The Light That Remains: Wintering, Glitter, and the 21-Year Cliff

I have been loving the moments of warm sunshine lately. It tells me we are shifting from winter into spring—a transition that always feels a bit exposed. After the long, quiet interior work of "wintering" in our meditation practice this year, the spring sun arrives, hits the floor at just the right angle, and reveals that it is time to awaken.

The dark, quiet moments of winter feel protective to me—a way to hunker down and, if I’m lucky, rest. But in this quiet, I am often reminded of what and who is missing.

My father died 43 years ago. Even after four decades, this month finds me missing him with a sharpness that defies the passage of time. I read somewhere, "The sun shifts forever, and we simply learn to walk in the light that remains." Through this lens, grief is like GLITTER. In the beginning, it’s everywhere—in your hands, your hair, scattered across every corner of your life. You try to clean it up, to "get back to normal," and for a while, you think you’ve succeeded. But then, years later, you move a chair and there it is—a single, stubborn shimmer. You don't get rid of it; you just learn to carry it. Eventually, you even smile at it, because it reminds you of someone who mattered so much.

I’m seeing that shimmer everywhere right now. I see it in the hope for the twin babies my daughter is carrying. I see it in sunsets shared with family. But as the April sun shifts, it is also hitting the darker corners of my professional life, revealing things I can no longer ignore.

When I left for spring break last week, I felt like a dead animal laid out flat on the road. That is the most honest opening I can give you. For thirty years, I’ve looked for better names for my work than "special education,” searching for terms that don’t feel like a dead end. But lately, the system feels less like a path and more like a ROAD TO NOWHERE.

As I poured over my journals, the word that kept surfacing was disgusted.

As educators and yogis, we are trained to be "keepers of optimism." But why are we going backwards? Why, in an era where we know more than ever about the nervous system and neuro-affirming care, are we retreating into silos and one-size-fits-all models? When I insist on the humanity of my students in a broken system, I become a mirror—and for those who find comfort in the status quo, the mirror is an inconvenience. It’s easier to label me as "difficult" than to admit the system is failing.

Why the Shimmer Matters: The 21-Year Cliff

This isn't just about my frustration; it’s about the "Why" behind the fight. I recently read about abc.net.au/news/2026-03…. Her story, spanning 36 years, highlights the 21-year cliff.

Publicly funded education is a fleeting window. Once a child hits 21, the legal protections of IDEA vanish, leaving families to ask the heartbreaking question: "What will happen to my son when I die?" When we deny students FAPE (Free Appropriate Public Education) now, we aren't just failing a school year; we are denying families their only window for inclusive settings. We are sweeping away the glitter before it even has a chance to catch the light.

Looking at these beginnings—the twins, the students, the legacy of my father—has forced me to look at my own mortality. It has made me fiercely protective of where I choose to plant my heart and energy.

I think this winter made me realize that my dedication—to my students, to TANA, to my research—isn't just a task. It is glitter I’ve scattered. Even if the "system" doesn't see it, or someone tries to sweep my efforts away, that shimmer remains in the lives I hope I’ve touched.

So, what’s next?

Am I a bridge, or am I just part of the road getting run over? I don’t know yet. But my disgust is a sign of life; it’s proof I haven’t gone numb. If the system isn't ready for a seat at my table, I know people who are. The work of neuro-affirming care and radical belonging doesn't require permission to exist.

As the April sun shifts, I am watching the light move, trusting the glitter I’ve scattered is enough, and listening for the moment my own heart says it is time for a different road.