If You Were In Charge Of Education — Where Would You Invest?

by Rebecca Thomas

I was staring at the stained artex ceiling of a tired 70s conference room, trying to gather something that looked like enthusiasm for my third Ministry PLD session of Term 2. But my default setting — the one that scans quietly for risk, for impact, for what this will mean for the tamariki sitting in front of me tomorrow — was already wide awake.

Mentioning Australia in the first ten minutes wasn’t ideal.

Not because Australia is the problem, but because we all know what comes next. The slide decks about data. The comparisons. The subtle suggestion that somewhere, someone else has already solved this — and all we need to do is follow closely enough.

Ironically, I was sitting next to an old friend. I had taught her children, back when the New Zealand Curriculum felt alive in my hands — flexible, responsive, breathing alongside the learners it was meant to serve. She now works in a school shaped by Stanford thinking, but beneath the surface, our philosophies still meet in the same place: relationships first, context always.

We left our differences about the Minister at the door, apart from the occasional sideways jibe.

I could name the PLD at this point, but that isn’t the pupose of this post. And anyway last time I did that after a MOE approved PLD, it took less than two hours for the facilitator to trace my words back to me. 

This isn’t about the facilitators running the session either, we all have to make a living. They stood there with care and conviction, with professionalism, doing what they have been asked to do. The case study teacher spoke with conviction, and I believed her. I always do. Because none of this is happening in bad faith.

But somewhere between the polished slides and the quiet acceptance settling into the room, my mind drifted — not to the tool, not to the rubrics, not to the new language being pressed, gently but firmly, into our practice.

It drifted to the money. The money that sits behind the polish.

The investment decisions made far from classrooms like mine. The belief — or perhaps the hope — that data, AI, consistency, standardisation… will fix something that has never been broken in the way it is being described.

The air con kept humming.

And I found myself wishing, just for a second, that I could let it all wash over me. That I could sit there, nod at the right moments, absorb the language, and not feel that quiet, persistent tug that asks: But will this help my kids?

Because the human part of teaching — the unpredictable, relational, beautifully messy part — feels like it is being slowly edged out of the frame. Not removed all at once. Just… reduced. Standardised. Stanfordised.

And the truth is, I’m getting tired of fighting ghosts.

The more I hear the language, the more I see the rubrics, the more I understand the reporting structures — the more I can feel myself adapting. Not because I fully believe in it. But because resisting everything, all the time, is exhausting.

So what do you do when you find yourself there?

Not entirely defeated or disengaged, but standing in that strange middle space where you can see exactly what’s happening, and you’re not entirely sure where your energy is best spent anymore.

For me, it wasn’t in the room.

It was later.

At home.

Laptop open. Shoes still on. The quiet hum was now replaced by the familiar chaos of real life; the warm fire flickering while my son talked about his day at work. Instead of replaying the day, instead of letting the frustration bite me, I clicked on the Aotearoa Educators Collective Google Form that had landed in my inbox earlier.

A simple question sat there, waiting. I had put it on pause, but now seemed the time for some light.

If you were in charge of education funding — where would you invest?

It’s easy — almost too easy — to point at the decisions being made and say, this isn’t it.

It’s harder, and far more important, to say: Here’s what is.

If I were in charge of the purse strings, would I fund another trip to the UK to study Ofsted systems? Would I invest in copying structures designed for entirely different communities, histories, and pressures? Is a plane ticket and a policy photocopy going to change outcomes for the kids I teach? Or would I put that money somewhere else entirely?

Into trauma-informed training that actually reaches every classroom.

Into staffing stability in the places that need it most.

Into time — real, protected time — for kaiako to build relationships, to plan deeply, to respond rather than react.

Into learning support that doesn’t require a paper trail of failure before help arrives.

Into whānau partnerships that are resourced, not just referenced.

And yes — I thought about Ruth. Off to the UK, brushing shoulders with Ofsted, soaking in a system that has spent decades perfecting measurement and crushing kids and teachers. 

Ruth Schnoda — she no da listening, some might joke.

Maybe she’ll come back convinced. Maybe something in her real life will make her stop and listen. Maybe the cracks will show — the quiet harm in the lives that system labels, shapes, and too often narrows. Maybe she’ll come back changed. Or maybe, just maybe, somewhere between the inspections and the frameworks, she’ll notice what gets lost when education becomes something you prove, rather than something you live.

I don’t know.

But I do know this: If we don’t speak into the space where decisions are being shaped, someone else will fill it for us.

So here’s the quiet call, from one tired teacher at the end of a long day: Don’t just carry the frustration. Put it somewhere it can be heard.

That Google Form? It’s not going to fix everything. But it is a rare thing — a moment where someone is asking, what do you think matters?

What do you see?

What do you know works?

What would you choose, if it was yours to decide?

And if we don’t answer that — honestly, bravely, from the places we know best — then we can’t be surprised when the money flows elsewhere.

Into polish.

Into promises.

Instead of into the small, powerful, human things that actually change lives.

So go on.

If you were in charge — where would you invest?

Because somewhere, someone is deciding.

And I’d rather they heard from us.

Please spare some time and share where your kura needs the money spent most, click here.