Growing Pains, Locker Room Tears, and Finding Our Voices in the STEP Classroom

I’m Felicia, one of the founders of Something to Say ABA, a new clinic opening in Springfield this Fall. In this series, I’m sharing the journey that led to my practice. If you missed how I found my calling and discovered the science behind behavior, read Part 2 here. Today, we step into the beautiful chaos of my first classroom…

A First-Born’s Lesson in Not Knowing It All

If only there was an interactive song for "How to Navigate Adult Professional Dynamics"! Navigating those early years meant realizing the basic rules of respect and empathy we taught our kids were the exact same tools I needed to support my staff.

Stepping into the Structured Teaching and Evidence-Based Practices (STEP 1) classroom as a twenty-two-year-old recent graduate, I was bursting with enthusiasm and a head full of textbook theories. I couldn't wait to implement best practices for my kindergarten through second-grade students. However, I quickly realized that leading a team of experienced paraprofessionals required skills not taught in any special education coursework.

My formal education had prepared me for the mechanics of special education, but completely skipped over the intricacies of leadership. I was immediately humbled by the reality of managing adult professionals who possessed years of practical, in-the-trenches experience that I lacked. I came in thinking I had all the answers, but I quickly learned that I was not the sole expert in the room.

The Autism Classroom Ecosystem: Why Team Cohesion Matters for Kids

In those early years, our classroom team was a living, breathing ecosystem. We had "dream team" years where the synergy was palpable and everything flowed seamlessly. But we also had years where less cohesive dynamics required significantly more support and intervention.

My initial attempts at leadership often involved introducing well-intentioned ideas that, while looking perfect on paper, proved practically overwhelming for the team to execute. It became glaringly apparent that the success and well-being of our students were inextricably linked to the cohesiveness of our staff. When there was conflict or misaligned expectations among the adults, the students felt the disruption; the vibe in the room shifted instantly for everyone.

A throwback to one of our absolute best years! I have an overwhelming amount of gratitude for the incredible ladies (and gents!) who stood by my side in the trenches over the years. On our best days and our most chaotic ones, you were the true bedrock of our classroom. You didn't just support the kids; you supported me, and I am forever thankful for the grace you showed me as I learned how to lead.

A seemingly innocuous incident early on served as a memorable, albeit chaotic, crash course in the necessity of clear communication. Picture this: it’s practically day one, I am eager to impress, and I decide a balloon activity is just the ticket. I start happily puffing away, inflating a small mountain of latex, completely oblivious to the impending disaster. Suddenly, one of my veteran paraprofessionals starts having an asthma attack. Turns out, she had a severe latex allergy—a tiny detail I hadn't thought to ask about, and she hadn't thought to mention to the shiny new teacher. We rushed her out of the room, the EpiPen was on standby, and I spent the rest of the day internally screaming while trying to maintain a facade of calm for the kindergarteners.

Thankfully, everyone survived my unintentional attempt at asphyxiation by party supply, but to this day, I break into a cold sweat every time I have to inflate a balloon. It was a stark, panting-into-a-paper-bag reminder that communication isn't just about lesson plans—it's about the everyday details that keep the team safe, functioning, and, you know, actually breathing.

Locker Room Tears and Adult Accommodations

The frantic chaos of those early days eventually gave way to a profound personal shift, but it wasn't an easy transition. The truth is, my first years were incredibly challenging. There were days so overwhelming that I ended up hiding in the staff locker room, crying out of sheer frustration and self-doubt. The clinical, textbook approaches I’d relied on weren't enough when trying to navigate the complex personalities of adult professionals while simultaneously trying to be the bedrock for my young students.

From surviving the beautiful chaos of our neighboring classrooms to soaking up the sun on weekend strolls. Behind these relaxed smiles is the mentor who didn't just pull me out of my new-teacher panic, but taught me the biggest lesson of my career: adults need tailored support just as much as our kids do.

Thankfully, I didn't have to navigate this completely alone. I found a lifeline in Dana Distledorf-Brandt, the phenomenal teacher in the STEP 2 (grades 3-5) classroom next door. Dana became a deeply trusted mentor—and remains a dear friend today—who patiently guided me through the nuances of leading a large team. With her support, I had a major lightbulb moment: adults need intervention, too.

Just as I was drafting Individualized Education Programs (IEPs) for my kindergarteners, I realized I needed to figure out the unique "accommodations" for my team. I had to learn that management wasn't a one-size-fits-all approach. For example, I had a paraprofessional who thrived on constant, enthusiastic encouragement—she needed to hear that her specific actions were making a difference. Another blossomed when handed a chunk of independent responsibility, eager to take ownership of our morning routine. And a few preferred to be the quiet, steady anchors in the background, easily overwhelmed if I brought too much "new teacher energy" into their space. I quickly learned that the exact same approach that empowered one team member could completely stress another out.

I realized that finding my authority didn't mean putting on a stern face and barking orders at professionals who had been doing this much longer than I had. Instead, it was about finding my internal confidence and tailoring my support to their individual needs. My approach evolved from having all the answers to a collaborative, "here is our vision for this student, how do we get there together?" conversations.

It was a steep learning curve, but I gradually learned how to firmly and gently hold my ground when it came to fiercely advocating for our kiddos, while simultaneously ensuring the paraprofessionals in the trenches with me felt genuinely supported and valued. The locker room tears became less frequent, replaced by moments where we celebrated as a team—a student mastering a new skill, a smooth transition, or simply surviving a particularly chaotic Tuesday.

