I wanted to thank you so much for all your advice, information and introductions regarding (my daughter’s) forced graduation. The last few months have been difficult! I don’t know what I would have done without you! You were truly a God-send. I am forever grateful to Champions for Kids!

I can’t begin to tell you how encouraging it is to have a community of like minded professionals working together to support students with disabilities. I am so excited to connect with Champions for Kids and can’t wait to see the impact we can make together!

I’ve gone through many advocacy trainings but with Champions i’m finally receiving opportunities to put into action.

Our students need us to have a unified voice advocating for them. Champions for Kids brings together these voices so that students with disabilities aren’t forgotten by people who make decisions for them. It is great to see so many different organizations working together!

I would attend trainings only to find that Arizona has a unique nuance.

I’m so grateful for the opportunity to dig into state law and all of the unique ways the Arizona education system is unique.

I can’t believe things haven’t gotten better since my child was in school.

Today, I understand who I am. Yet this hasn’t always been the case.

I’m a mom, a wife, a speech language pathologist assistant, a non-profit leader, and a school board member. But it wasn’t until I was formally diagnosed with autism and ADHD in 2021 that I began to understand myself fully.

Growing Up Undiagnosed

As a child, I exhibited clear signs of neurodivergence—sensory overload, social difficulty, and academic inconsistency. I struggled year after year, but no one asked why. My family and the school system could not recognize autism in girls. I didn’t know how to recognize it either.

Consequently, I was pushed along through school. Eventually, I was placed in remedial classes in high school. By the first quarter of my sophomore year, truancy officers were visiting my house. I had three study halls and was failing every class when Tempe High told me I couldn’t return. No one asked why I was failing; they just knew I couldn’t do it there.

So, my mom enrolled me at Arizona Career Academy, a school known for taking kids with behaviour issues. My junior year I was placed on a no-credit status within the first two weeks of the school year, I had just nine high school credits and was expecting a baby.

At 16, I dropped out of the very school district I now serve and earned my GED. The next year, I became a mother to my son Jordan. At 18, I was on my own as a young mother, but struggling. I sought a diagnosis because I knew something needed to change. The psychiatrist reported that I was bipolar and had social anxiety disorder, but never discussed autism and ADHD.

I still didn’t understand myself.

Jordan’s Journey

My son Jordan was diagnosed with autism and an intellectual disability at age three. For many parents, that diagnosis is devastating. I saw it as an opportunity to learn more. Finally, I had a framework to understand his strengths, needs, and unique way of interacting with the world. Rather than medicating Jordan, we focused on supporting him through services, structure, and advocacy.

Jordan thrived in many areas outside school, yet it was a different story in school. By middle school, it became painfully clear that the system was not meeting his needs. I did not understand all the laws and had assumed his teachers knew how to fight for his best interest and prepare him to be future ready. But they didn’t. It was up to me to advocate for his learning and growth.

Then at the end of Jordan’s Freshman year, I was invited to join the Mountain Pointe Special Education Parent Council. For the first time, I found my voice and had a forum for advocacy. I soon joined the organization Encircle Families formerly known as Raising Special Kids as a Parent Leader, and then graduated from the 2019 Arizona Partners in Leadership. I began to see that Jordan’s experience wasn’t isolated, and Arizona’s students with disabilities deserve better.

A Turning Point

Then something happened that changed everything.

Jordan was attending Mountain Pointe High School, when he became the victim of a serious privacy violation. A student surreptitiously videotaped him in a school bathroom and two other students distributed the video on social media.

In that moment, I could have taken legal action against the district. Instead, I made a public call for accountability and action. I wanted change for my son and for all students. So, I stayed–but not passively.

I joined committees and spoke up to ensure my voice was heard. Next, I received training from Leading for Change, an organization which develops leaders for civic engagement. I then co-founded the non-profit EPIC Disability Advocacy, which has since launched EmpowerU® to teach neurodivergent individuals about self-identity, self-advocacy, and self-determination.

Now, I serve as Vice President of the Tempe Union High School District Governing Board.

