When a Child’s Potential Is Lost Between the Cracks

When I first met this child last year, newly enrolled in our school, I felt an immediate sense of compassion. After spending time with his parents—who come from a diverse cultural background—I understood even more deeply how much support this family needed and deserved. What I did not expect was how starkly I would witness the ways in which early childhood educators sometimes fail the very children who rely on them most.

Not all teachers are the same, of course, but it was disheartening to see how bias quietly shaped decisions in the classroom. I watched certain children receive patience, grace, and understanding, while others—often those whose families lacked social influence, wealth, or familiarity with the dominant culture—were met with frustration or dismissal.

In this particular classroom, there was another child whose mother is well‑connected, affluent, white, and deeply rooted in the local community. Despite that child’s frequent disruptions and challenging behavior, the teachers expressed no concern, filed no reports, and made no referrals to the office.

Meanwhile, the boy I had met—the one who simply wanted to hold a teacher’s hand and follow her lead—was labeled “annoying.” His gentle bids for connection were treated as burdens. Teachers wrote lengthy daily reports about him, often stretching minor incidents into narratives that lacked credibility. These reports were sent to the office day after day, creating a picture of a child who was “difficult,” when in truth he was simply seeking comfort, guidance, and belonging.

What I witnessed was not a matter of behavior. It was a matter of bias. And the cost was a child’s chance to be understood, supported, and seen.

“The Child I Couldn’t Reach: When Adults Give Up Before the Child Ever Does

Against the system for nearly a year and a half, I reached a painful realization: I no longer had the power to help him in the way he truly needed. He was placed in a large classroom where teachers were responsible for more than twenty children, leaving little room for the individualized attention his developmental needs required.

His mother, a public‑school special education teacher, and his father, a private psychiatrist, understood the limitations of the public system. She explained that in public school he would receive only fifteen minutes of services, or be pulled out for an hour or two on certain days of the week. There was no full‑time, supportive group program available—nothing that could offer the consistent, relational environment he needed to thrive.

Homeschooling was not a realistic option for his mother, who was already stretched thin and unsure how to meet his complex needs at home. After extensive research, the family chose our school, believing it to be the best environment available. They enrolled him with hope and even paid out of pocket for a tutor to support him during school hours.

Yet as the school director, I found myself in an impossible position. My hands felt tied when I saw that some of my own teachers lacked the passion, patience, and commitment required to support a child struggling with emotional regulation and social interaction. Without a team willing to meet him where he was, even the best intentions and resources could not bridge the gap.

What remained was a child in need, a family searching for answers, and a system—both inside and outside the school—that was not built to hold him.

Last week, I sat with the family, and after discussing every possible option, I found myself surrendering—with tears gathering in the corner of my eyes. My heart ached knowing how deeply I wanted to help this child, yet working in a private school where I am not the owner limits how far I can push for change.

The father could barely speak. His jaw trembled, his words broke apart as he tried to express his gratitude. In their eyes, I saw how clearly they recognized the effort, advocacy, and compassion I had poured into their son for the past year and a half. They knew I had done everything within my power. They asked only to finish out the school year—just one more week.

Still, I walked away feeling as though I had lost another case in my long journey as a school director, another child slipping through the cracks despite my mission to support those who need help the most. My heart was unbearably heavy. When I got home, I fell to my knees and prayed, asking God to give me peace and to watch over this boy and his parents. In that moment, I felt the limits of my own capability.

This is the seventh time in four years that I have witnessed a child become lost in a system simply because the adults around them were unwilling to step in. And each time, it leaves a mark.

Written by G.W