When the Wind Keeps Changing
Like so many of us, I have found the last few years overwhelming. The pace of change has been relentless, made all the more difficult by the fact that so much of it has happened without the voice of the sector. Rather than being driven by need, it has too often felt as though it has been driven by ego.
We now have a curriculum we didn't ask for, assessments many of us don't need, and policies that seem to serve little purpose beyond existing on paper.
The recent kerfuffle among National MPs following Chris Hipkins' announcement that Labour would remove the requirement for one hour a day of reading, writing and maths is just another example of how little some of those making decisions understand what life in a classroom is actually like.
For most teachers, this policy has meant very little in practical terms. In fact, I'll be bold enough to say it has meant nothing. At most, it has amounted to an adjustment to a policy somewhere, destined to gather proverbial dust while we get on with the actual business of teaching.
Yes, there has been work to upskill teachers in reading, but this is a journey many of us were already on. As for maths, I'm yet to see how many of the so-called changes honour what we know about how children actually acquire mathematical understanding.
A few workbooks that don't really hit the mark. Whoopee.
The Anger Beneath the Overwhelm
And so, I've been feeling overwhelmed.
Not just tired or a little weary, but genuinely angry.
Angry for the teachers who are being made to feel they aren't doing enough, while the needs in our classrooms continue to grow.
Angry at the direction being hinted at by the people supposedly leading our country, as they steer our wonderful education system towards approaches that have already failed so many children elsewhere.
Angry at the so-called experts shaping the direction of our schools, and angry at the feeling that the people who actually work with children every day are no longer being listened to.
Many of my Facebook posts have reflected this anger, this overwhelm, this angst I feel on behalf of teachers across Aotearoa. They reflect my hopes for increased support, for someone in power to open their eyes and recognise that there are lessons to be learned from overseas. The trouble is, they don't seem to be looking in the right places.
I've felt overwhelmed by the way teachers are being portrayed, by the lack of trust and the steady drip of blame, while we continue to navigate increasingly complex needs in our classrooms every single day.
We are being asked to do more, to change more, to account for more, and somehow to do it all while the support we desperately need remains out of reach.
And if I'm honest, I've been spending a lot of energy being angry about it.
An Old Friend and a Much-Needed Reminder
Then I took a break.
I banned myself from work for a while, put on my headphones, ventured out into my garden (or should I say wilderness), and reacquainted myself with my walking shoes.
I also went back to an old friend: Dr Ross Greene, whose work has helped shape our school and my thinking over many years. I picked up his latest book, The Kids Who Aren't Okay.
I nodded my way through the first part, remembering why I do what I do and why I have committed to creating a school environment built on connection rather than correction, relationships rather than rewards.
And then I came across this quote:
"I can't change the direction of the wind, but I can adjust my sails."
Something shifted.
Almost immediately, the weight of the overwhelm began to lift. I realised that I had been spending far too much energy focusing on the things I couldn't change and not nearly enough on the things I could.
It was as though someone had opened a window in a stuffy room.
The anger didn't disappear. The problems hadn't magically resolved themselves. The policies hadn't changed, and the people making the decisions hadn't suddenly developed a deeper understanding of what happens in our classrooms.
But the space that anger had been occupying began to make room for something else.
Hope.
And goodness knows, we need a little more of that right now.
What I Cannot Change
I cannot change this government's rhetoric. I cannot change its policies or where it chooses to gather its information. I cannot control the egos involved or the decisions made by people who seem to have little understanding of the realities of teaching.
I cannot make those in power listen.
I cannot make them understand that children are not data points, that classrooms are not laboratories for political experiments, and that changing a document does not automatically change a child's experience of school.
I can keep shouting into the wind, and sometimes I probably will. There are things worth challenging, and silence isn't always the answer.
But I cannot allow the things I cannot control to consume all the energy I need for the things I can.
And that is where I need to bring my attention back.
What I Can Change as a Teacher
I can make decisions based on the children in front of me.
I can use what works, try new things, and discard what doesn't. I can draw on the work of people like Ross Greene to remind myself of the importance of developmental variability, to meet children where they are rather than where someone thinks they should be.
I can slow down.
I can be deliberate.
I can set expectations that are within reach for each child and work alongside them to extend what they can do. I can problem-solve with them rather than simply imposing solutions on them. I can involve them in their own learning and make sure their voices matter.
