Why My Daughter with Down Syndrome Won't be Going to Her Homecoming Dance

and how a lack of inclusion leads to exclusion.

Before my daughter, Macy, could walk, she was dancing. She would scoot around on her tush, and if she heard music, she’d stop and sway from side to side, her hands in the air.

Dancing is one of Macy’s greatest joys.

Macy also loves being around people. She seeks out social gatherings, observing, smiling, and soaking it all in. For her, the perfect scenario is a dance floor—a room full of fun, a DJ at the front, and space to move her body to the beat.

She’s the one who will shut. it. down. At sixteen, her dad and I know we won’t leave until the DJ plays the last song. Trust me, it’s not an option.

But there's another side to Macy's story. Despite her love of people and dancing, friendship and community have been a challenge throughout her adolescent and teenage years. The reasons are many, layered, and complicated. And it breaks my heart.

Macy is in 10th grade at a high school of 2,500 students. She’s in the Life Skills program, designed for students with intellectual and multiple disabilities. While she takes theater arts and ceramics with general education students, most of her day is spent separated from the rest of the school, with limited opportunities to be part of the larger community.

However, this year, she has a bright spot—her best friend, Stella, is a freshman at her school. Stella is not in the Life Skills program. She takes advanced placement classes and was thrilled at the idea of spending time with Macy at school. I wanted it to all play out the way Stella and Macy hoped it would, but I knew their experiences at school were worlds apart. Stella’s dream of being with Macy at the same high school would be an uphill battle, neither of them equipped to fight alone.

Take lunch, for example. For most friends, it’s a simple “Let’s meet at the blue table by the gym.” But Macy, who spends her day in the Life Skills area, unfamiliar with most of the campus, needs support just to get to that blue table. Her lack of exposure to her campus along with her intellectual disability makes this simple plan anything but easy.

There’s one club on campus that aims to bridge the gap between disabled and non-disabled students, with a stated goal of fostering a sense of community. Macy and Stella both joined. But so far, Macy’s experience with the club has been limited to non-disabled members volunteering to eat lunch with the Life Skills students on Tuesdays and hosting an end of year "prom" in the middle of the school day, exclusively for the Life Skills students.

Now that I’ve set the stage, let me tell you about homecoming.

Stella and Macy were ecstatic about going to homecoming together. They bought sparkly dresses, made plans, and then—just days before the dance—a wildfire broke out in a neighboring community. School was canceled for the week, and so was the dance.

It was rescheduled for a weekend when Stella and her family were out of town.

The girls were crushed.

To make up for it, they got dressed up on the night of the originally scheduled dance—hair, makeup, sparkly dresses, the works. Our families took them out for a fancy dinner at a place with live music, and Macy and Stella shut it down. They danced until the band played its last note. It was magical. Stella’s mom and I left with hearts full of joy, knowing we had given them their own special homecoming.

I wish that was the end of the story. But unfortunately, it’s not.

A few weeks later, Macy, still on a high from her "homecoming," came home excited about the rescheduled dance. She wanted to go so badly.

We tried reminding her she’d already had her homecoming. While she was grateful for the night she had with Stella, she wanted to go to the school's dance, just like her peers.

But Macy is not like most of her peers. She’s a student with Down syndrome who spends most of her time apart from the rest of the school.

I know the lack of community Macy has at school. I also know that homecoming is a social event, and it’s rare—if ever—that someone goes to a dance alone. Especially a student who already finds themselves “othered” at school. I was determined that Macy wouldn’t go alone either. But with Stella out of town, I had to find someone for Macy to go with.

I started by asking if any of the Life Skills students were attending. I was told no.

I thought about the club, the one where students volunteer to have lunch with Macy. But the longer Macy is part of the club, the easier it is for me to believe that, unlike Stella, they see Macy as a volunteer opportunity, not a friend. None of them have reached out to her outside of Tuesday lunches or the “prom” at the end of the year.

So, I emailed the club advisors and president. I shared how much potential the club has to truly build community and belonging for students like Macy. I told them Macy would love to attend homecoming but had no one to go with, and that this could be a great opportunity for the club to foster inclusion. I emphasized that Macy deserves more than just a lunch buddy on Tuesdays.

I haven’t heard back.

Homecoming is four days away as I write this. Macy, her dad, and I had to sit down and explain the situation. She doesn’t understand. She’s deeply disappointed and confused. And I hesitate to lay it all out for her.

There’s a reality Macy faces as a teenage girl with Down syndrome, a reality I still try to shield her from. It’s a reality reflected in the actions—and inactions—of her school community. A reality that says people with Down syndrome are still seen as "less than," slotted for “that program, over there.” A reality where a club designed to foster inclusion gives its non-disabled members a pat on the back for eating lunch once a week with Macy, while failing to create genuine, lasting connections.

My daughter won’t be going to her homecoming dance this weekend. And while I want to say I’m confused, the truth is, I’m not. I’m disheartened. After 16 years of tirelessly working to build Macy the community she deserves, I can’t find one person to go to a dance with her.

Instead, she’ll be at home on Saturday night, not by choice. We’ll play her favorite music, and she’ll dance. By golly, she’ll dance. And I’ll keep praying for the day Macy becomes a known and cherished member of her school community. I’ll keep shining a light on the flaws in the system meant to support that.

And I’ll hold on to hope that next year, (please dear Jesus)  Macy will go to homecoming with the group of friends she dreams of being part of.