Finding My Love for AAC—and Passing It On to the Team

While I was doing the hard work of finding my own voice as a leader, an incredibly exciting shift was happening with how we helped our students find theirs.

"Talker. I feel happy." Those were the words this student wrote on the day Jenna handed him his personal insurance-funded device. Experiencing moments like this, seeing the pure joy of a child finally equipped with a robust voice, is exactly why we do this work.

When I arrived, some students were already using simplified AAC (Augmentative and Alternative Communication) devices. But the real evolution of our program was spearheaded by our brilliant Speech-Language Pathologist, Jenna Stowers. Jenna wasn't just a colleague; she quickly became a close friend and a profound influence on my career path. I became an absolute sponge, eager to soak up everything I could learn from her expertise.

"Just make sure the device stays with the kid." Community outings to Walmart were the ultimate test of that rule! Seeing our learners lined up on a store bench, each with their own unique AAC system in hand, was a beautiful reminder that giving kids a robust voice means giving them the tools to access the whole world, not just the classroom.

Initially, under Jenna's guidance, we looked critically at our reliance on a strictly basic PECS (Picture Exchange Communication System) model. We realized that while PECS was great for teaching our kids how to request things they wanted, it was severely limiting their ability to generate novel utterances and combine words. They could ask for a snack, but they couldn't comment, protest, or share ideas. To bridge this gap and allow for more complex communication, we transitioned to custom-designed Core/PECS books that we meticulously crafted by hand with lots of binders and even more velcro so that our kiddos could have access to more words. But the learning didn't stop there. Guided by Jenna, we began shifting our practice to prioritize early, robust exposure to high-tech AAC.

True inclusion in action: practicing with speech generating devices so we could proudly sing along in the school-wide holiday program!

My role in all of this wasn't developing the clinical strategy; it was figuring out how to bring our entire team of paraprofessionals along on the journey so those devices actually got used. We couldn't just drop high-tech iPads on desks and expect miracles from a team that was already working incredibly hard. Instead, I focused on incremental implementation. When we first introduced the new devices, my only directive to the paras was, "Just make sure the device stays with the kid. Don't worry about anything else right now." I took the pressure off, modeled device use constantly, and celebrated small victories when a student or staff member successfully navigated to a new word. Demystifying the technology until it felt less intimidating and more like an essential tool was a team effort.

Through all this, being able to witness a child light up when they realized their device gave them a true voice—to request, to protest, or simply to connect—ignited a passion within me that has defined my career ever since.

Mentoring Future Educators: A Full Circle Moment Before Motherhood

Mentoring Abby was the culmination of my time in the STEP classroom. We shared a lot of laughs, tackled the beautiful mess together, and even coordinated our holiday sweaters!

The ultimate proof that I had survived the fire and evolved from that wide-eyed newbie came a few years later when I was assigned my very own student teacher, Abby Parks.

Mentoring Abby felt like the absolute culmination of my time in the STEP classroom. It was a surreal, full-circle moment. As I guided her through the same frantic, beautiful mess, I realized I wasn't just showing her how to take data or write IEPs. I was intentionally passing on the unspoken, hard-won lessons: the necessity of empathy, the art of clear communication, the secret that adults need tailored support just as much as kids do, and the undeniable power of a cohesive team.

I was able to walk her through the very lessons I had learned the hard way. Today, Abby is a fantastic educator and a close friend, and in watching her grow, I proved to myself that I hadn't just survived those early years—I had grown into exactly the leader my classroom needed.

Everyone Has Something to Say – An ABA Clinic That Listens

The best thing I took away from those early teaching years wasn't just the professional experience—it was these incredible women. Years later, we’re out of that original classroom, but the friendships forged over locker room pep talks, navigating the complexities of leading a massive classroom staff, and navigating the beautiful chaos of the STEP program are stronger than ever.

Those locker room tears and early leadership blunders weren't just professional growing pains; they became a guidepost for the culture we want to create at Something to Say ABA. I learned the hard way that you cannot deliver exceptional, neuroaffirming care to children if the professionals providing that care feel unsupported or misunderstood.

As we assemble our clinical team in Springfield, we are intentionally prioritizing that same vibrant, cohesive ecosystem. We know that every person on the team has something to bring to the table and that there is never just one expert in the room. We know that when our staff's unique strengths, challenges, and ideas are nurtured that positive, stable energy flows directly to our learners. 

Communication is so much more than just asking for a snack. By prioritizing robust AAC, we provided our learners the tools they needed to truly share their thoughts while they played and created.

But perhaps the most profound takeaway from the STEP classroom is woven right into our clinic’s name. Watching my students transition from basic communication tools that only allowed for requesting to utilizing high-tech AAC that let them truly share their thoughts, joke, and connect changed my entire worldview. At Something to Say, our foundational belief is that every child deserves a voice that is both robust and fiercely their own. We aren't just teaching kids to ask for preferred items; we are giving them the tools to confidently tell us who they are and how they experience the world.

As we prepare to officially open our clinic doors this fall, I am carrying every one of those messy, beautiful lessons with me—ready to create a space where our learners, their families, and our entire team are always empowered to find their voices.

Stay tuned for the next post, where the lines between teacher and mother blur as I navigate a completely unexpected, beautiful detour as the family I was hoping to start ended up beginning much sooner than I anticipated, and it started right there within the walls of my classroom.