The War on DEI Is a War on My Son’s Future

Like many parents of children with epilepsy and neurodivergent diagnoses, my wife and I have spent years advocating for accommodations that help our son navigate a world that isn’t built for him.

At times, it felt as if it was us against the world. We would have to document, explain, and justify every request to provide our son an opportunity to thrive, not merely survive. While our journey has primarily been uphill, we have endured because our son deserves the same opportunities as everyone else.

It was encouraging to see Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) initiatives take a more critical role in our society in the last few years. These initiatives create environments where all individuals—regardless of race, gender, disability, or background—have equal opportunities to reach their full potential.

Many DEI initiatives specifically address disability-related barriers, such as:

  • Ensuring accessible workplaces and schools
    • Promoting inclusive hiring practices
  • Providing reasonable accommodations (e.g., flexible work arrangements, assistive technology)
  • Educating organizations on disability awareness and reducing stigma

It made me feel like our uphill journey might level off and that these programs might help relieve some of our struggles and fears about our son’s future.

But then, Trump and MAGA happened.

In the first few weeks after the new administration took over, it has ordered the rollback of DEI policies meant to open doors that were unfairly closed, falsely equating diversity efforts with discrimination. The ACLU wrote, “In his first few days, President Donald Trump is undertaking a deliberate effort to obfuscate and weaponize civil rights laws that address discrimination and ensure everyone has a fair chance to compete, whether it’s for a job, a promotion, or an education.”

Without facts, they have blamed DEI initiatives for the devastating fires in California and, most recently, for the tragic crash between a military helicopter and a passenger jet in Washington, D.C. In a press briefing, they specifically called out part of the FAA’s DEI plan that included hiring people with disabilities, including neurodivergence and epilepsy.

Let’s be clear: Accommodating neurodivergent people did not cause a plane crash, just as supporting people of color or the LGBTQ community did not start a wildfire.

But the messaging, pandering to the MAGA base, aims to create an environment where rolling back protections and opportunities for communities who have been discriminated against, marginalized, and disenfranchised for so long becomes acceptable, even necessary.

The Trump administration’s latest rollback of DEI initiatives isn’t just another political move—it’s a direct assault on people like my son. And it’s not limited to government institutions. By removing federal funding for DEI initiatives and rolling back the requirement for companies doing business with the government to have standards that address and prevent bias, the administration is bullying corporations to abandon or alter their DEI programs.

DEI initiatives aren’t some abstract concept, and these aren’t abstract policy changes. This administration’s actions aren’t just about politics. They’re about real people—our children, families, and futures. They’re about my son’s future. I’ve fought too hard for his right to an education, to be safe at work one day, and to live in a society that values him as a complete person.

For families like mine, these programs are lifelines, offering hope and opportunity in a world that often feels stacked against us. Rolling back these protections isn’t just a policy change; it’s a betrayal of the progress we’ve fought so hard to achieve. My son and countless others like him deserve a future where they are valued, included, and given the chance to thrive. We cannot let these initiatives be dismantled without a fight. As parents, advocates, and allies, we must stand together, raise our voices, and demand a society that embraces diversity, equity, and inclusion.

The stakes are too high to stay silent.

The Clothes Make the Man

My wife joined a band last year that plays regularly at different restaurants and venues in our area. My son and I try to go to every show, taking in a set or two as we have dinner together and watch our matriarch do what she loves to do and does so well.

A few weeks ago, I was waiting for my son to finish getting ready so we could go to a gig. I was wearing a T-shirt with her band’s name and jeans. My son came around the corner sporting blue jeans, a black on-brand Marvel shirt, and a bright red blazer on a hanger over his shoulder.

“Nice,” I said as we headed to the car.

After we parked, my son stepped out of the car and pulled his jacket from the hanger over the back seat. He slid each arm in turn into the coat and buttoned a single button below his chest, and we headed in.

When we entered the venue, my wife saw her tall, handsome son sporting a bright red blazer. She came over, gave him a big hug, and told him how good he looked. She brought him to the stage, and I played paparazzi, taking pictures of the dapper gentleman and the singing star.

We made the rounds to greet the band, and each of them commented on how tall my son was and how sharp he looked in his jacket. At our table, the waitress also mentioned his blazer, and I could see him carrying himself more confidently and maturely. Sitting across from me, he looked five years older.