I can use explicit teaching, understand the instructional hierarchy, and draw on what we know about the principles of teaching and learning to make informed decisions about what my children need next.
I can make sure they are immersed in an environment that tells them, every single day, that they belong, they are seen, they are safe and they matter.
I can use the assessments that genuinely help me understand my learners and question the value of those that don't.
I know my children. I see them every day. I watch them learn, struggle, grow, connect, and sometimes fall apart. I have a responsibility to pay attention to what they are telling me and respond accordingly.
I don't have to let the noise from outside our classroom drown out what I know to be important.
I can build the best support systems I can within the resources available to me, while continuing to advocate for the support we don't have.
And I can be kind to myself.
I can remember that my best is good enough, even when the system makes me feel otherwise.
What I Can Change as a Leader
As a leader, I have another responsibility. I can be a filter for my staff.
I can sift through the endless stream of information, review what comes our way, and protect my teachers from the noise that serves no useful purpose. I can work out what actually matters for our school and what can safely be left alone.
I can put assessments in place that help us understand our learners and ignore the tools that have no meaningful place in our practice.
I can hold on to our curriculum, our beautiful local curriculum, and recognise that it still has an enormous role to play in the learning experiences we create for our children.
I can write things into policy when a box needs to be ticked, without allowing that policy to dictate every decision made in our classrooms.
My teachers don't need me hovering over their shoulders. They never have. Why should that change now?
I'm far too busy teaching to start micromanaging, and I won't be starting now.
What I can do is make sure my teachers feel trusted. I can remind them that they are enough, that I see the work they do, and that I know they are giving their best to the children in their care.
I can tick the boxes that need ticking without making every new requirement their burden to carry.
I can give them time to grow, to explore the areas they want to develop, and to deepen their understanding of the things that matter to them. I can model good practice, share research that is genuinely useful, and give them permission to slow down.
We can celebrate the great stuff.
We can notice the small shifts, the breakthroughs, the moments when a child finally gets it, the relationships that are strengthening, and the learning that happens when we get the conditions right.
We can remember why we came into this profession in the first place.
And I can do my best to put the necessary supports in place, while giving myself grace for the things we simply cannot afford to provide right now.
That doesn't mean accepting that things are good enough when they aren't. We must keep advocating for the resources our children and teachers deserve. But advocacy and despair are not the same thing. I can fight for better while still making the most of what I have today.
We Can Adjust Our Sails
The wind is blowing hard right now.
It's hot, it's relentless, and it's heading in a direction many of us would rather not go.
We can spend all our energy cursing the wind. We can become so consumed by the direction it's taking us that we forget to look at the sails.
Or we can adjust them.
We can keep speaking up when things need challenging, keep questioning what doesn't make sense, and keep advocating for the children and teachers who deserve so much more. But we can also bring our attention back to the things within our reach.
The classroom in front of us.
The relationships we build.
The decisions we make.
The culture we create.
The colleagues we support.
The children who arrive at our doors each morning, carrying their own worries, challenges, hopes, and potential.
They cannot afford for us to become so overwhelmed by the system that we lose sight of them.
And neither can we.
Perhaps adjusting our sails is not about giving up the fight. Perhaps it is about finding a way to keep going without allowing the fight to consume us.
It is about recognising that even when we cannot control the direction of the wind, we still have choices about how we respond to it.
We can choose connection over correction. We can choose thoughtful, deliberate teaching over frantic compliance. We can choose to trust our professional judgement, protect our teachers, and create environments where children feel safe enough to learn and grow.
We can keep doing the work that matters, even when the world around us seems determined to distract us from it.
And perhaps, by doing that, we can help one another find our way through this storm.
Let Hope Creep Back In
I know I needed this reminder.
I needed to step away, breathe, and remember that while there is much I cannot change, there is still so much I can do.
I suspect many of us need that reminder right now.
We don't have to fix the entire education system before we can make a difference. We don't have to wait for the perfect policy, the right initiative, or the next person in power to finally understand.
We can start with the children in front of us.
We can start with the teachers beside us.
We can start with the decisions we make tomorrow morning.
The wind might be blowing in the wrong direction, but we are not entirely powerless.
We can adjust our sails.
And right now, perhaps that is exactly what we need to do.
Let hope creep back in.
Our children deserve that. And so do we.
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