From Dress-Up to Disclosure: What Pretend Play Teaches Us About Self-Advocacy

Before We Ask for Accommodations, We Learn to Ask for a Turn

The dress-up box is where children first practice asking for what they need.

“Can I play, too?”

It sounds like such a simple question.

If you’ve ever set foot inside an early childhood classroom, it’s one you’ve probably heard dozens of times before the lunch bell even rings. One child wants to join a game of house. Another one wants to help build the block tower. A third asks to be the veterinarian and not the puppy. To an outside observer, these moments can seem very ordinary –– just another part of childhood.

But what if these are some of our very first lessons in self-advocacy?

We often think of self-advocacy as something taught much later in life –– middle schoolers learning to speak up against peer-pressure, high schoolers preparing for transitions, college students requesting accommodations. Yet long before children even know words like accommodation or self-determination, they are already practicing the skills that make those conversations possible.

They are learning through play.

Play is Practice

In the dress-up corner, children negotiate roles. “How about you be the doctor?” “I want to be the princess this time.” “Can we switch now?” On the playground, they solve disagreements, discover that their voices matter, and learn that asking for help is not the same as giving up.

For children with disabilities, these moments can be especially meaningful. An autistic child might use dramatic play to rehearse conversations and social scripts before those interactions carry real-world consequences. A child using AAC might use a pretend grocery store to practice initiating conversations or asking for help with their communication device. A child with a physical disability might direct a rescue mission or organize classmates during pretend construction — a reminder that leadership isn't defined by physical ability.

Looking back, I realize I was one of those children. As an autistic child who is also blind, pretend play became a place where I quietly rehearsed the world. I experimented with responses, facial expressions, and different ways of understanding people — I simply thought I was pretending to be a teacher, a chef... or Britney Spears. Years later, I see I was learning to navigate relationships and communicate my needs in a space where mistakes carried no consequences, and I controlled what happened next.

The Long Arc of Advocacy

I teach college students through the lens of disability studies, I often see self-advocacy framed as though it begins with accommodation letters, but the student who says, “I’d like to request accommodations,” is drawing on the same skills first practiced years earlier.

“May I have a turn?” “Can you help me with this?” “I’d like to do it this way.”

Different words. Different context. The same developmental connective tissue.

What This Means for Educators

Educators don't need another curriculum to nurture self-advocacy –– it grows through small shifts. Instead of assigning every role in dramatic play, we can invite children to negotiate them together. Instead of stepping in to resolve every disagreement, we might ask, "What ideas do you have?" Those conversations take longer, but they give children something more valuable than a quick solution: the chance to find one themselves.

We can also celebrate advocacy just as much as independence. When a child asks for another turn, requests help, or tells us that something isn't working, they're practicing a skill that will serve them for years. Pretend restaurants, veterinary clinics, and construction sites aren't interruptions to learning; they are the learning. These small moments tell a child: Your ideas matter. Your voice matters. You belong here.

Looking Forward

Every semester, I meet students learning to have advocacy conversations for the first time, and I find myself wishing they’d had more opportunities to practice long before college. The good news is that many of those opportunities already exist — we simply call them play.

This is the heart of what we mean when we say play access is an equity issue: it isn't only about joy and imagination, though it is certainly that. It's about which children get the chance to rehearse using their voice, and which don't.

Long before those conversations begin, though, they may have started with four simple words: “Can I play, too?”