Still Not Enough, Part Two: Surveillance, Standardisation, and What It Really Takes to Get Accommodations in College

When Diagnosis Isn’t Enough: Surviving College Systems Built to Say No

What does it really take to get accommodations as an autistic GLP student in today’s higher ed system? A follow-up to “Still Not Enough,” this piece offers hard truths, a mentor letter, and a glimpse of what lies ahead.

Introduction: Picking Up the Thread

In a previous piece, Still Not Enough, I documented how Western Governors University refused to honour my daughter’s legally sufficient IEP and Summary of Performance—documents designed precisely to bridge the transition from high school support to adult educational access. Despite having what any secondary school team would consider a rock-solid paper trail, she found herself up against a wall: the language of support met the machinery of standardisation. What I offered then was the narrative arc—the personal story, the disbelief, the grief, the slow-burning outrage that so many of us know all too well. This follow-up, then, is something quieter but no less urgent. It traces the next part of the journey: trying to request—not demand, not plead, but request—a set of reasonable, documented, pedagogically sound accommodations for a disabled student. And not from the standpoint of a desperate parent, either. I’m a special education teacher. I write IEPs. I train staff. I sit with school psychologists and vocational rehab counsellors. I’ve read enough case law and state ed code to know what the law allows and what it requires. I know what reasonable accommodations look like. And I know, perhaps most heartbreakingly, when a system has no intention of making them work.

The SDS Letter from WGU

In the correspondence from the head of Student Disability Services at WGU, the language is polite, professional, and—if you don’t read too closely—seemingly collaborative. She assured us that “no accommodations have been denied at this point,” that the school is “actively engaged in the interactive process,” and that my daughter is welcome to submit further documentation, even begin a formal appeal. But between these courteous lines sits a clear institutional boundary: whilst WGU is open to approving extended time and breaks—those classic, low-disruption accommodations—requests like alternative formats or human grading are framed as incompatible with the university’s standardised model. The phrase used, and it’s a telling one, is that such accommodations would “fundamentally alter the structure of the exam.” This is where the double-bind appears. For gestalt language processors like my daughter and I, the very things that make the exam “accessible” are the same things WGU has pre-emptively declared unimplementable. It’s not that the system doesn’t know what she needs—it’s that it knows, and has already decided those needs don’t fit.

The Coffee Table Consultation

A few days later, I sat across from a friend at her kitchen table, a cup of coffee in one hand and the WGU letter open on my phone in the other. She’s a school psychologist—masters-trained, not a clinician, but deeply experienced in postsecondary transition and disability documentation. She works in a high school, though not mine and not in my district, and over the years we’ve built the kind of trust that allows for professional honesty without defensiveness. I told her the whole story: the SOP, the refusal, the sense of being heard but not seen. I showed her my daughter’s paperwork—eight pages of clearly documented access needs, legally sufficient and written in alignment with IDEA and ADA guidance. We talked about how absurd it was that this wasn’t enough. And then I showed her the email from WGU’s disability office—the part where they claimed nothing had been denied, whilst also stating that anything which might alter the exam structure would be off the table.

She read it, slowly. Then she looked at me and said, “You know exactly what needs to be in this letter, right?”

I nodded, but I needed to hear it said aloud.

We pulled up the SOP again, reviewed each section, and matched the language of the support plan to the structure of the testing environment. This wasn’t about generalities. It wasn’t a plea for kindness. It was a precise mapping of access needs onto assessment conditions—each request drawn directly from the language of the SOP, explained in plain terms, and anchored in both pedagogical logic and legal precedent. She helped me think it through from the evaluator’s perspective: What would a psychologist need to see to consider the request legitimate? What would a compliance officer need to see to defend it? We weren’t asking for a re-imagining of the course. We were asking for a disabled student to be able to access it. So together, we drafted a letter. Specific. Targeted. Reasonable. And for a student like my daughter—necessary.

The Accommodation Request Letter

Back home, I took our coffee-fuelled notes—half-sentences, margin scribbles, the occasional diagram—and began shaping them into something more structured. I kept hearing her voice in my head as I worked: direct, no-nonsense, and just a little bit amused. I drafted each accommodation point with the precision I’ve come to rely on, the kind that autistic pedantry makes possible. When I sent the draft back to her for review, she replied within the hour: “It’s good. But maybe take a breath between clauses?” That’s fair. I do have a tendency to nest justification inside context inside systems critique. Still, the gist was right. It captured not only what my daughter needs, but why—and what would happen if those needs weren’t met. The final version reads a little like a blueprint, a little like a warning, and very much like care.

