Ramps, Not Rest Stops: Stop Writing ‘Take a Break’ Into IEPs

As we enter another year of IEP planning, we must be careful, cautious, and fully informed about what schools are presenting as “accommodations.” Too often, what gets written into plans is not true support at all, but recycled strategies that leave the real barriers intact. This is especially concerning for students with hidden disabilities, who already face doubt, skepticism, and the exhausting expectation that they must constantly prove they “really” need support.

Accommodations are not acts of kindness. They are not about making things easier. They are about creating equitable access. They are human rights. Yet teachers often suggest that “take a break” be written into an IEP as a strategy or an accommodation, or worse, as a goal for a student to “learn to ask for breaks.” This does not meet the standard of removing barriers or ensuring real access.

Taking a break does not solve the problem that is getting in the student’s way. It does not involve them in understanding the factors that are creating stress, and it is not proactive. Breaks usually happen only after frustration has already built up because a barrier exists. That moment of frustration is a signal that the environment needs to change. Instead of teaching students to step away and return to the same barrier, we should be removing the barrier or accommodating it so the student can participate without reaching the point of overwhelm. And we should be engaging in this process with the student, rather than unilaterally deciding that a break is warranted and then setting a timer for their return.

When a child needs a break, it is a sign that they are struggling to meet an expectation because of lagging skills. The solution is not to punish them, isolate them, or prescribe a timed break. The solution is to identify the expectation they are struggling with, work together to understand what is getting in the way, and collaborate on lasting strategies that reduce or remove the barrier.

Too often, breaks are adult-controlled instead of student-centered. A child is told when they may leave, what choices they can pick from, and how long they have before returning. This approach does little to change the conditions that caused the struggle in the first place. For example, a student with a learning disorder who becomes frustrated during a writing assignment might be sent to get a drink of water. While this may provide a short pause, when the student returns, the barrier, which is the difficulty with writing, remains untouched. The frustration will build again, and the cycle repeats. This is not access. This is avoidance disguised as accommodation.

The ramp analogy makes this crystal clear. Imagine a wheelchair user in front of a staircase. Instead of building a ramp, you tell them to pull themselves up step by step. When they get exhausted, you permit them to rest at the halfway point, then insist they continue. That is not access. That is cruelty disguised as support. Yet this is exactly what happens when schools expose students to conditions that overwhelm their nervous systems or directly collide with their disabilities, then offer “breaks” as the supposed solution.

It is not enough to repeatedly expose students to stressors and then decide when or if they can temporarily escape. That is not inclusion. That is managed suffering. And it is often justified by adults with familiar refrains: “We are building resilience.” “They need to learn to ask appropriately.” “Life will not always be easy.” But ask yourself, after dragging your body up a staircase with no ramp, would you truly have the words, composure, or strength left to politely request permission to rest?

The reality is that this practice creates exhaustion, shame, and mistrust. Students learn that their needs are minimized, that their distress is normalized, and that access is conditional on how well they can tolerate harm. Adults convince themselves they are preparing kids for the “real world,” but what they are really doing is protecting a system that refuses to change.

Accessibility is more than just the visible ramps. It is also the attitudes and beliefs that shape how schools respond to students. It requires dismantling biases, challenging deficit views of disability, and refusing to normalize suffering as a pathway to learning.

If we are serious about inclusion, then IEP accommodations must do more than provide temporary reprieves. They must remove barriers altogether. They must create conditions where students are not merely surviving but actually learning, participating, and belonging. Anything less is not inclusion. It is a failure to do our job.