I worked within the system because I believed then, as I do now, that real change must come from within. When my son chose to remain in his school, I fought to ensure he received the support he deserved.

Embracing My Story

For years, I focused my advocacy on Jordan’s experience. Now I realize that my story matters just as much.

I was an undiagnosed neurodivergent student who fell through the cracks. I self-medicated as a teenager, trying to cope with a world that overwhelmed me. Only in adulthood did I find the information and support I needed to thrive.

My diagnoses brought liberation. They permitted me to stop masking, to respect my sensory needs, and to finally be myself.

My son Jordan is the light of my life and the catalyst of my why. But the truth is, we are the why.

Our stories are what drive me to fight for a better system. One that sees kids as capable. One that prepares teachers to understand neurodiversity. One that stops asking “What’s wrong with this child?” and starts asking “How can this child thrive?”

Because kids like Jordan—and kids like I once was—deserve champions.

About the Author
Amanda Steele is a neurodivergent woman diagnosed with autism and ADHD in 2021. She is a proud mother to Jordan, who was diagnosed with autism and an intellectual disability in 2003. Now 25, Jordan attends Pathway to Work while also preparing to represent Team USA at the first-ever Unified Volleyball World Cup in Poland this October. Amanda and her husband Joe, her partner and steady support, will celebrate 20 years together this December.

Professionally, Amanda serves teens and adults as a speech-language pathology assistant with Arizona Advanced Therapy. She is also the president and director of communications for EPIC Disability Advocacy, a nonprofit she co-founded in 2021. Through EPIC, she co-created EmpowerU®, whose mission is to empower neurodiverse individuals to navigate life confidently.

Amanda currently serves as Vice President of the Tempe Union High School District Governing Board. A passionate advocate for inclusive education, Amanda uses both her lived experience and professional expertise to drive change for neurodivergent individuals and their families.

The Moment I Became a Champion for Kids

By David Jefferson

My work as an advocate didn’t begin with a planned career change. It started the day I discovered my daughter in a makeshift classroom that looked more like a storage closet than a place of learning. That moment set me on the path I’m still walking today: fighting for children with disabilities and the families who stand beside them.

The Wakeup Call

In 2001, I became a foster parent and eventually adopted four of my five children. Three of them have disabilities, including my oldest, Morgan, who was born with muscular dystrophy and cerebral palsy. Her district preschool provided the support she needed. Things changed, however, in elementary school.

One day, when Morgan was in third grade, I stopped by her school to pick her up for a medical appointment. The front office sent me to the cafeteria, where they said her class met. The cafeteria was dark and empty, but in the corner of the room, I saw a dimly lit hall with a small door. Behind that door, I found Morgan’s self-contained classroom—in what appeared to be a converted storage room.

In the classroom, Morgan’s special education teacher was warm and earnest, but she had only been in the position for a month and was the third teacher to lead the class that year. While I was there, she discussed Morgan’s IEP for the next school year. She wondered if I wanted my daughter to learn to write her name.

Of course I did! How else would she be able to sign a paycheck as an adult? The teacher then asked if Velcro letters or rubber stamps would be best, implying that actual handwriting was beyond Morgan’s reach.

The next day, I asked Morgan’s occupational therapist whether it was unrealistic to expect my daughter to write her name. It wasn’t. Within two sessions—that’s two hours total—she was doing just that.

The whole experience was a lot to take in. When I had envisioned my daughter at school, I certainly hadn’t imagined her in the dungeon. I had also assumed, perhaps naively, that her teachers were as motivated as I was to prepare her for life.

It was true that Morgan likely wouldn’t follow a traditional educational track to college, but it seemed that by third grade her school had given up on providing meaningful learning.

A New Path

I realized that unless I did something, the school’s default low expectations would thwart Morgan’s development. So I began advocating for my daughter.

When I tried to work with the district, I was met with indifference. Eventually, I hired an advocate. At one meeting, the district handed me a copy of the procedural safeguards for parents. That night, I read it cover to cover, learned how many violations had occurred, and filed my first official state complaint. Within the next year, I filed 13 complaints and prevailed in 12 of them.