Here it is:

To Whom It May Concern:

I am writing to provide documentation in support of accommodations for [Student] (DOB: xxxx-xx-xx), an autistic individual and gestalt language processor (GLP), based on her Summary of Performance and previous IEP documentation. [Student]’s learning profile includes auditory processing delays, difficulty with sequential verbal instruction, and a need for predictable, low-stimulation environments. These are not preferences, but essential access needs that—when unmet—result in cognitive shutdown, communication breakdown, and testing conditions that fail to measure what she actually knows.

[Student] communicates and understands the world primarily through holistic, relational meaning-making rather than step-by-step verbal reasoning. This impacts how she processes language, follows instructions, and engages with tasks under pressure. In digital assessment environments, especially those involving remote proctoring, she is at high risk of being misunderstood, mislabelled, or disabled by the system itself without appropriate accommodations.

The following testing accommodations are recommended to ensure access and equity:

1. Transparent Testing Environment Documentation

Accommodation:
Provide a written, plain-language explanation of the entire testing process—tools used (e.g. Guardian Browser, LogMeIn123, MyEducator), sequence of actions, names/roles of any human agents (e.g. proctors), and what data is monitored or collected.

Why This Matters for an Autistic GLP:
GLPs need context before task. Without a full mental model of the testing sequence, [Student] is likely to experience cognitive overload or freeze. Surprise instructions, shifting authority figures, and hidden system processes activate threat responses in GLP systems. Verbal or real-time explanations are not accessible due to verbal processing latency and the absence of support for pre-formed gestalts. A pre-written, structured overview allows [Student] to understand the test’s ecosystem, form gestalts, and begin the task with regulation and clarity.

2. Choice of Testing Format When Possible

Accommodation:
Offer alternatives to live proctoring and surveillance-based testing environments, such as instructor-led assessments, asynchronous formats, or take-home assignments.

Why This Matters for an Autistic GLP:
The presence of an unseen or unpredictable authority figure (e.g., remote proctor) in an environment with open audio/visual monitoring and potential interruptions is inherently destabilising to GLP systems. It replicates traumatic conditions of surveillance, triggers masking, and prevents authentic demonstration of knowledge. Verbal cues from strangers cannot be integrated in real time. Offering asynchronous or instructor-proctored options restores relational trust and environmental predictability, which are prerequisites for GLP cognitive engagement.

3. Additional Time for All Assessments

Accommodation:
Minimum 1.5x time (preferably double time) on all timed assessments, especially those involving unfamiliar interfaces or high language complexity.

Why This Matters for an Autistic GLP:
GLPs retrieve and construct language non-linearly. Processing prompts, interpreting spreadsheet formats, and composing responses all take significantly more time because the system must “gather the gestalt” before responding. Under time pressure, this becomes impossible. [Student] may shut down, skip over the right answer, or become stuck mid-task due to processing delays. Without extended time, the test measures speed—not knowledge—and punishes her cognitive wiring.

4. Use of Sensory and Environmental Regulation Tools

Accommodation:
Permit the use of noise-cancelling headphones, fidget tools, and visual barriers during testing. Ensure a quiet, non-distracting space for all exams.

Why This Matters for an Autistic GLP:
Overstimulation is a fast route to language disintegration in GLPs. Auditory clutter or visual chaos leads to shutdowns, gestural freeze, and lost capacity to organise thoughts. Sensory tools allow [Student] to maintain co-regulation, stay grounded in her body, and continue to retrieve gestalts meaningfully. Prohibiting these tools denies access to the internal supports she relies on to maintain functional communication.

5. Written Instructions and Prompts (No Verbal-Only Directions)

Accommodation:
All directions must be provided in written form—preferably ahead of time and in Plain Language. This includes pre-test instructions, testing platform navigation, and what to do at test completion.

Why This Matters for an Autistic GLP:
[Student] experiences auditory processing delays and is often unable to comprehend or retain verbal-only instructions. She also struggles to decode vague or figurative phrasing. Without access to visual, literal instructions, she may misunderstand the task or get stuck at procedural bottlenecks. Written instructions allow her to re-process, compare with existing gestalts, and integrate expectations into a workable action plan.

6. Plain Language, Direct Interaction from Proctors

Accommodation:
Proctors must be instructed to use clear, literal, step-by-step language when interacting with [Student]. No metaphors, idioms, sarcasm, or small talk. Prompts should be limited to those necessary for procedural support.

