LOUDER THAN LABELS w/Saran Tugsjargal

Saran Tugsjargal is a trailblazer—the first Mongolian American official in the U.S. and a national youth fellow for the U.S. Department of Labor’s CAPE-Youth, representing over 2.3 million students with disabilities. Living with multiple disabilities, she’s turned adversity into advocacy, leading education reform efforts across the country. At just 18 years of age, from mentoring dozens of families to helping pass state legislation, Saran is proving that disability doesn’t diminish leadership—it can shape it in extraordinary ways.

ALLIÉ: Take us back to the beginning, Saran. I’d like to know what life was like for you growing up as a Mongolian American with multiple disabilities. What are some of your earliest memories of how your differences were seen by others?

SARAN: Basically, when I was three years old, I wasn’t able to walk or speak well. I had significant physical and intellectual delays. Growing up with that was always very challenging. I didn’t know how to ride a bike. I didn’t know how to hold a pencil properly. I was far behind my peers, and that made me feel very isolated. I felt segregated. I often didn’t know what to do or how to engage. Because I was born with those barriers, I went through a lot of support systems—physical therapy, occupational therapy, speech therapy—all these different therapies. And no matter how well-intentioned they were, I often saw them as oppressive. I just wanted to be normal. I wanted to be like my peers, playing with dolls and toys, going outside, kicking a ball—but I didn’t have that growing up.

Most mornings, my mom would take me to the hospital for therapy appointments. That became my routine. I missed out on many opportunities, especially when it came to making friends. That was my reality as someone with multiple disabilities—someone who is neurodivergent. I always felt different. I felt dumb in some ways. Even though support systems were meant to help, I saw them as a reminder of how different I was. I thought I’d always be different, always feel this way. For many years, I hated my disabilities. It was taboo to talk about them, and it was painful to feel so different.

ALLIÉ: How did other people treat you? How did your peers respond to your differences? You mentioned feeling isolated and different—did anyone reach out to help you feel connected?

SARAN: That’s a really good question. Growing up, I faced a lot of bullying. When I had accommodations or was pulled from class to take a test, my peers would see that and think of me as the “dumb, low kid.” I was told things like, “People like you with disabilities will never be successful. Why would anyone want to be your friend?” Some even said things like, “If you were my friend, I’d kill myself.”

ALLIÉ: They actually said that?

SARAN: Mm-hmm. That really impacted me. Sometimes when we got test scores back, they would look at mine and say, “You’re always going to be dumb. That’s just who you are.” The hateful remarks only got louder in elementary and middle school. I didn’t want to go to school. I would come home crying and ask my mom, “Why am I like this? Why was I born this way? Why can’t I be seen? Why can’t I be heard? Why can’t I just be a normal kid?”

Being labeled and segregated really hurt. Sometimes I’d be inside doing extra academic support while everyone else was outside playing. I missed a lot of social opportunities. People saw me as unintelligent, as someone not worth being friends with.

And it wasn’t just students—teachers, too. I was labeled as having an “emotional disturbance,” and it affected how teachers treated me. They didn’t understand how to help me. They would ask, “Why are you crying all the time? Why are you causing problems?” I wished they would just ask, “What’s happening to you? How can I support you?” Instead, they saw me as the problem.

ALLIÉ: It seems like it should’ve been just the opposite. Teachers should ask how they can help, not accuse. And then, beyond bullying and social struggles, students with disabilities often face limited resources. Is there a story you can share about that?

SARAN: Absolutely. Beyond the bullying and discrimination, I faced major barriers to accessing resources. For example, my parents are immigrants from Mongolia. They became U.S. citizens after I was born, but they weren’t fluent in English. So at IEP meetings, I had to advocate for interpreters. But Mongolian is a rare language. Schools often only offered translation in common languages like Spanish or Chinese.

This meant not only were my needs overlooked, but so were my parents’. I had to keep going back to the school, saying, “My parents need to understand. They’re my parents. They have a right to know.” And often, the school would say, “We don’t have the money for that.” That set me back significantly. I also didn’t know about after-school programs or recreational opportunities because they weren’t accessible to me. I didn’t want to appear needy by disclosing my disability, and often the word “disability” made people assume I wasn’t qualified to participate.

One example stands out: in middle school, I wanted to run for student government. My peers told me I couldn’t, that it didn’t make sense for someone like me. But I did it anyway. I wanted to show that a disability doesn’t define your ability to lead or succeed. That experience fueled my passion for equity in education policy.

ALLIÉ: That makes perfect sense. And you're right—support needs to extend beyond the student to the entire family. There have to be accommodations for everyone involved.

SARAN: Exactly. We always talk about the “why” behind success—why it matters to get a 4.0 or achieve your goals—but if we don’t give families the “how,” they’ll never be able to help their children succeed.

For me, academic advancement programs weren’t even on the table. I wanted to be in gifted and honors programs, but they weren’t made available to me. That really hurt. Even sports were out of reach. I was kept on the sidelines—excluded, segregated, labeled.

And this wasn’t just happening to me—it was happening to other Mongolian families too. But no one talked about it because it was taboo. They were being denied resources and accommodations, and I began asking: What should we do? Who will speak up? Who will lead? I had no role models who shared my background or experience, so I decided to become one.