I kept fighting for Morgan and my other kids. After years of advocating for my own children, I reached a turning point and left the corporate world to support students with disabilities and their families full-time. In 2012, I founded Parent Support Arizona. Since then, the organization has helped thousands of parents across the state navigate education, behavioral health, and developmental disability services.

Today, I also serve on the board of the Council of Parent Attorneys and Advocates (COPAA) and co-chair its Social Racial Equity Committee, where I train hundreds of advocates nationwide each year. I also had the chance to co-author the book Understanding Exceptional with my friend, neuropsychologist Dr. John Mather, to offer parents the compassionate, practical guidance I once needed myself.

If my journey shows anything, it’s that parents can spark powerful change when they refuse to give up. I’ve been at this work for 15 years now. And as long as there are families fighting for their kids, I’ll be right alongside them.

I wasn’t Naive

Janet Walk

I wasn’t naive. When my daughter entered Kindergarten in YEAR, I knew school would be different for her–and sometimes harder. I knew there would be special meetings and special classes.

But I had assumed that her schools, teachers, and I would all be working toward the same goal of helping Lindsay prepare to learn, grow, and become the best version of herself. Now, I’m not so sure.

One thing I do know is that my daughter and other students with disabilities need Champions.

Fighting Forced Graduation

Lindsay is funny, smart, and a great friend . She also has Down Syndrome, a disability characterized by delayed learning.

She is 18 now, the age many typical students expect to graduate from high school. But as a delayed learner she needs more time in high school to prepare for postsecondary opportunities–time allowed by the federal Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA). (The federal law requires school districts to provide services to students with disabilities until they’re 21 or 22.)

Her school disagrees. Instead, the school is relentlessly pushing her toward early graduation and Vocational Rehabilitation. A decision that is not only shortsighted—it is unjust.

IDEA allows for extended educational opportunities precisely because many students, like Lindsay, need more time to fully develop academically and socially. Simply pushing students through modified classes, handing out inflated grades, and calling it a “free and appropriate education” is neither appropriate nor free in the long run—it is a disservice.

My Turn to Fight

Year after year, we’ve struggled against diluted general education classes and special education courses aimed at the lowest common denominator. (An ‘A’ in Algebra doesn’t mean much when teachers wait until May to begin discussing fractions and algebraic equations.)

Through the years, we’ve called on intervention specialists, disability rights advocates, attorneys, and even a state senator for help.

Again and again, the very people entrusted with my daughter’s education seem more motivated to consider budget constraints, procedural efficiency, or arbitrary timelines than her journey.

But she deserves more. All kids do.

I know our story isn’t unique. Thousands of families across our state are facing similar struggles.

And this is why I’m an unabashed advocate for students with disabilities. Because all children–including my precious daughter–deserve the opportunity to learn, grow, and become the best versions of themselves in schools that see and prioritize their potential.

The Who Behind My Why-Jenny

People often ask why I became an advocate for students with disabilities. The answer is deeply personal—it began with my daughter.

When my daughter was first diagnosed with autism over 13 years ago, I had no idea how hard I would need to fight for her to receive the education she deserved. Even as a seasoned educator, I found myself overwhelmed. I was unsure how to navigate the special education system from the other side—as a parent. Simply knowing the system doesn’t mean you’re prepared for the emotional toll it takes to have to justify your child’s needs, explain her worth, and fight for her right to learn.

Every IEP meeting, every evaluation, every decision felt like a battle. But those battles taught me something essential: our system often wasn’t built with neurodivergent learners in mind. It wasn’t enough to be involved—I had to become relentless. And through this journey with my daughter, I realized something else: families need advocates. Because if I struggled, how were parents who were unfamiliar with the special education system or its jargon managing?

That’s when my personal mission became a professional calling.