Why This Matters for an Autistic GLP:
GLP systems rely on emotionally safe, grounded exchanges to process incoming language. Small talk, jokes, and metaphor are perceived as noise, and can derail [Student]’s entire cognitive state during a high-pressure task. Casual rapport-building attempts from proctors often land as threat cues to autistic students. Direct, respectful communication increases her capacity to remain regulated and focused.

7. Pre-Test Familiarisation Option

Accommodation:
Offer access to a non-evaluative test demo or walk-through (via video or sandbox) so [Student] can explore the test interface and pacing without stakes.

Why This Matters for an Autistic GLP:
GLPs form meaningful gestalts over time. [Student] must familiarise herself with the tools and language structure before the test to avoid cognitive collapse under pressure. Without this opportunity, she risks being disoriented by unfamiliar formats, unable to generalise prior learning to the test setting. Familiarisation supports executive function, decreases anxiety, and builds usable internal scaffolding for the assessment itself.

Final Note

[Student] is a bright, capable student with strong insight, empathy, and analytical skills. Without these accommodations, the testing process itself—not the content—becomes the barrier. These supports are not about lowering standards; they are about removing artificial constraints that punish her for communicating and understanding differently. Her ability to succeed is contingent on institutions making space for her way of being.

Please don’t hesitate to contact me if further clarification or documentation is needed.

Sincerely,
Some approved provider with the requisite license number.

What Would Happen If This Letter Hit the WGU Disability Support System

What follows is the exercise we didn’t have to follow through on—but could have. A thought experiment, game plan, cost–benefit map. We imagined what would happen if we took this carefully crafted, collaboratively written accommodations letter—one grounded in my daughter’s SOP, in current best practices for neurodivergent support, in both IDEA and ADA—and actually sent it to WGU’s Student Disability Services. What would happen when the letter, with all its nuance and justification, met the hard machinery of WGU’s assessment system?

The results weren’t heartening.

Headphones were among the first sticking points. The use of noise-cancelling or over-the-ear headphones to block out ambient environmental noise—something fairly standard in many secondary school testing environments for students with sensory integration differences—is categorically banned in WGU’s online proctoring policies (Section E: Being Successful with Online Proctoring). The reason, as far as we can tell, is to preserve the integrity of audio monitoring by the proctor, who is expected to listen for signs of misconduct during the assessment. But for someone like my daughter, the constant low-level hum of electronics, distant street noise, or even her own laptop’s fan can compete for cognitive bandwidth. And the option of in-ear audio for on-screen prompts or clarifications is off the table too. Not allowed. This need—documented, reasonable, supported by her SOP and decades of educational precedent—is rendered “unreasonable” by the school’s blanket policy. Likelihood of being approved: 0%.

Requests for an alternative format—such as replacing an automated spreadsheet-marking system with a human grader, or allowing a more accessible form of assessment that still measures the same competencies—fall squarely into the “fundamentally alters the structure of the exam” category, as defined by WGU’s SDS in their response. This is a masterstroke of administrative language: once a support is deemed to change the structure rather than facilitate access to it, it is automatically excluded from consideration. No discussion of undue burden. No weighing of options. Just a policy wall. This matters because my daughter’s particular difficulties aren’t in the conceptual elements of accounting or data manipulation—they’re in deciphering ambiguous instructions, navigating inaccessible interfaces, and having no path to clarify a step once the test is in motion. Without the option for human grading or alternate demonstration of knowledge, a substantial portion of her cognitive labour is redirected from answering the question to decoding the format. Likelihood: 0–5%, depending on the phrasing—but essentially dead on arrival.

Sensory support tools—like fidget objects, weighted lap pads, or a familiar physical object to self-regulate—are not explicitly banned in the policy documents, but they are not acknowledged either. And WGU’s proctoring protocol is built on visual surveillance, not collaborative access planning. Any object within view must be justified in advance and pre-approved. Proctors are trained to flag “suspicious” items, not support tools. There is no clear channel in the Meazure setup process to document or validate such supports. And if the proctor finds them distracting, they have discretion to pause or terminate the session. As such, sensory support tools fall into a grey zone where denial is likely—not because they’re unreasonable, but because they’re unfamiliar to the system. Likelihood: 15–25%, contingent on prior approval and the mood of the day.

