Before Dr. Jennifer Lillis ever taught in a classroom, she taught in the woods.
She worked for outdoor education programs where groups of students arrived each week for hiking, exploration, and learning beyond four walls. And frequently, right before the bus doors opened, a teacher would pull her aside—voice lowered, concern written all over their face.
Just a heads up.
This student is really difficult.
Watch out for this one.
Then the student would step onto the trail.
And in that different setting—moving through trees, solving hands-on problems, breathing in open air—something quietly subversive would happen: the “difficult” student would often become the most capable one. Focused. Engaged. Thriving.
It wasn’t that the student had changed. It was that the environment had made room for who they already were.
“It was really different than a classroom space,” she remembers. “And I often found that those students were really successful in the environment we were in.”
That gap—the distance between who a student is and how a setting allows them to function—became the beginning of a much longer question: What happens when systems don’t fit students—and what becomes possible when they do?
Today, Dr. Lillis is a researcher and educator focused on transition planning and outcomes for students with disabilities. And she’s also the instructor for a new Tufts Pre-College Programs offering designed to make one of the biggest transitions in a young person’s life feel smaller, clearer, and more navigable: College Prep 101 for Neurodivergent Students, a five-day, commuter pre-college experience on Tufts’ Medford/Somerville campus that helps neurodivergent students practice college life before the stakes are high.
After that first chapter outdoors, Dr. Lillis earned her master’s in special education and began teaching. She started with younger students—third and fourth grade—before life took her abroad for a few years.
In Costa Rica, she taught special education at a small bilingual school. And there, she met a high school student with more significant disabilities—someone older, closer to adulthood, standing on the edge of “after.”
It was the first time the question shifted from academic success to life planning:
What does life after high school look like for you? And how can we help you figure that out?
For many families, that’s the question that creates a quiet urgency in ninth and tenth grade. Not because college is the only path—but because the transition into adulthood can feel like a cliff: unfamiliar expectations, unclear supports, and a new reality where students are expected to self-manage systems they didn’t design.
When Dr. Lillis returned to Boston, she began working more with middle and high school students and discovered what she describes as her core passion: helping young people find what they care about, name where they want to go, and build a path to get there.
But again, the same pattern surfaced: neurodivergent students weren’t struggling because they weren’t capable. They were getting stuck in the handoff.
Go talk to guidance.
Go talk to special ed.
At one point, Dr. Lillis worked in youth development, supporting students through college applications and the early college experience. She occasionally attended IEP meetings, helped with forms, and tried to connect students to the right people.
When she asked educators the straightforward question—What colleges would you recommend for this student?—she got confusing feedback. Guidance would point to special education. Special education would point back to guidance.
And once students did enroll, the maze didn’t end. If anything, it got harder.
She describes being surprised by how many hurdles existed for students trying to access accommodations and navigate college systems—especially for students with executive functioning challenges. Even with an advocate helping make calls and untangle processes, it was still difficult. Schools have evolved their processes over time to help address this, but student preparation is still central to success when transitioning to college, where the landscape suddenly becomes more ambiguous.
It was that experience—the gap between “support exists” and “support is actually accessible”—that pushed her back to school for her doctorate and deepened her research focus on transition planning and outcomes for students with disabilities.
There’s a reason families can feel anxious about college even when their student is bright, motivated, and academically prepared. Because the hardest part of the transition often isn’t the content. It’s the structure.
In high school, supports are frequently embedded into the system: routine check-ins, reminders, accommodation plans that are initiated by adults, and a familiar network of people who know how to activate help.
In college, resources often still exist—and in many cases there are more options. But the system changes in a fundamental way: support becomes something students must initiate.
Dr. Lillis talks about this as both a skill gap and an identity shift. Students have to understand their rights, recognize what they need, and build the confidence to claim it—without feeling like they’re asking for something “extra.”
And that’s where many neurodivergent students get caught: not lacking ability, but lacking a clear, practiced way to navigate an unfamiliar system.
When asked about moments where she’s seen a student’s confidence change, Dr. Lillis doesn’t point to one dramatic turning point. She points to something more believable—and more hopeful: a steady build of small wins.
She recalls one student from an early college program she helped run at a Boston public high school. He was eligible for accommodations. Dr. Lillis sat down with him and explained what that meant, and offered to connect him with disability services.
His response was immediate: No, thank you. It wasn’t defiance. It was what many students feel: a desire not to stand out, a worry about stigma, or a belief that asking for support means you don’t belong.
But over time, he began to see the value of accommodations and the practical difference support could make. Alongside that, there was skill building—especially around time management and planning ahead. And then something started to happen: he turned work in on time. He earned a good grade. He felt the relief of being prepared instead of scrambling.
“That feels really good,” she says. And it creates a cascade:
A little skill building → a little confidence → more success → a new identity.
“Oh yeah,” she remembers him thinking. “I’m a college student. I can do this.”
That’s the outcome Dr. Lillis wants more students to reach before they hit the turbulence of a first semester away from home.
College Prep 101 for Neurodivergent Students was designed as a structured, supportive way for students to “try on” college—not by jumping into a high-pressure simulation, but by practicing the exact transitions that tend to be hardest:
The program runs for five days (9:00 a.m.–4:00 p.m.) in a commuter format and is capped at 25 students to keep the environment structured and personal.
Students navigate the Tufts campus together, connect with staff and neurodivergent Tufts students, and practice what Dr. Lillis has seen matter most: skill-building that produces early wins.
Because those wins don’t just help students function. They help students believe.
A distinguishing feature of College Prep 101 is that it doesn’t end with “Now you know what college is like.” Students leave with a personalized college plan: a roadmap that helps them and their families identify next steps around fit, support, self-advocacy, and preparation.
It’s a way to turn a big, foggy question—Will college work for me?—into smaller, answerable ones:
On Friday, families and guardians are invited to campus for Family Engagement Friday—guidance on supporting the transition academically, socially, and personally, followed by a closing celebration.
That piece matters because the transition to college is not only a student experience. It’s a family recalibration: shifting from managing systems for a student to helping a student learn how to manage systems themselves.
College Prep 101 creates space for that shift— without pressure, and without pretending the challenges aren’t real. It’s a right of passage. A celebration of growth and a plan with next steps.
In many ways, this program goes back to what Dr. Lillis noticed years ago in the woods. Sometimes the difference between “difficult” and “capable” is not the student.
It’s the setting. The structure. The supports. The sense of belonging.
College Prep 101 doesn’t promise that college will be easy. What it offers is something more useful:
And, for many neurodivergent students, that is exactly what makes the next step feel possible.
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