Autonomy is often spoken about as though it were a destination, something one either possesses or does not. In practice, autonomy is far more dynamic. It is negotiated daily, shaped by environments, relationships, policies, and the expectations others project onto our bodies and minds. For people with disabilities in particular, autonomy is rarely treated as an inherent right; instead, it is frequently conditional, monitored, and rationed according to external assessments of competence, risk, or productivity.
Before proceeding, it is essential to clarify the meaning of ‘support levels,’ a term that may be unfamiliar to some readers. Within educational and service systems, support levels are classification frameworks used to describe the intensity and type of assistance a student may require to access learning and participate meaningfully. Broadly speaking, higher levels indicate a greater need for structured or ongoing support, while lower levels indicate fewer formal supports. These designations are intended to guide resource allocation; not to define a person’s intelligence, potential, or long-term capacity. Yet in practice, support levels often take on outsized meaning, shaping expectations, credibility, and autonomy far beyond their intended scope.
This piece sits at the intersection of memoir, reflection, and guidance. It examines how autonomy is cultivated over time, how decisions are learned rather than bestowed, and how preparing for the future is not a singular event but an evolving process. Drawing from my own educational journey, marked by shifting support levels throughout K–12, I explore how systems of support can both enable and constrain self-determination, and what it means to prepare for a future that remains uncertain yet worth claiming.
Support levels are often introduced as neutral classifications; tools designed to allocate resources and tailor instruction. In theory, they are meant to be responsive. In reality, they can easily become reductive, flattening complex individuals into static categories.
Throughout my K–12 education, my support needs were formally reassessed multiple times. In elementary school, I was designated as a Level 2, signaling a higher degree of structured support. By middle school, I occupied an in‑between space, fluctuating between Level 1 and Level 2. By the time I graduated high school, I exited the system as a Level 1.
On paper, this progression might read as a simple narrative of improvement or independence. Lived from the inside, it was far more nuanced. Each shift altered how adults spoke to me, what decisions I was allowed to make, and how much credibility my voice carried. Support levels, I learned, do not merely describe needs; they actively shape expectations.
Crucially, support levels are not moral judgments, nor are they predictors of future worth. They are administrative snapshots taken at particular moments in time. Treating them as permanent truths risks confusing support with surveillance and assistance with control.
In elementary school, being classified as Level 2 meant predictability and protection; but it also meant that many decisions were made on my behalf without my participation. Adults spoke around me rather than with me, often out of genuine concern. The emphasis was on safety, consistency, and minimizing risk.
At this stage, autonomy was subtle. It appeared in small choices: how I organized my materials, which sensory strategies worked best for me, and when I needed quiet. These moments mattered, even when they were overlooked. They formed the early scaffolding of self‑awareness.
Yet there was also an unspoken lesson embedded in this level of support: that decision‑making was something to be earned later, not practiced now. Well‑intentioned protection sometimes delays opportunities to experiment, fail, and recover; experiences that are foundational to learning judgment.
Middle school marked a period of ambiguity. I was no longer seen as needing the same intensity of support, yet I was not fully trusted with independence. Existing between Level 1 and Level 2 created both opportunities and friction.
This in‑between space mirrored adolescence itself, a time defined by transition. I was expected to advocate for myself more, to articulate needs rather than have them anticipated. At the same time, systems were slow to relinquish control. Autonomy was encouraged rhetorically but inconsistently honored in practice.
Here, decision‑making became more visible. I learned how to negotiate accommodations, how to weigh disclosure against privacy, and how to anticipate consequences. These were not abstract skills; they were survival tools. Importantly, I also learned that autonomy without support is not freedom, it is abandonment. What I needed was not the removal of assistance, but its recalibration.
Leaving high school as a Level 1 was often interpreted by others as an endpoint, a signal that support was no longer essential. In reality, it marked the beginning of a different challenge: navigating independence within systems that assume sameness.
At this level, expectations increased sharply. Self‑advocacy was no longer optional; it was presumed. Errors were less tolerated, and the margin for rest was narrowed. While I had greater control over decisions, I also encountered fewer safety nets.
This stage revealed a critical truth: autonomy does not eliminate the need for support. It changes its form. The danger lies in equating lower support needs with diminished legitimacy in asking for help. True preparation for the future requires dismantling the false binary between dependence and independence.
One of the most enduring myths surrounding autonomy is that some people are simply “good” decision‑makers while others are not. In reality, decision‑making is a skill cultivated through practice, reflection, and feedback.
For disabled individuals, opportunities to practice decision‑making are often constrained by risk‑averse systems. Mistakes are treated as evidence of incapacity rather than as part of learning. This logic extends beyond education into healthcare, employment, and housing.