Written-only instruction—that is, receiving all proctor instructions in written form rather than via sudden audio or unpredictable chat prompts—seems like the kind of accommodation that might be feasible. After all, Meazure Learning already uses chat-based communication during exam setup and technical troubleshooting. For students with auditory processing delays or gestalt language profiles, having consistent, written prompts instead of disjointed verbal interruptions would significantly reduce cognitive load.

But when we look closer, even this modest support runs into structural uncertainty. There’s no formal mechanism to guarantee that instructions will always appear in writing, or that those instructions will be delivered in Plain Language. Proctors can—and frequently do—interrupt with spoken comments, particularly if they interpret a student’s behaviour as a compliance issue. Whilst WGU is the party from whom we’re requesting the accommodation, they outsource the entire proctoring process to Meazure Learning. And since we have no visibility into the contract between WGU and Meazure, we cannot determine whether Meazure is even required to train proctors in accessibility protocols, let alone neurodiversity-aware communication. What we can see—via Meazure’s publicly available job postings—is that their hiring priorities centre around tech fluency, conversational English, and procedural adherence. There is no mention of supporting diverse learners or adapting to individual communication needs. So even if WGU were to approve this accommodation on paper, its implementation would remain inconsistent and vulnerable to the discretion of an untrained third-party proctor, operating under an opaque and efficiency-driven model.

In other words, even if WGU grants this accommodation in theory, the third-party proctor may have no training or directive to implement it in practice. And without built-in accountability or clarity in the testing workflow, it’s more likely that any attempt to rely solely on written instruction will leave the student unsure, overstimulated, or frozen in place—exactly the outcome the accommodation was meant to prevent.

Likelihood: 60–70% nominal approval; <40% meaningful implementation.

Extended time is, ironically, the most likely support to be approved—perhaps because it is also the least disruptive to the testing infrastructure. It doesn’t require procedural change. It doesn’t alter the marking system. It doesn’t challenge the logic of standardisation. But here too, we encounter limits. The stressors that interfere with my daughter’s test-taking—sensory overwhelm, ambiguous instructions, lack of feedback—are not primarily about speed. In fact, a visually displayed timer can heighten distress, because it visually reinforces how long she’s been “stuck” on a step. It’s like watching a countdown whilst your parachute fails to open. So whilst this accommodation is likely to be approved, it is of limited usefulness unless paired with others. Likelihood: 95% approval; 30% efficacy.

In sum: even if we went back to the doctor, even if we pushed for a new neuropsych and documented every support need again, even if we mapped everything to ADA language and brought in a legal advocate—we’d still likely end up with only the supports that WGU already offers everyone: extra time, maybe chat, maybe breaks. And none of the ones that actually address my daughter’s specific profile as an AuDHD gestalt language processor navigating a high-control, low-flexibility system.

That’s the cost–benefit analysis. Not emotional. Just the odds. And right now, they don’t stack in her favour.

Even If She Went Back to Kaiser

Even if we decided to start the whole process over—if we went back to Kaiser, submitted to hours of re-evaluation, filled out intake forms all over again, and sat through the same diagnostic interviews she’s already endured—nothing would fundamentally change. Yes, we could probably secure a new letter. One that ticks all the right clinical boxes, stamped with the authority of a licensed psychiatrist. One that affirms, in medical language, everything we already know to be true from lived experience and educational documentation. But even then—even with the letter in hand, signed and sealed—WGU has already made their position clear. In their own words, they are unwilling to implement any accommodation that would “fundamentally alter” their standardised testing model. And by their framing, many of her actual access needs fall into that disallowed category. So we’d be back where we started.

And the cost? Each appointment at Kaiser is a $20 copay. The nearest office equipped to do this type of re-evaluation is a two-hour round trip from where we live—about 100 miles each way. That’s nearly $25 in petrol for my old Honda, which gets about 40 miles to the gallon. Multiply that by multiple visits, lost hours of work, executive load, recovery time—and for what? To secure a document that may very well be dismissed on arrival. Because this isn’t about documentation. It’s about design. Institutional design that was never built for students like my daughter—and, in fact, subtly ensures that students like her will remain unseen, unaccommodated, and unsupported.

Why This Isn’t Really About WGU

This isn’t really about WGU. They’re the case study—the name on the envelope—but they’re far from alone. Most modern universities, especially those built on standardised models and outsourced infrastructure (Canvas & etc.), operate under the same fundamental assumptions: that standardisation equals fairness, that automation ensures integrity, and that surveillance guarantees security. It’s a logic rooted in industrial efficiency, not human understanding. And for autistic students—especially those of us who are AuDHD and gestalt processors—those assumptions aren’t just unwelcoming. They’re actively hostile.