ALLIÉ: Yes, we say it often: if you can’t see it, you can’t be it. So is that what led you to create the Mongolian American Disability Mentorship Program?

SARAN: Yes. I founded it in the summer of 2022. Before that, I was in Mongolia taking care of my grandma. When I came back, I realized my disability should never be a barrier to success. So I started the program—not as a nonprofit, but simply as a program to support Mongolian families. I held two in-person meetings in Los Angeles in partnership with the Mongolian Los Angeles Association and a college counselor I knew. We educated parents about advocating for their children with disabilities—in both English and Mongolian. Everything was fully translated and accessible. Over 60 families participated, many from outside California and even internationally. I shared my story and also practical strategies—like how to qualify for an IEP or 504 Plan.

I also did one-on-one mentoring. One boy in Los Angeles had autism and struggled to express himself. At first, we just talked about music—turns out we both love Doja Cat. Then we played tic-tac-toe. Over eight sessions, he began to open up, to smile, to talk. Eventually, I met him in person, and he had the brightest smile. Now he has friends and feels confident. I also mentored his mom, who was afraid to speak up at meetings. I guided her through it, and eventually, she came back to me in tears saying, “I did it. I advocated for my son.” That meant everything.

ALLIÉ: Those stories are beautiful, and such important reminders that our struggles often become our greatest tools for helping others. Sometimes what feels like a curse becomes a gift we pass on.

Let’s shift gears. You were one of California’s first student commissioners with a disability. What are some of your accomplishments, nationally and internationally?

SARAN: Two years ago, I took a risk and applied to be a student commissioner. At first, I doubted myself. But my special education director encouraged me, and I applied. When I found out I was accepted, I cried. I wasn’t just the first Mongolian American student commissioner with a disability—I was the first Mongolian American official in the country. It was a milestone.

As a commissioner, I advocated not only for students with disabilities, but also for foster youth, homeless youth, and those involved in the juvenile justice system. These are often forgotten groups. At the table, I spoke up for them—and gave direct policy recommendations, like “Stop working in silos.” We need systems that collaborate. One major recommendation was the creation of youth councils with disabilities across California. Youth need to be at the table for decisions that affect them.

ALLIÉ: Yes! “Nothing about us without us.” And in this case—nothing about youth, for youth, without youth. I love how you’re embodying that.

SARAN: Exactly. At conferences, I ask the hard questions: “Who asked for this? Was it the youth? Was it the families?” If not—what’s the point?

It takes courage to speak up in a room of 500 officials, but I do it. I tell them: “You created the system that oppressed me. But now I’m here, and I’ve overcome it. Let’s dismantle it so others don’t have to go through what I did.”

During my term, I worked with the LA County Office of Education and Disability Rights California. We published eight recommendations to reimagine juvenile justice—investing in health educators, prioritizing mental health, connecting youth with families and communities. I got involved in juvenile justice after speaking at the Breaking Barriers conference. When I learned how many youth with disabilities are in that system, I knew I had to act. I now represent over 800,000 students with disabilities in California.

I’ve had three bills signed into law:

• Changing “emotional disturbance” to “emotional disability”—that one was personal.

 

• Creating a more family-friendly statewide IEP template.

 

• Expanding medical coverage for youth with PANS, a neuro-pediatric illness.

Last year, I was honored as one of the Top 30 Disability Advocates in the world by Diversability—becoming the first Mongolian American woman to receive the recognition.

Moreover, not only was I deeply involved in state work, and not only was my work recognized and uplifted at these levels—it inspired me to dream even bigger. What can I do from here? How can I drive this even further? Because across the country, I know there are more students who need a voice. That’s when I decided to apply to be a National Youth Fellow for the U.S. Department of Labor—and I actually got the position.

So now, I serve as a National Youth Fellow for the U.S. Department of Labor’s CAPE-Youth (Center for Advancing Policy on Employment for Youth). What I do in this role is not only advise folks at the Department of Labor, but I also work with five different states—diverse and, in fact, deeply red states—over the next five years to help redesign systems using my lived experience to drive change. It’s about transforming how youth with disabilities transition from education to employment.

In this position, I represent over 2.3 million students with disabilities across the country. And I’m not doing this alone—I work alongside four other national youth fellows. It’s an incredible opportunity and incredibly meaningful work. For example, the emotional disturbance bill I worked on in California—well, I believe that should be universal. That kind of legislation should exist in every state.

At the national level, I get to focus on questions like: How do we eliminate harmful labels? How do we provide better support in the juvenile justice system? How do we actually serve students with disabilities in a way that works? Now I get to work on answering those questions across the country.

ALLIÉ: That’s amazing. I love that you're not only saying, "Here’s the issue and here’s my personal story that illustrates it," but you're also offering real solutions. And I love that the work you’ve done in California is now inspiring broader change—because why stop there? Why not scale it across the country and beyond?

So, I have one final question for you today, Saran. When you reflect on everything you’ve accomplished—which feels like just the beginning, even though you've already done so much—how do you define yourself today? Not by your diagnosis. Not by your ethnicity. But by your impact.
Here it is: Fill in the blank. “Saran is _____.”

SARAN: Saran is a world change-maker. ∎

Find & Follow Saran on Instagram:
​@moonperfect