Preparing for the future, then, must include intentional space for choice; real choices with real consequences. It also requires a cultural shift: valuing supported decision‑making over substituted decision‑making, and recognizing that interdependence is not a failure of autonomy but its most sustainable form.
Future‑planning is frequently framed as linear: education leads to employment, employment leads to stability, stability leads to fulfillment. This model excludes many lived realities, disabled and non‑disabled alike.
For me, preparing for the future has meant learning how to plan without over‑predicting, to set goals that are firm yet flexible. It has involved legal considerations, financial literacy, healthcare navigation, and emotional preparedness. Just as importantly, it has involved unlearning the idea that worth is measured by speed or conformity.
Across communities, disabled and otherwise, there is a growing recognition that resilience is not about self‑sufficiency but about access to people, resources, and environments that adapt as needs evolve.
While disability sharpens the stakes of autonomy, these questions extend far beyond any single community. Economic precarity, cultural expectations, family dynamics, and systemic inequities all influence who is allowed to make decisions and whose decisions are respected.
Within families, autonomy can be complicated by love, fear, and generational beliefs. Within institutions, it is shaped by policy and liability. Within society, it is filtered through assumptions about normalcy and value.
Recognizing these intersections allows for a more honest conversation: autonomy is not an individual achievement but a collective responsibility.
Looking back at my journey through shifting support levels, I no longer see a simple trajectory from dependence to independence. I see a gradual expansion of agency; sometimes encouraged, sometimes resisted. Each level taught me something different about power, trust, and self-knowledge, not because the labels themselves changed who I was, but because of how institutions and individuals responded to them.
Preparing for the future is not about proving readiness to an external authority. It is about cultivating the confidence and capacity to participate meaningfully in decisions that shape one’s own life, while having access to support that respects dignity rather than undermines it.
Autonomy, at its most authentic, is not granted after meeting a benchmark; it is practiced continuously, strengthened through trust, and sustained through interdependence.
Moving forward, we must resist the urge to treat support levels as destinations or finish lines. Instead, they should be understood as temporary tools within a broader, person-centered continuum. Educational systems, service providers, families, and policymakers all have a role to play in shifting from compliance-based models toward frameworks that emphasize supported decision-making, flexibility, and shared responsibility.
This means creating environments where individuals are allowed to practice choice early and often, where mistakes are treated as learning opportunities rather than evidence of incapacity, and where support is adjusted without being withdrawn. Preparing for the future, whether in education, employment, healthcare, or community life, requires us to value adaptability over rigidity and dignity over efficiency.
I invite educators, advocates, families, service providers, and policymakers to reflect critically on how autonomy is defined, taught, and either honored or restricted within the systems they influence. Ask whose voices are centered in decision-making processes, whose choices are routinely deferred or overridden, and where trust could be extended without sacrificing safety or support.
This work requires a shift from compliance-driven frameworks toward models that prioritize supported decision-making, flexibility, and dignity. It means embedding choice into everyday practice rather than reserving it for moments deemed “appropriate.” It means ensuring that transitions between grade levels, services, or life stages are not treated as administrative handoffs, but as relational processes that follow the person, not the program.
At a policy level, this calls for sustained investment in inclusive education, transition planning that begins early and evolves, and service systems that recognize interdependence as a strength. Metrics of success must move beyond speed, productivity, or perceived independence, and instead account for quality of life, access, and long-term sustainability.
For families and allies, the call is to resist urgency rooted in fear and replace it with preparation grounded in trust. Allow space for trial, error, and growth. Autonomy develops not in isolation, but through relationships that balance guidance with respect.
For individuals navigating these systems, know that needing support does not diminish your right to self-determination. Preparing for the future is not about fitting a predefined mold or reaching a sanctioned level; it is about building a life that reflects your values, priorities, and evolving needs. Your voice belongs in every conversation that shapes your path.
Thank you for taking the time to engage with this reflection. Whether you read this as a fellow self-advocate, an ally, a professional, or someone quietly questioning how autonomy is measured and respected, your attention matters. Conversations like these move us closer to systems that see people not as levels or categories, but as whole individuals; capable of growth, deserving of trust, and worthy of futures built with intention and care.
Ian Allan
Self-Advocate for The Arc of Northern Virginia
Ian Allan is a self-advocate with a deep commitment to policy literacy, systems change, and disability justice. Through The Arc of Northern Virginia, he works to ensure that people with intellectual and developmental disabilities are not merely served by systems, but are actively shaping them.
As a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization, The Arc of Northern Virginia relies on private support from individuals, corporations, organizations, and foundations to fund our efforts. Your generous donations help make it possible for us to provide programs, services, and advocacy so that people with IDD can live “A Life Like Yours.”
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