I remember the first time I felt like I couldn’t control my own body. I was in preschool, receiving adaptive physical education for the first time in East Los Angeles with my very own, one-on-one P.E teacher. He was teaching me how to walk, sternly saying “heel-toe, heel-toe” and applying pressure on the corresponding body parts. 

I was frustrated and confused. I knew what my heel was, I knew what my toe was. Why wasn’t anything working? Why was this man touching me, and why was he so annoyed? Didn’t he understand how hard this was for me? 

That day marked the beginning of my awareness that something was “wrong” with me, that needed to be corrected. I later learned that what I struggled with had a name: cerebral palsy.

Without that overworked P.E. teacher, whom I loathed seeing each session, I would not be able to walk properly today. Without the therapists who came after him, I would never have learned how to throw and catch a ball, how to skip, how to run in a straight line, and, most importantly, I wouldn’t have learned how to fall and get back up. 

Mejicanos receives at-home physical therapy in 2004 with her physical therapist propping her up. Courtesy of Maria Mejicanos

These adaptive P.E. teachers and other occupational therapists, however imperfect, were a lifeline. They were provided to me through individualized education programs covered by a special education law, the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA). IDEA mandates that disabled students be included in public schools and receive a free and appropriate education. It ensures that disabled students have the support to help them thrive and reach their full potential. 

Now, half a century since the IDEA Act was passed, the future of its programs and of special education as a whole are unclear. The Trump administration is working to dismantle the Department of Education and move IDEA to the Department of Health and Human Services, which lacks experience protecting the civil rights of students with disabilities. President Trump’s actions have already led to a nationwide collapse in resolutions for disability rights cases.

According to reporting by NPR last month, the U.S. Education Department’s Office for Civil Rights (OCR), which handles cases of discrimination against disabled students, has only resolved 73 cases involving alleged disability discrimination this year. In 2024, OCR resolved 390 cases. And in 2017, the year Trump took office his first term, OCR reached agreements in more than 1,000 cases. 

Why is this happening? During the government shutdown, President Trump gutted the office responsible for implementing IDEA. And although the deal to re-open the federal government required the reinstatement of fired workers, that provision expires after January 30. Consequently, the Office of Special Education and Rehabilitative Services is in turmoil. NPR described the office as the “central nervous system” for programs that support students with disabilities. The office is also responsible for ensuring that states are complying with IDEA, and distributes roughly $15 billion in funds for its programs. 

Victoria Mejicanos in 2008 in Kindergarten practicing her writing skills. Her occupational therapists helped her practice tasks like holding a pencil and spelling her name. Courtesy of Maria Mejicanos

So, what happens to the 7.5 million students, or 15 percent of all public students nationwide, who rely on this office to ensure their rights are upheld? If the office loses its staff next year, the effects would be far-reaching. According to the Department of Education, prior to this landmark legislation in 1975, children like me were denied access to education. Many states also had laws excluding students who were deaf, blind, emotionally disturbed, or had an intellectual disability. In extreme cases, children were institutionalized. 

If it hadn’t been for individualized education programs tied to IDEA, my oldest brother, who is severely mentally impaired, would never have known the thrill of a high school football game. My second youngest brother, who has autism, would never have learned to talk. I may have been confined to a wheelchair and sent to a special school. An IEP gives students with disabilities specific and measurable goals, and support to work toward them. 

On the 50-year anniversary of the IDEA legislation’s passage this month, I pulled out a bright pink accordion file folder from my closet labeled “Victoria’s IEP’s 2005-2014.” My mother had diligently kept a hard copy of every single IEP I ever had, and gave me the folder when I turned 18. I generally avoided this folder, not seeing any point in examining my past because I knew it would hurt. But after realizing that these programs could be in jeopardy, I delved into it.

Victoria Mejicanos in 2007 practicing riding a tricycle, which was part of her IEP goals. Courtesy of Maria Mejicanos

In my first IEP, I had five pages worth of goals written and agreed upon by my IEP team: a special education teacher, an adaptive P.E. teacher, and my parents. 

As I read my first IEP from Dec. 13, 2006, I felt an overwhelming flood of memories and emotions reading one of my goals: “To demonstrate improved walking balance, Victoria will be able to walk over 4-6 inch raised surfaces without falling or losing her balance four out of five times.”

I can see the rainbow stairs laid out in front of me in the school cafeteria. They’re each a different color. I always felt confident after I took that first step. I remember it because it was red. Then came orange, which was higher up. Then, yellow, and boom—I was stuck. I needed help, and I hated having to wait for it. 

It took me what felt like an eternity to finally make it over the rainbow stairs without help. It was a goal I struggled with until second grade. I used to go home after school, and practice going up and down my grandmother’s stairs or even the small set of stairs in the school cafeteria before my after-school program until I couldn’t feel my legs. I eventually met that goal, and many others set for me. 

I stopped receiving special education services at 11 years old. Recently, as I carefully read and sifted through years of goals and objectives, I began to wonder who I would be and what I would think of myself had I never achieved these milestones, or had they never existed to begin with. 

I worry, thinking about children just like me who know they are disabled, but also know they are more than that. I couldn’t walk upstairs or jump properly, but I loved to play teacher, read, and write, which I am pursuing as a career. My dreams back then, like the dreams of all children, transcended the limits of reality. 

Because of the uncertainty around the implementation of IDEA, it’s crucial for states to be proactive in providing support for individualized education programs. California Gov. Gavin Newsom recently signed legislation to strengthen support for special education teachers. Assembly Bill 560 directs the state to develop recommended staffing ratios for special-education classrooms by 2027 and to distribute special-education assessments more equitably among teachers. 

These are positive steps, but they’re insufficient. Children with disabilities deserve more than incremental fixes. Some states offer models worth noting: New Jersey, for example, spends the most on school support services. Massachusetts similarly invests heavily in early intervention programs and therapies that help children with disabilities participate fully in school and community life. 

Other state leaders must support disabled students, regardless of whether or not there is a federal arm forcing them to. Already, the success of IDEA has come despite Congress funding less than 12 percent of its costs—far short of the 40 percent originally pledged. 

Local districts bear too much of the financial and administrative burden, leaving students at the mercy of local budgets and priorities. States can fix this by fully funding high-cost services, enforcing minimum staffing standards, and linking funds to compliance and outcomes—ensuring every child gets the support they deserve, no matter where they live. Education is not a privilege, but a right. 

I am a product of IDEA. I am a woman with cerebral palsy, and I live a full and happy life. Other children deserve the same future as me; they deserve to make it over the rainbow, too.

This essay was originally developed in ‘Our Unsilencing,’ a commentary bootcamp at the USC Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism in partnership with Unseen.