Over the years, I’ve been privileged to advocate for many students, especially those in foster care. These children face challenges that often go unseen in the classroom. They carry invisible backpacks filled with trauma, loss, and instability. Many have had their education repeatedly disrupted by moves, case changes, or a lack of consistent support. They don’t just need someone to speak up for them; they need someone who will stand beside them every step of the way.

From these students, I’ve learned that advocacy isn’t just about services and accommodations—it’s about dignity, trust, and belonging. Now I know to ask more than what a student needs academically. Today my questions include: Who sees this student? Who believes in her? Who is building a safe space for this child to learn and grow?

I advocate because every student deserves someone in their corner. I advocate because systems don’t change unless people inside and outside of them demand better. And I advocate because I’ve seen firsthand how one voice, just one, can completely change a child’s path.

My daughter changed my life. And the students I’ve met along the way continue to shape my purpose. I’ll keep showing up—for her, for them, and for the families still finding their voices—until every child is seen, heard, and valued.

Fighting for Invisible Disabilities

Having a child with a disability changes you. After years as an education policy advisor and reformer, I found myself in a club I had never asked to join. I became a special education mom. Parents of children with disabilities are a daunting group. We fight harder than a mama bear, yet we can cry at the drop of a hat.

His Unrecognized Disability

I think there is a common assumption that my daughter, Vanessa, is my why. I don’t have to convince anyone that Vanessa has a disability. She has Down syndrome; her disability is obvious.

But my motivation stems more from my experience with my son. Trey is tall, dark, handsome, and gifted. He also has ADD and struggles with short-term processing and executive functioning.

When he was young, Trey was the stereotypical hyper child–running around and jumping from his seat to proudly answer each question. He would forget books, homework, and directions. One day, he tearfully told me that he could never get straight ‘A’s, no matter what he did, how much he studied, or how much content he mastered. I could see his growing stress and anxiety.

Yet the school refused to give him a 504 plan. They said his grades were too high, and I didn’t know enough to fight. I needed a Champion.

“Outgrowing” ADD

As the years passed, Trey grew and matured. Not understanding enough about his disability, I assumed he had “outgrown” it. (We later learned that ADD isn’t something you truly outgrow – the symptoms just evolve and become more internalized over time.)

He wasn’t running around anymore, but he was struggling more than ever. I just didn’t realize it.

His internalized struggle came to a head during his senior year when I discovered he had never checked his Advanced Placement test scores. Why? He knew he hadn’t passed. He hadn’t had enough time to finish the test.

Even with an education advocate for a mom, he didn’t know this was something he should tell someone.

Later that week, we were watching his basketball game. During a time out when all the other players were looking down at the coach’s white board, I saw Trey looking around, seemingly not paying attention. And then it suddenly all made sense. All those years, he had never had a Champion because his teachers and coaches assumed he was zoning out.

We had one last round of parent-teacher conferences before Trey graduated from high school. With his permission, I shared his diagnosis with the teachers. One by one, they all told me that they wished they had known. They had just assumed he wasn’t paying attention.

Like so many other parents, we didn’t want to medicate our son and believed that he would outgrow his ADD. We were in denial. We didn’t realize that the adults around him had already formed their own opinions.

Champions for All Kids

Trey needed a Champion.

Someone who could be a voice for him — someone who could recognize the challenges he faced, speak up on his behalf, and help navigate a system that often overlooks students like him.

A Champion is someone who helps identify the most frequent issues families encounter, shares common experiences, and works to break down systemic barriers.

But Trey isn’t the only student who needs someone like this. Thousands of students with invisible disabilities are walking through school hallways without the support they deserve. The number of students qualifying for special education services continues to rise — and yet, I’m convinced we are still under-identifying those who need it most.

About 70% of students with disabilities have challenges that aren’t always visible — things like dyslexia, chronic fatigue syndrome, ADD, hearing loss, or autism. These students may appear unengaged, bored, frustrated, disruptive — or sometimes, they’re just not present at all.

I wish we didn’t need to identify the differences in students’ beautiful, creative minds as “disabilities.” But currently, schools won’t accommodate them otherwise. So, they are why I fight.