The clothes make the man.

“Man.”

It’s such a loaded word. He’s the size of a man and wears men’s clothes, but inside, he’s still the same boy who, for many years, would go to every doctor’s appointment in pajamas or a costume. I watched his face as he sat at the table obsessively struggling with a Rubik’s Cube. His brain wouldn’t let him stop, but it wouldn’t help him remember or apply the techniques to solve it.

The gap between his outward appearance and his internal workings continues to widen, as does the gap between his development and that of his peers. These gaps are getting harder to reconcile, and they stoke my fear of him being misunderstood by the outside world. I try my best to push those fears away as he looks up at me. I smile, and we talk about his strategy to solve the puzzle and listen to my wife’s voice fill the restaurant.

After dinner and between sets, we said goodbye to my wife. She again commented on how good my son looked in his jacket, and I saw him stand a little taller. He carried that height from my wife’s table and the door, growing even more as a handful of random patrons also commented on how good he looked in his red blazer.

“I feel like a celebrity,” he said as we stepped through the door. In addition to his bright red blazer, he wore a priceless, confident smile.

As we walked to the car, I couldn’t help but marvel at how much that red blazer seemed to transform him—not just in how others saw him, but in how he saw himself. For a few hours, he wasn’t the boy with special needs or the countless doctor’s appointments. He was the tall, confident young man turning heads and making impressions.

While I know the gaps will always be there, that jacket gave him a taste of a world where he could be seen without his struggles, even if only for a little while.

On the Other Side of the Door

I could feel the tension and energy seeping under the door. I could hear the curse words through the door, some directed at the situation and others at me. I could hear pencils and books being pushed off the desk and onto the floor.

Moments before, I was on the other side of the door nudging my son to stay on task and finish his chores and homework. He had been home for about an hour and still hadn’t finished cleaning his room or completing his homework.

I pointed out the clothes, toys, and trash scattered across the floor. I showed him the overflowing trash and collection of empty soda cans that he had hidden behind the dresser in his closet and his yellow homework folder sat unopened on the edge of his desk.

It wasn’t the first time I checked in on him, and his sigh of frustration got louder each time. He would stand up and begin to clean as I left the room, only for me to return with no discernable difference in its cleanliness.

After the third time, he snapped. He sat on the edge of his bed, and every answer to my questions about his thoughts and feelings included an appropriately placed curse word.

“$*!&#! homework.”

“$*!&#! chores.”

I wanted him to have his feelings, but I knew he wasn’t in a place where he could hear me or talk about them. So, I used my years of therapy to acknowledge his anger and frustration. I offered a few pieces of advice to help him navigate and source his anger, and then I told him to come and find me if he needed help or when he was ready to talk.

That’s when I found myself on the other side of the door, listening to his sounds of anger.

Leaving the situation is often the hardest thing to do. I desperately wanted to make him feel better…to say the right thing to make his anger disappear. But I’ve learned (again, thanks to years of therapy after countless examples of trying to solve everyone else’s feelings) that it’s not how it works. I’ve also learned that staying in the situation and taking the anger, frustration, and attacks is not required in any relationship. It doesn’t serve me, and it establishes and persists a toxic pattern of behavior that will strain or ruin a relationship.

There are times when it is necessary to stay in the room, particularly if there is a fear of harm. We went through that a lot when our son was younger, especially after we got him out of status and went through the myriad of side effects from medications like Keppra. There was little regulation, little impulse control, and a lot of anger. Oftentimes, we would have to sit with him, hold him, and take his rage until it passed.

We have worked hard to get here individually and as a family. The skills we have learned allowed us to identify and process our feelings and to understand and maintain a sense of love, trust, and respect. They allowed me to leave the room.

Ultimately, the most challenging but essential lesson is this: I can’t fix every moment of anger, frustration, or struggle my son faces. What I can do is create a safe space for him to process those feelings, knowing that I’m always there on the other side of the door.

It’s not about being perfect or having all the answers—it’s about showing up, staying connected, and trusting the work we’ve done as a family to guide us through. Healing isn’t linear, and neither is parenting, but each moment like this reminds me of how far we’ve come and how much strength and love we’ve built together.