaccessible assignment. It isn't a missing special education service. It isn't even something we intentionally do.
Sometimes it's just our words.
Picture this.
It's the first day of school. A teacher is going through the usual classroom rules and expectations.
“No computers in my class. All papers will be handwritten.”
Or:
“I don't allow calculators.”
“No one gets extra time.”
“Everyone has to read aloud.”
“I don't give copies of my notes.”
Maybe the teacher has a perfectly reasonable explanation for the rule. Maybe there have been problems with students using AI. Maybe students have misused technology in the past. Maybe this is simply how the teacher has always done things.
But sitting in that classroom might be a student with dyslexia who uses text-to-speech as an accommodation.
A student with dysgraphia who needs to type written assignments or use speech-to-text.
A student whose IEP or 504 Plan provides extended time.
A student with a disability who needs access to a calculator, teacher notes, audiobooks, assistive technology, or another classroom accommodation to access instruction and demonstrate what they know.
And before that child has even had an opportunity to use the accommodation their IEP team determined they need, they've already been told:
We don't do that here.
Now, yes, the teacher might pull the student aside later.
“Oh, that doesn't apply to you.”
“You can use your computer because it's in your IEP.”
“You're allowed to have extra time because that's one of your accommodations.”
But think about what we've just done.
We've made access the exception.
We've told the entire classroom what the “normal” expectation is and then quietly told the student receiving special education services or accommodations that they are different.
And I think we underestimate how much that matters.
Students with disabilities already know when they're the exception
Kids are incredibly aware of what is happening around them.
They notice who leaves the classroom for reading intervention or special education services.
They notice who gets extended time.
They notice who has their test read aloud.
They notice who uses text-to-speech.
They notice who types when everyone else writes.
And the student receiving the accommodation notices it, too.
For many students with dyslexia, dysgraphia, ADHD, learning disabilities, or other disabilities, using an accommodation already requires a certain amount of courage, especially as they get older.
We tell students with IEPs and 504 Plans that we want them to become self-advocates. We want them to understand their disabilities. We want them to understand their accommodations. We want them to recognize what helps them learn and speak up when those supports aren't being provided.
But then we sometimes create classrooms where self-advocacy means publicly asking to break the teacher's rule.
Think about the position that puts a child in.
The teacher just told everyone:
“No computers.”
Now the student with dysgraphia has to raise their hand and say, essentially:
“But I'm allowed to.”
The student with dyslexia has to explain why they need text-to-speech when everyone else was told they aren't allowed to use technology.
The student with an IEP has to decide whether using their accommodation is worth drawing attention to themselves.
That isn't exactly creating a safe environment for self-advocacy.
IEP accommodations aren't special treatment
This doesn't mean teachers can't have classroom rules.
And I want to be really clear about this because I think this is where conversations about inclusion and special education sometimes get unnecessarily complicated.
Teachers need classroom expectations.
Teachers need boundaries.
Technology creates very real issues in classrooms. AI creates new challenges. Teachers absolutely need to establish expectations around what students can and cannot use when completing assignments.
Inclusive teaching doesn't mean throwing all of that out the window.
It means putting those expectations through an inclusive filter before we say them.
Instead of:
“No one can use a computer to write papers in this class.”
Maybe it's:
“We have some specific guidelines around technology and AI when we're writing, and we'll talk about what appropriate use looks like. Some of you may use technology or other tools based on what you need to be successful.”
You haven't abandoned the expectation.
You haven't lowered the academic standard.
You haven't announced who has an IEP or disclosed anyone's disability.
You've simply left room for the reality that fair does not always mean everyone doing everything exactly the same way.
And honestly, once we start thinking this way, we may realize that some of the flexibility we've created for students with disabilities could benefit other students, too.
That's inclusion.
Parents of students with IEPs hear classroom rules differently
I also want teachers to think about this from the other side of the special education table.
Because I have sat on both sides.
I've been the teacher.
And I've been the parent of a child with dyslexia sitting at Open House listening very carefully to what a teacher says about their classroom.
When you have a child with a disability, you hear things differently.
You hear:
“I don't believe in extended time.”
“I don't let kids use computers.”
“I don't really do accommodations unless they absolutely need them.”
“Everybody is treated the same in my classroom.”
And while the teacher may think they're simply explaining their classroom philosophy, the parent sitting in that room may hear something completely different.
Here we go again.
Because you may not know what it took to get that IEP accommodation.
You may not know how many IEP meetings that parent attended.
How much data they collected.
How many evaluations their child went through.
How many emails they sent.
How many times they were told to wait.
How long their child struggled with reading or writing before someone recognized the signs of dyslexia, dysgraphia, or another learning disability.
How many nights that child came home believing they weren't smart.
How hard that family fought just to figure out what their child needed to access instruction and demonstrate what they know.
So when a teacher casually announces a classroom rule that directly contradicts an accommodation written into a child's IEP or 504 Plan, it can crush the hope that maybe, just maybe, this is going to be the year their child finally feels understood.
Trust can take months to build.
It can take one sentence to damage it.
Inclusive education can start with something as simple as language
This is why I think one of the simplest things teachers can do at the beginning of the school year is listen to their own language.
Not because teachers need one more thing added to their plates.
Not because anyone expects teachers to say everything perfectly.
But because this one doesn't require a new curriculum, a new special education program, another professional development session, or more money.
It requires awareness.
Before you announce a classroom rule, stop for a second and ask:
Could this rule conflict with an IEP accommodation, 504 accommodation, assistive technology, or another support that a student in this room needs to access learning?
And if it could, can you communicate the same expectation without creating an “us” and a “them”?
Because accommodations aren't favors.
They aren't loopholes.
They aren't special privileges.
And an IEP accommodation isn't a way for a student with a disability to get out of doing the work everyone else has to do.
Accommodations provide access.
For a student with dyslexia, that might mean text-to-speech.
For a student with dysgraphia, it might mean speech-to-text or typing instead of handwriting.
For another student with a disability, it might mean extended time, small-group testing, access to notes, assistive technology, or another individualized accommodation documented in their IEP or 504 Plan.
A child shouldn't have to choose between using the support they need and blending in with everyone else.
And a child certainly shouldn't have to become brave enough to challenge an adult's stated classroom rule just to receive an accommodation they're already supposed to have access to.
Before the first lesson, tell them they belong
We talk a lot about inclusive classrooms, special education, IEPs, accommodations, and supporting students with disabilities.
Sometimes we make all of that sound really complicated.
But inclusion starts long before the first differentiated lesson or accommodated assignment.
It starts when students walk into the classroom and begin figuring out:
Am I safe here?
Does this teacher understand that people learn differently?
Can I ask for what I need?
Can I use my accommodations without feeling embarrassed?
Do I belong here?
Our words start answering those questions almost immediately.
So as you welcome students back to school this year, put your classroom rules, procedures, policies, and expectations through an inclusive filter.
Think about the student with dyslexia.
Think about the student with dysgraphia.
Think about the student with an IEP.
Think about the student who may not even have a diagnosis yet but already knows that learning looks different for them.
And remember:
The fastest way to make a student feel like they don't belong is to make their accommodation sound like an exception.
Let's make sure our words are telling every student something different:
You belong here. And what you need to learn belongs here, too.