They Said I Was Overreacting: A Day Navigating Anxiety and IEP Battles in Olentangy Schools

They tell you it's just "kids being kids," that your worries about anxiety and school support are "overreactions." But if walking into a stuffy, fluorescent-lit Olentangy Local School District conference room at 2:15 PM—backpack heavy with paperwork, head pounding after sleepless nights—is overreacting, just try telling that to the kid whose hands are shaking under the table.

The stale smell of cafeteria food lingers just outside while the ticking clock mocks the endless waiting.

"Is this really what it takes to be heard?" I mutter, feeling the rough fabric of my coat scrape against my arms as the assistant principal offers a rehearsed smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

This isn’t just another IEP meeting. It’s a war zone where parental exhaustion meets bureaucratic indifference.

Come with me through a day that stretches far beyond usual chaos—where anxiety isn’t just my kid’s battle; it’s mine too.

This is not the sanitized advice you hear at workshops—this is the raw, righteous struggle against a system that too often silences the voices it’s meant to protect.

---

I wake before the alarm—not really awake, more like my chest tightening and heart racing as if I’m already late for something important. Anxiety hits hard before my feet even touch the floor.

Déjà vu every morning: the fear of what the day will bring, especially on a school day for my son, Max.

Meds must be given on time, sensory tools like his noise-cancelling headphones and a weighted blanket have to be close by, and meltdowns before breakfast? A given. Last Tuesday, his meltdown over the wrong shirt color dragged on for an hour. I was caught in the eye of that storm, watching the clock tick toward our leaving time.

And while I’m drowning in this chaos, the world around me often dismisses it: “It’s not that bad,” people say. My personal favorite: "You’re overreacting."

If only they felt that tight chest every morning, the invisible waves of anxiety that don’t show on the outside. They see only the drama—the mess—but not the invisible battle beneath.

Then there’s the looming storm: the IEP meeting.

I feel it coming like a weather forecast warning of a hurricane—inevitable. Preparing for this battle wears me out.

I’ve spent hours trying to understand Olentangy’s IEP process. Despite having free mental health services embedded in every school through partnerships like Ohio State University Wexner Medical Center, it feels like climbing a mountain—each step blocked by red tape and skepticism.

(The Olentangy mental health clinicians info can be found here Olentangy Mental Health Clinicians. The Wexner partnership details are here Wexner Community Outreach.)

I've also heard about the OASIS program—a safe space for kids like Max dealing with anxiety—but getting him there feels like asking for the moon. The paperwork and disbelief about whether his anxiety is "real enough" make it feel nearly impossible to access.

(Learn more about OASIS here: OASIS Program.)

Amid all this, caffeine untouched, I juggle anxiety symptoms as tangible as Max’s backpack on the floor. The mental load? Crushing.

Meds, sensory needs, appointments, IEP deadlines—all while trying to be Max’s calm rock.

The paradox is brutal: managing his anxiety while battling my own.

I know other Olentangy parents hear me on this.

The district’s Well-Being and Mental Health Committee pushes for improvements (Committee Info). But the reality? Battles with outdated mindsets, insufficient training, and relentless skepticism.

It’s exhausting. Maddening. But deeply real for families like ours.

Despite resources on paper, navigating the system can feel like fighting alone.

But you’re not.

Tools like NeuroMule help keep track of the madness—even when the day’s just beginning.

---

I parked in the Olentangy school lot just after noon, the familiar coil of dread and exhaustion twisting tighter in my gut.

The clock ticked louder in my head as I stepped inside.

The halls were unnervingly quiet; polished floors gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights.

The meeting room was cold, sterile—void of warmth or empathy.

I took a seat at a long table surrounded by stiff chairs where the adults in Max’s world waited.

Anxiety clenched me—not just Max’s this time, but mine too.

This was no ordinary meeting. This was a battlefield.

When the school psychologist greeted me, her smile was thin and rehearsed.

The special education coordinator slid papers toward me without meeting my eyes.

Then the principal said quietly, “We want to focus on behavioral issues today.”

Behavioral issues—a label to dodge real anxiety.

I bit back, "Your son’s anxiety—it’s emotional, not behavioral. There’s a big difference."

The coordinator replied, "From our view, his anxiety manifests as disruptive behaviors. We need to manage those first."

Exactly the script I expected, but hearing it felt like a knife to my resolve.

I pushed back, steady despite the storm inside.

"Olentangy schools have mental health clinicians and the OASIS program," I said. "These services are for kids like Max facing anxiety. They’re district resources, supported by Ohio State Wexner Medical Center. It’s right in your handbook."

