I grew up in St. Louis, Missouri and went to private school for Kindergarten through 12th grade. This means I did not go to school with students with identified disabilities, and to be honest, I can only remember two Black kids who were part of my community. This limited my worldview and perspective, and I believe it is important to my positionality. Prior to that, my parents enrolled me in a United Services preschool, which is quite possibly where my journey into disability began.

I knew I always wanted to be a teacher and started out as an Elementary Education major at the University of Missouri in Columbia. I was in the Chi Omega sorority and, as part of our philanthropy, I volunteered for Special Olympics. That first day with Special Olympics remains one of the top 10 days of my life and one that changed the course of my trajectory. I was filled with so much emotion and hope as I cheered on the athletes and danced with them on repeat to “I Believe in a Thing Called Love.” I knew these were my people, and I switched my major the next day.

In the Special Education undergraduate program at Mizzou, I studied under professors who exemplified the kind of educator I aspired to become. They instilled in me that teaching is a science, a message I pass on to my own preservice teachers. I got involved in research and saw a greater purpose in finding answers to problems and supporting the education of all students. I knew this was what I wanted to do with my life. Research combined my passion for education and my sixth-grade love for the scientific method. I was deeply impacted by the students with emotional and behavioral disorders (EBD) that I met during student teaching and decided to get a Master’s degree with a focus on this population.

I went to Vanderbilt to accomplish this goal and dove deeper into the research. I worked on projects related to Positive Behavior Interventions and Supports (PBIS). In Nashville, I gained more perspective on the diversity of school districts and the disparity of resources for some schools. My thesis focused on a self-contained teacher using response cards to improve the engagement of five middle school boys with EBD (Didion et al., 2018). The instruction for these students took place in a trailer behind the school for 80% of their day. It was shocking to still see this type of segregation in American public schools in the early 2000s.

After my master’s program, I moved to Wilmington, DE and taught 2nd and 3rd grade students with high-intensity support needs. In 2009, this school district was able to bus the students with the most support needs to a “learning center,” which was attached to another elementary school—but basically, it was an entirely segregated school for students with disabilities. While not an example of the inclusion we strive for today, the learning center was a truly beautiful place filled with hope and support. I had the privilege to work alongside some of the most exceptional teachers, paraprofessionals, and administrators.

Even more than the teachers, it was the students I had the honor of teaching who changed me for the better. It was a Title I school and, as a white woman (along with most of the other teachers), I was the minority. I taught students of all different disabilities—learning disabilities, EBD, autism, physical disabilities, intellectual disabilities, ADHD, and so forth. For five years, I taught in this self-contained setting, and in any given year my classroom had 12–15 students with 1–3 paraprofessionals. What a gift! I co-led our schoolwide PBIS, served on the district’s special education committee, math council, elementary grade reporting committee, building leadership team, and was a union representative for the Delaware State Education Association. I was a summer school teacher, homebound teacher, and Teacher of the Year.

During my fifth year, our school district made the decision to close the learning center and have all students return to their neighborhood schools. This was great—except it wasn’t. There was no clear plan on how to include and integrate the students into their home schools. Teachers and parents assembled and spoke up for our students. The transition needed to be planned and based in research. Teachers required training on co-teaching and evidence-based practices for instructing students with disabilities. At the very least, the district needed to include a representative from the learning center in the planning. The district agreed and delayed the closure for one year.

Through this advocacy, I had the opportunity to serve as the inclusion representative and co-teach during my sixth year as a special education teacher. This meant I shared a 2nd grade classroom with a general education teacher. Half of our students had IEPs and the others were in general education, although a majority were at-risk for disability. Since there were two teachers, administration was allowed to max out both our numbers, and there were points in the year we had more than 35 students. To say this was challenging is an understatement. I’m proud of how my co-teacher and I rose to meet the moment and provided the best education we could for all students. We divided the responsibilities, and every student was ours, despite whose caseload they were designated. Inclusion is not easy, but it matters—and when it works, it reflects a promise to the greater community.

