Imagine being a first grader, unable to read, dragged out of your classroom by strangers, and locked in a nurse’s office for hours. This isn’t a hypothetical scenario—it’s the lived experience of Sunday Koffron Taylor, co-founder of Michigan Advocates to End Seclusion & Restraint (EndSaR). Her story isn’t just a relic of the past; it’s a haunting reminder of how schools still grapple with outdated, harmful practices. Today, thousands of Michigan students face similar fates, often in the name of safety. But what if the real danger isn’t the child in crisis, but the system that fails to understand them? This isn’t just about policy—it’s about redefining what it means to protect the most vulnerable.
The debate over seclusion and restraint in Michigan schools is less about the techniques themselves and more about the mindset that allows them to persist. For over a decade, the state has had laws meant to curb these practices, yet they remain alarmingly common. Why? Because the problem isn’t just legal loopholes—it’s a cultural inertia. Schools are still treating trauma as an emergency rather than a signal to change the environment. When a student with disabilities is restrained, it’s rarely about preventing harm; it’s about managing behavior through force. What makes this particularly fascinating is how the very systems designed to support these children often become the source of their deepest wounds. It’s a paradox that screams for reevaluation.
State Senator Stephanie Chang’s proposed bill aims to ban seclusion entirely and restrict restraint to true emergencies. On the surface, this seems like a no-brainer. But here’s where the rubber meets the road: the bill’s success hinges on more than just legal changes. It requires a seismic shift in how educators are trained and how schools are funded. Critics argue that eliminating these practices without providing alternatives is naive. And they’re not wrong—what’s the alternative if a student is actively harming themselves or others? The answer, however, shouldn’t be more force. It should be more support. If you take a step back and think about it, this isn’t just about kids with disabilities. It’s about every child who feels unseen, unheard, and unmet by a system that prioritizes control over connection.
The opposition from educators like Kirsten Myers raises a deeper question: Are we asking teachers to solve problems they weren’t trained for? She’s right that defining what constitutes an emergency is crucial. But her insistence that seclusion and restraint are necessary in crises ignores the trauma they inflict. A detail that I find especially interesting is the fact that many districts already have trauma-informed training programs. Yet, these tools are underutilized. Why? Because the culture of schools hasn’t caught up to the science. If educators are given the right tools, would they still reach for restraints? Or would they instead ask, ‘What is causing this child to act out?’ That’s the real test of this bill—not its wording, but its willingness to challenge the status quo.
The human cost of these practices is staggering. Sunday Koffron Taylor’s lifelong distrust of authority wasn’t born from a single incident—it was the cumulative effect of being treated as a threat rather than a person. This isn’t just a personal story; it’s a microcosm of a national crisis. The death of Cornelius Frederick, a 16-year-old suffocated during restraint, is a tragic case study in how systemic failures can kill. What this really suggests is that we’ve been waiting too long to confront the reality that seclusion and restraint aren’t solutions—they’re symptoms of a broken system. If we continue to normalize this, we’re not protecting children. We’re perpetuating cycles of harm.
At the heart of this debate lies a fundamental question: What kind of society do we want to build? A system that reacts with force, or one that proactively addresses the root causes of distress? The federal push to outlaw seclusion in schools receiving federal funding is a step in the right direction, but it’s not enough. We need to stop treating trauma as an exception and start designing schools that are trauma-responsive by default. This isn’t about political ideology—it’s about practicality. If we’re going to invest in education, why not invest in the mental health infrastructure that makes it possible? The answer, of course, is that we’ve never done it before. But that’s exactly the point: Change is overdue.
As we look ahead, the stakes couldn’t be higher. The proposed bill in Michigan is a chance to rewrite the narrative—not just for students, but for educators, families, and the entire community. It’s a chance to say, ‘We value our children enough to try something different.’ But this won’t happen without resistance. There will be those who argue that safety requires sacrifice, that restraint is a necessary evil. To them, I say: What if the real evil is the idea that restraint is ever necessary? The future of education depends on the courage to ask that question—and to act on the answer.
