This is not an easy thing for me to write. I lost my job back in January, and while I’m doing everything I can to get back on my feet, my family is facing a financial gap that puts my sons’ education at The Highlands School at risk. We have a two‑week window to keep the boys’ spots at school. Your support now directly determines whether they can return this fall.

I’m asking for help only because this school is truly the one place where both of my boys can learn, grow, and feel safe and accepted.

Jackson is 11 and will be starting 6th grade in the fall, and Jamie is 8, about to start 4th grade. Both of my sons have developmental disabilities, and they also live with muscular dystrophy. The Highlands School is one of the only places truly built for children like them — small, accessible, and structured in a way that lets them learn and participate without feeling different or left behind. It’s a place where they can move at their own pace, where their challenges are understood, and where they never have to feel like they’re slowing anyone down.

Academically, both of my boys have come farther than I ever dared to imagine. But this school hasn’t just taught them academics — it has given them confidence, dignity, and the chance to see themselves as capable learners. That kind of progress only happens when a child is surrounded by people who understand them, believe in them, and know how to teach them in the way they learn best.

The school has also protected their emotional well‑being in ways I could never have anticipated. Jackson has recently begun struggling with stairs and even carrying his backpack. In most schools, that would mean constant embarrassment — constant reminders of what he can’t do. But at this school, he doesn’t have to face that. The building has no stairs, the environment is manageable, and his physical limitations don’t isolate him or make him feel like he’s on the outside looking in.

There are two moments from this past school year that still stop me in my tracks — moments that could have broken my son’s spirit, but instead became the highlights of his year because of the incredible support he receives at his school.

Last fall, Jackson told me that his class had to run or walk a mile in gym. My heart sank. Long distances are incredibly hard for him, and I braced myself as I asked how it went. But he lit up.

“It was the BEST!!” he said, smiling so big it almost didn’t make sense.

He told me that all the other kids had finished the mile, and he was doing everything he could to make it to the end. When he reached the last stretch, his legs just couldn’t carry him any farther. Before he could even feel embarrassed, his best friend Weston ran back to him, crouched down, and offered him a piggyback ride. Then another friend, Seth, ran out too, walking beside them as they crossed the finish line together — with the entire class cheering for him.

That’s the kind of school this is.

Another day this spring, Jackson could barely walk because of pain in his ankle from a fall. Physically he was okay, but he couldn’t manage the walking required to get through a school day. I didn’t want to keep him home, but I didn’t know how to make it work. The school nurse told me they had a wheelchair he could use, but when I mentioned it to Jackson, he immediately refused. He didn’t want to stand out. He didn’t want to feel different.

The next afternoon, he came home beaming.

Not only had he used the wheelchair — he had fun. The nurse had spent time reassuring him, helping him feel comfortable, and Weston had pushed him around the school, turning what could have been a humiliating day into one filled with laughter.

Again… that’s the kind of school this is.

I don’t know anywhere else where my son would be met with this level of kindness, understanding, and instinctive support. He has already lost the ability to play baseball — something that broke his heart, especially since he once dreamed of being the next Jackson Holliday. I can’t give him back the things his body is taking from him. But I can fight to keep him in the one place where he feels safe, included, and celebrated exactly as he is.

I’m doing everything I can, but I can’t do this part alone. Losing my job has put us in a position I never expected. Because of my job loss, we still have a remaining balance from last year’s tuition, and now the new school year is approaching with another full tuition due. It’s more than I can manage on my own right now, and it’s the only thing standing between my boys and the school that has changed their lives. I can’t bear the thought of uprooting them from the one place where they feel understood and supported.

Keeping them at this school is the most important gift I can give them right now — and I’m asking for help to make that possible. If you’re able to help — whether by donating or sharing — it would mean the world to our family.