Silence.

Then the counselor said, “We appreciate your feelings, but the team doesn’t think extra anxiety accommodations are needed right now.”

Classic denial.

The professionals who should help were just ticking boxes.

The meeting spiraled into back and forth. Anxiety was reframed as defiance or a phase.

Requests for written supports from OASIS and mental health clinicians landed on deaf ears.

“We’re stretched thin.”

“We don’t have those resources readily available.”

It felt like lip service.

Imagine holding back tears, swallowing frustration, sitting through hours of hearing your child’s terrors called manageable if only he tried harder.

The meeting ended vague—no clear plan, no mention of OASIS or mental health support promised.

Walking out, I knew the fight was just beginning.

These legal rights and supports exist on paper—but turning them into reality? An uphill war every overwhelmed parent knows well.

This fight exhausts, infuriates, but it’s absolutely worth it.

---

I slammed the car door shut, sweat prickling my skin, hands trembling—not from heat, but from the day’s weight.

Defeat mixed with stubbornness squeezed my chest.

The school’s resistance wasn’t a bump; it was a mountain climbed without any harness.

Every “no,” every vague answer hammered home that this battle wasn’t just about Max—it was against a system built to exhaust the very parents trying to navigate it.

Yet, despite gnawing exhaustion, dark humor surfaces: I’m not done.

Far from it.

Walking into the quiet house, Max sits curled on the couch—eyes heavy, yet restless.

The day’s anxiety clings to him like a shadow.

Supporting his emotional needs shouldn’t require a psychology degree—yet here we are.

I carefully watch for triggers, monitor mood swings, knowing tomorrow might be another battlefield.

Anxiety doesn’t clock out—and neither do I.

When the school’s promises crumble, the aftershock is brutal.

We’re left to pick up the pieces.

But the community brings relief.

I reached out to OhioGuidestone—a behavioral health service right in Ohio schools, including Olentangy (OhioGuidestone School Services).

They’re a rare breath of fresh air—experts who see anxiety in neurodivergent kids as a real, daily mountain—not just bad behavior or a phase.

Their support brings a small lifeline in the chaos.

And then there’s NeuroMule—my unexpected survival tool amid the paperwork avalanche.

Where I was drowning in confusing IEP jargon and endless emails, NeuroMule organizes everything, tracks communications, and translates the complicated language schools throw at us.

It’s not a magic fix, but it’s a lifeline—a way to keep my sanity and advocacy sharp.

---

If you're reading this and feeling the same frustration, here’s a clear-eyed action plan to help you feel a bit more in control:

• Prepare Ahead: Start early. Gather all reports, emails, and any notes related to your child’s needs and behaviors. Use NeuroMule or any organizer to keep these in one place (digital or physical).

• Understand Your Rights: Research Olentangy’s mental health services and IEP accommodations. Know programs like OASIS and OhioGuidestone are available—even if accessing them feels tough.

• Document Everything: Keep detailed notes of conversations, meetings, and instances where your child’s anxiety impacted school life. It helps build your case.

• Practice Your Points: Before meetings, jot down key concerns and requests focused on anxiety supports, distinguishing them clearly from "behavioral issues."

• Bring Support: If possible, bring a trusted friend, advocate, or another parent for moral support and extra ears.

• Manage Anxiety on Meeting Day: Use sensory tools for both you and your child. Deep breathing, music, weighted blankets, or a quick walk can ease nerves.

• Ask for Specifics: Demand clear follow-up steps during meetings. If promises sound vague, ask how and when they’ll happen.

• Connect with Community Resources: Reach out to OhioGuidestone or local parent groups for support that understands your journey.

• Use NeuroMule: Track appointments, store communications, set reminders, and decode complicated school language. It’s your calm, organized friend in the chaos.

Remember, you’re not alone in this fight.

The system can be slow and frustrating, but armed with knowledge, tools, and community, you can make strides for your child.

---

I sit back at the kitchen table, papers and laptop open, exhaustion heavy but determination heavier.

Max rests on the couch, a small moment of calm amid the storm.

The journey is relentless and raw.

But with resources and tools like NeuroMule, the mountain isn’t as lonely.

If you’ve been told you’re "overreacting," your feelings are valid.

Navigating Olentangy’s anxiety support and IEP battles is tough, but relentless advocacy wins.

And tools? They can make the fight manageable.

Take a breath.

You’re doing more than enough.

And with a little help, your journey—full of frustration and fierce love—can become just a bit smoother.

NeuroMule is here for that.

Why not give it a try? Your child is counting on you, and you’re stronger than you think.