These systems flatten communication, punishing anyone whose processing style doesn’t align with their expected pace or format. They treat sensory distress and cognitive overload not as signals of unmet need, but as compliance issues. They interpret deviation from the norm not as difference, but as potential dishonesty. What gets lost in all of this is the person—the student—trying to engage, trying to access, trying to learn.

That’s why, in my previous article, I offered a sample inquiry letter. It’s a simple tool: a few paragraphs students and parents can send to any prospective school’s disability services office. But it does something powerful—it surfaces the institution’s values. If a school responds with warmth, clarity, and a willingness to adapt, that’s a promising sign. But if, like WGU, they reply with vague policies, rigid refusals, or legalese that prioritises systems over students, then you know exactly what kind of support—or lack of it—you’re walking into. This story is just one example. The bigger pattern is everywhere.

Mentor Text for Surviving the System

I’m not sharing all of this just to critique—though yes, the system deserves critique. I’m sharing it to equip. The accommodations letter we drafted—scratched out over coffee and then revised into something precise—isn’t just an anecdote. It’s a mentor text. A roadmap. A survival tool for other parents trying to navigate the opaque and often hostile terrain of university disability services. For autistic students trying to advocate for themselves when every request is framed as unreasonable. For educators and case managers trying to write transition plans that actually transition.

This is what it takes—not just documentation, but specificity; not just diagnosis, but translation; not just advocacy, but stamina. That specificity includes, when possible, full clinician details: licence number, state of practice, credentials tied to diagnostic criteria—because schools can and do rotate on a dime, and a document with clear provenance is harder to dismiss.

Even then, it might not be enough—not because the student is asking for too much, but because institutions often aren’t built to understand what it really means to be neurodivergent.

The letter, the audit, the back-and-forth—they’re here not as a fix, but as illumination. They’re meant to show the effort required, so that the next person doesn’t have to start from scratch. So that the next autistic GLP student—or their parent, or their transition‑planning teacher—knows: you’re not alone in this fight.

Because downstream, the stakes are only rising. In my earlier piece, The Pause Is Over, I mapped the direction things are heading—fewer credentialled specialists, more automated systems, sharper cost-cutting logic. If increasingly, the “experts” you can afford are under‑licensed, or simulated, or entirely AI-driven—what happens to students whose needs rely on subtle clinical insight, nuanced understanding, and experienced advocacy?

In that future landscape, these tools—the SOP, the specific letter of accommodations, the audit of system resistance—become lifelines. They stand between neurodivergent capacity and institutional erasure. Without them, there’s even less chance of being seen.

Closing Reflection: This Is About Economics, Not Equity

At the core, this isn’t about misunderstanding. It’s about economics.

Standardisation lowers costs. Automation reduces labour. Predictability protects liability. This is the logic driving institutions like WGU—not pedagogical curiosity, not a commitment to human growth, but the same cold calculus that governs every other extractive industry under late capitalism. Accommodations that require human judgement, nuance, or relational understanding? Those don’t scale. They don’t slot easily into a data dashboard. They require time, care, discretion—things that aren’t efficient, and therefore aren’t allowed.

So they’re denied. Not because they’re frivolous. Not because they’re unjustified. But because they’re expensive.

And here’s the bitter irony: WGU markets itself as flexible. As accessible. As built for working adults and non-traditional students. But their refusal to accommodate students like my daughter isn’t a failure of understanding—it’s a strategic decision. It’s a business model dressed in the language of inclusion. I’m sure WGU’s SDS has written dozens—maybe hundreds—of letters just like the one we received. I’m sure other universities have too. Because this isn’t just about one school. It’s about a system designed to extract value from students whilst giving back the bare minimum required to avoid legal challenge.

As I wrote in The College Debt Trap, the modern university no longer serves the public. It serves its bondholders. Its function is to generate returns, not knowledge. And in that model, disabled students—especially neurodivergent ones who need time, clarity, and human presence—are a bad investment. We cost too much. We don’t fit the mould. We complicate the script.

And so the message is delivered with a smile and a signature block: you are welcome here, but only if you come without needs. Only if you can pass for typical. Only if you don’t slow down the machine.

But I’m sharing this story so others don’t have to learn this lesson the hard way. So they can spot the warning signs early. So they know what to ask, what to expect—and what it actually takes to survive a system that was never built for us.