What My Professors Never Told Me About Being a SpEdTeacher
Reflections of a SpEd student turned SpEd teacher
A recent EdWeek article caused a bit of reflection. Here’s six hard truths from nearly four years as an RSP teacher stretched too thin.
When I was studying to become a special education teacher, my professors glossed over topics like IEPs, accommodations, differentiation, and inclusion. Learning to be come a teacher over Zoom and during the pandemic, they never quite prepared me for the realities of being an RSP teacher with an oversized caseload whilst also co-teaching multiple maths courses.
Four years in, here are some difficult truths I've learned:
Your work is essential, but overwhelmingly demanding.
As a special educator, you play a vital role in supporting some of the most vulnerable students. But managing a caseload well over the maximum whilst also planning and teaching geometry and statistics is more than a full-time job. It’s never-ending and utterly exhausting. There are no thanks that can make up for the physical and emotional toll.
Routine is key for autistic teachers, but nearly impossible to maintain.
With so many students and responsibilities pulling you in different directions, a consistent schedule is critical but always out of reach. You’re constantly putting out fires, going from one IEP meeting to a co-taught class to a evaluation to consulting with a general education teacher. Each day looks different and there’s hardly ever a moment to catch your breath.
Isolation is the norm, even when you're constantly collaborating.
RSP teachers are meant to be a bridge, working with students, families, general educators, paraprofessionals, administrators and more. But having a foot in so many doors often leaves you feeling you don’t fully belong anywhere. Despite all the meetings and consultations, it’s a lonely role. Your successes are overlooked and your challenges are yours to bear alone.
The true impact of your work is almost never visible.
When you’re responsible for the learning and well-being of so many students, it’s nearly impossible to give them each the full attention they deserve. You know the difference you could make if you had more time to work with students individually. Instead, you often feel like you’re barely keeping your head above water. You have to blindly hope you’re planting seeds that will someday grow.
You have the power to transform lives, even if it's not always clear.
On the toughest days, it’s tempting to question if you’re really making a difference. But even when stretched way too thin, you are uniquely positioned to be an advocate, role model and champion for students who are too often underestimated. Your belief in them and refusal to give up, even when the system makes it nearly impossible to meet their needs, plants seeds of resilience. You matter more than you know.
Final thoughts …
As a non-verbal autistic educator wearing multiple hats, I knew going into this field that it wouldn’t be easy. The sensory demands, communication challenges, and need for predictable routines are especially daunting in a role that’s already as demanding and under-supported as special education. There are many days when my caseload feels impossibly heavy and my impact impossibly small. And yet, even on the hardest days, I can’t imagine walking away. For me, teaching is a labour of love - a chance to support students who, like me, are too often underestimated and misunderstood. It’s an opportunity to show them, through my presence and unwavering belief in their potential, that disability does not define destiny. I'm here to stay, planting seeds of hope and advocating for change, no matter how rocky the soil. My professors may not have told me how hard it would be, but they also never told me how powerful it would feel to find my place and purpose as a teacher.