As educators, we often encounter students who challenge the structures and expectations imposed upon them. These students, who may not fit neatly into standardized molds, compel us to reconsider how we approach learning and behavior. Much like many of our students, there are times when we, too, long to respond with greater patience, understanding, and freedom from ingrained patterns. The complexities, emotions, and individuality of each student are not hindrances but crucial elements of a deeper, more meaningful educational experience. It is essential for us, as educators, to defend and embrace these qualities, even in a world increasingly driven by simplification and conformity.
The Role of Schools
Our schools find themselves in a profound dilemma, and this is reflected daily in their operations. What they have lost in recent years is not only method but also mindset: the opportunity for true engagement, for respectful dialogue between teacher and learner, has in many places been replaced by a culture of acceleration. With the introduction of tablets, the human counterpart—the teacher—has been increasingly replaced by interfaces, overstimulation, and self-directed project work. Teachers recede into the background. Not because they are less important, but because the space for relational presence has eroded. And yet this is precisely what children need: a true counterpart. A voice that explains, resists, supports—and yes, sometimes confounds. A presence against which they can push and, in doing so, grow. Whether in the classroom or at home. Learning is not mere data processing. It is a dialogical process, one that requires friction, attention, and relationship. And yet, feelings continue to be perceived as disruptions rather than as language.
A Case in Point: Misophonia
Imagine this: a student, age 9, repeatedly leaves the classroom. The teacher, exasperated, records “disruptive behavior” in the class register. Classmates shake their heads. This student often weeps, quietly, in secret. The cause? The sound of chalk scraping the blackboard causes them physical pain. So does the click of pens. Months later, they are diagnosed with misophonia, a neurological condition in which the brain processes certain everyday noises as stressors, akin to danger signals. This is not a matter of upbringing, but biology. This student stands for countless children whose nervous systems function differently. Many are highly sensitive, open to stimuli, easily overwhelmed. The resulting tension often manifests physically or emotionally, not as defiance, but as a cry for help. Here lies the crux: what we so often interpret as problematic behavior is, in truth, a sign of overwhelm, not rebellion.
In our classrooms sit thousands of children like this student, for whom chalk squeaks are torment. And rather than support, they are given labels: troublemaker, dreamer, problematic child. Yet these children are not deviations, they are indicators of where the system fails.
I recall a moment that encapsulates this dilemma. During a school conference, a senior staff member said to me, “Emotions have no place here (in school).” That sentence not only reveals a deep-rooted fear of the living, but also the difficulty of defending humanity in institutional spaces. Such notions are not merely outdated; they actively obstruct progress. Not just the development of our children, but of the entire system. Because emotions are not obstacles to learning, they are the very foundation of any authentic educational relationship. Without them, we are left with administration, not education.
Supporting Sensory-Sensitive Students
Shift from labeling to listening: If a student repeatedly leaves the room, the behavior is often marked as “disruptive.” Ask instead, What is this child experiencing internally?
Identify triggers: Sounds like clicking pens or scraping chairs may be physically painful for misophonic students. Notice patterns and name them with the student, not over them.
Create safety zones: Offer quiet corners or “calm stations,”not as punishment, but as places for self-regulation and agency.
Use validating language: Say things like, “I can see this is hard for you. Let’s find a way together.” This reframes the classroom as a space of relationship, not control.
Collaborate with caregivers and professionals: Sensory processing differences are not discipline problems. While diagnosis may help, daily support begins with you.
When these realities are ignored, schools become sites of deprivation and of subtle violence. But when they are recognized, classrooms become spaces of repair.
Classrooms as Emotional Architectures
School can serve, not only as a site of academic instruction, but as an emotional architecture, a structured space where feelings are not only expressed but entangled, displaced, and ultimately transformed through relational dynamics. Some examples are:
Parent–teacher storytelling sessions where experiences of conflict or success are jointly narrated and reflected upon.
Classroom-based emotional literacy routines that help children identify and navigate inner states through language, metaphor, or ritual.
Collaborative care circles (a variation of restorative practices) that involve students, teachers, and caregivers in discussing emotional challenges without the pressure of “resolution,” but with a focus on recognition and resonance.
These are low-threshold practices that offer space for reflection and allow children to develop a sense of emotional efficacy and belonging.
The Inner Work of Resistance
In our times, it is of paramount importance to teach children something that often goes unspoken, that the most dangerous path is the one of blind conformity—of falling for vast oversimplifications, whether of a person, a problem, or a system. Children sense when truth is being reduced to something convenient. They feel it deeply, what I would call emotional negative labor which is the quiet, consuming work of learning how to navigate, fit into, or subtly subvert the unspoken rules of a family system or institutional structure. They may not articulate it, but they intuit it—these inner negotiations, the silent effort to belong without betraying the self. Unlike emotional intelligence, which thrives in open, resonant settings, negative emotional labor arises in constricted systems where feelings must be concealed, redirected, or distorted to ensure belonging or avoid conflict. It is not defiance, it is adaptation under pressure. Examples from school contexts include:
A student smiles and nods, but never speaks in class, afraid their real questions might be “too much.”
A child forces themselves to endure loud group work although their nervous system feels overwhelmed, then withdraws for hours afterward.
A teen, praised for being “easygoing,” has learned to suppress discomfort because previous complaints were labeled dramatic or disrespectful.
A sensitive learner, after weeks of masking sensory distress (e.g., from noise, lights, or proximity), begins showing “unexplained” somatic symptoms like headaches or nausea.
A student consistently performs well academically, yet feels depleted and detached, school is a stage, not a relationship.
Naming this invisible labor is the first step toward rehumanizing education. To support them, we must cultivate not obedience but discernment. We must help them understand that systems can be questioned, and that complexity is not a threat, but a form of truth.
What Children Truly Need
If we want students to engage with the world compassionately and consciously, we must create spaces where their inner lives are welcomed not in the distant future, but now. Students do not need rigid templates; they need genuine encounters. They need safety and understanding, especially within the school environment, which must be the protective space we offer in a world that is increasingly loud, fast, and uncertain. When that space feels unstable or unwelcoming, it is not the job of schools to control, but to understand. We must become places where inner life matters. Educators, as the key figures in the daily experience of students, play a central role in this transformation. Education does not begin with a set curriculum; it begins with how we listen, how we perceive students’ worlds, and how we respond to their behaviors. We must be attuned to their complexities and defend the space they need to grow authentically. What is needed is not further fine tuning of performance-based curricula, but a broader distribution of reasonable and vital behaviors that focus on equipping students with practical, adaptable behaviors that serve them in a rapidly changing world.
Rachida Dahman is an international educator and award-winning poet. She focuses on German language and literature at the secondary level and currently teaches at an international school in Luxembourg. Her teaching blends academic rigor with creative and reflective practices, fostering inclusive learning environments where students can thrive intellectually and emotionally. Committed to equity and ethical presence in education, she actively supports cross-school collaboration and contributes to broader conversations around wellbeing, culturally responsive teaching, and holistic student development in international contexts.
