Reclaiming the Language of Support: The Quiet Harm of Teacher-Led Exclusion

 

If someone lies but believes it to be true, does that make it justifiable?

Because in education, it happens every single day. Teachers and school teams sit across from families and offer explanations—sometimes delivered with confidence, sometimes with genuine belief—that deny students the support they need.

“We’re fostering independence.”
“They need to experience the dignity of failure.”
“We presume competence.”
“We’re helping them build resilience.”

These phrases may sound thoughtful. Professional. Even progressive. But they are often used to mask the same old problem: a refusal to accommodate. And whether that refusal is conscious or not, it is harmful.

The dignity of failure is a phrase often used in IEP meetings to argue against providing support. The idea is that if we offer accommodations, we’re not allowing students, particularly disabled students, the right to fail. The dignity of failure means everyone, including disabled students, has the right to take risks, make choices, and learn from setbacks. But this idea is often misused to justify withholding support. Failure is not dignified when it comes from facing avoidable barriers. Telling a student to try the stairs before offering the ramp is not empowerment—it’s exclusion. Real dignity comes from having access and the freedom to try, not being forced to struggle just to prove you need help.

Presume competence is a powerful concept when used to combat assumptions of inability. But presuming competence does not mean ignoring barriers. It does not mean assigning grade-level tasks without the appropriate scaffolding. When we presume competence without acknowledging unmet needs, sensory overload, or executive functioning challenges, we don’t empower a student. This only sets them up for distress. Presuming competence without providing support is not an inclusive practice. It is negligence. Instead, we should create learning environments where everyone is supported to participate, learn, and grow. 

Fostering independence is often seen as a virtue, but it should never come at the expense of connection. We are not meant to navigate challenges alone. The real goal is interdependence—a balanced and respectful reliance on others when support is needed. For disabled students, receiving help is not a sign of failure. It is a reflection of their rights, not their deficits.

Building resilience has become a buzzword in education. But resilience is not built by withholding access. It is not built by surviving systems that are stacked against you. It is unacceptable to create an inequitable learning environment and then praise a child for pushing through it. That is not resilience. That is harm rebranded as strength.

We are constantly offered workshops and professional development on these concepts because education has become a consumer-driven business. Teachers are the consumers, and these workshops sell. What we rarely see are workshops on ableism, discrimination, justice, or children’s rights. Professional development has been built around what is popular and palatable, not what is necessary.

But here’s the truth:
Children do not need to be fixed.
The system does.

We cannot keep hiding behind well-intentioned language while upholding policies and practices that exclude. We cannot mistake belief for truth, and we cannot keep confusing harm for help.

It is time to name what is happening.

It is time to talk about ableism in education.

Because until we do, the most vulnerable students will continue to be denied, dismissed, and failed by a system that claims to support them.