I chose to teach for six years because I didn’t want to add to the statistic that most teachers leave the field after five. I knew I would eventually get my doctorate and return to my research dreams. So, I got involved in all aspects of education. I observed the actions of my colleagues, identified the problems, and asked questions. I learned there was power in using data to advocate for what I needed. I ran my classroom like a never-ending science experiment, using data to test my hypotheses for why students were not responding to my instruction or management. Seeing my instructional changes illustrated by data was empowering and supported my autonomy. I used research and data to advocate at board meetings, which contributed to a better inclusion plan for hundreds of students.

I even shared my love of data with my students. At one point, the district had all teachers set a goal for their students and mandated that it couldn’t be a current IEP goal listed on any student’s plan. Since it wasn’t an IEP goal, I forgot about it for almost half the year. When a fellow teacher talked about their goal at lunch one day, I panicked. The anxiety increased after I tested my students and realized they were far from the math fluency goal I wrote in September. That afternoon, I ran through the park to work out my stress, as I often did. My fitness watch buzzed because I hit a personal best on my mile time. I had a spark of clarity—my data were motivating for me and maybe it could do the same for my students. Since we were doing a landforms unit in science, I had the insight to teach students that their line graphs were like a mountain. This was the origin of Data Mountain. I made the first Data Mountain with tape on a bulletin board. I cut out mountain climbers with my students’ faces glued to popsicle sticks. The idea was that each time a student beat their high score, they would move their climber up the mountain. Comparing their line graphs to mountains each week, I could bring attention to the peaks and the valleys. Data are variable, and students need to know that it’s okay not to meet our goals every day. Instead, I focused on the trends and whether students were increasing over time. My students bought in, and together we scaled new academic heights. When my students took ownership of their data, their motivation and excitement mirrored the same autonomy I felt as a teacher. I knew I had something special.

When it was time to put the research behind Data Mountain, I landed at The University of Texas at Austin with a focus on learning disabilities. I learned that the practices behind Data Mountain taught students self-determination skills. Self-determination is often not a focus in elementary school due to competing academic demands (Didion et al., 2021). Yet, research supports its use to enhance academic and behavioral outcomes. I ran three studies on Data Mountain (Didion et al., 2020; Didion & Toste, 2021) and found it significantly impacted student outcomes in reading. In fact, evidence suggests it may double the rate students read words. I continue to investigate the effects of Data Mountain (Didion & Toste, 2021), extending students’ time with the program (Didion et al., 2025), and expanding to other populations (i.e., post-secondary; Didion et al., 2024). My goal is to move mountains in other academic areas, such as math (like in my classroom a decade ago). Ideally, a mountain peak is waiting for any skill that can be tracked by data.

Since I want every teacher to love data as much as I do—so they can feel the power of their instruction (Didion, 2024)—my research also focuses on high-quality professional development (PD). As a teacher, I went to many PDs that had nothing to do with my special education instruction. Often, I sat in eight-hour PD days walking away with no applicable skills. I knew this wasn’t effective learning, and teachers grumbled about the waste of time. So at UT, I began to explore the research on PD and discovered the field doesn’t collectively know what makes PD effective. Through a meta-analytic review of over 112 studies, I’ve learned that active participation, sustained support, and clear learning goals are critical to improving teachers’ knowledge, skills, and beliefs (Didion et al., 2025; Didion & Filderman, 2024). It also appears to be harder to change teachers’ beliefs compared to knowledge and skills. So, I’m asking questions about how to design effective PD that is truly relevant to teachers’ needs in order to improve their self-efficacy.

Currently, I am an Assistant professor at the University of Kansas. My career goal is to strengthen the data literacy skills of students and teachers through feasible interventions that have immediate and long-lasting effects. While I hope every teacher feels empowered by their data, I recognize that may not be the most pressing need for all educators right now. I gained valuable insight as a classroom teacher, but I also acknowledge that much has changed since then—and that teaching will continue to evolve. With that in mind, I aim to be an advocate for teachers and for their students with or at-risk for disabilities. I want to use my passion for data and research to meet teachers where they are and highlight the positive impact they have on their students.