Politicians Are Causing Educators Trauma

by Rebecca Thomas

Cillian Murphy as ‘Steve’ — the teacher holding space when no one else will

“It’s 4:45pm, Sunday... I can feel my chest already tightened, and stress is creeping back in.” — Anonymous member, NZ Teachers (Primary)

The comment section filled quickly.

Migraines.

Tears.

Dread.

Term 4 hadn’t even started, and already the weight of it sat heavy on shoulders that hadn’t had a chance to heal.

We’ve normalised exhaustion. We’ve reframed burnout as “just tired.” We sip coffee and laugh about crying in the photocopier room because if we didn’t laugh, we might unravel.

So when I saw that our first day back included PLD with Jase Williams on Trauma-Informed Practice, a flicker of hope stirred. After watching Steve on Netflix the night before — and realising it wasn’t some dramatised dystopia but a painfully accurate reflection of my own classroom some days — I needed something.

A sign. A word. A reminder of why we show up.

Because while the Minister continues to whitewash our curriculum, peddle offshore corporatised nonsense, and strip education down to “knowledge-rich” quantifiables, we know better.

We feel better.

Because teaching — real teaching — doesn’t happen the way she describes it to Joe Public through glossy media releases and bullet-point policy.

It’s not clean or convenient or easily measured.

It’s messy. Raw. Beautiful.

It happens when a child tests every boundary and you don’t walk away. When you spot the fear in their eyes before they even open their mouth. When you know there’s something more behind the silence, the anger, the refusal.

It happens when a kid who’s never felt safe walks through your door and exhales for the first time. When a child lashes out and you don’t flinch — not because you’re immune — but because you’ve learned how to respond, not react.

Wellington will continue to disappoint me.

But no policy, no curriculum overhaul changes what’s in front of me at 9am tomorrow.

My kids.

Their needs.

Their wounds.

Their magic.

They don’t need another chess piece in the adult power games — they need me.

Present. Listening. Unwavering. Unconditional.

I know what’s coming — the reports, the assessments, the leftover swimming clothes on the changing room floor, the sniffles, the missed lunch duty.

I’ll forget my own child’s mufti day.

I’ll get a stomach bug.

I’ll have moments where I question everything.

But as Chrissy often says, “You’ll make a difference to someone, somewhere. That’s why we show up.”

My thoughts interrupted — the pōwhiri begins to welcome Jase to Tai Tokerau.

It starts like it always does — the kind of spine-tingling welcome that reminds me why I’ve stayed in this beautiful country for nine years.

Always magical. Always healing. It steadies me.

Jase steps forward.

And something in me quiets.

I let his words fall where they’re needed.

Initially, I was listening for my class. For my kura. For my kāhui ako.

But Jase’s words pulled me deeper — into the space where all those voices from the edge live. The teachers who whisper they’re not sure they can keep going. The ones who once dreamed about making a difference, and now barely recognise themselves in the mirror on a Monday morning.

And it made me wonder — what curriculum are we really teaching?

Because right now, there’s a whole curriculum going untaught.

Not the one printed on the MOE website. Not the ‘knowledge-rich’ one Wellington seems so desperate to force feed.

No.

I’m talking about the curriculum of being human. Of recognising trauma. Understanding regulation. Building safety. Knowing what it means to hold a child’s pain with care.

That is the science we should be following. Not just the science of learning — the science of being.

Yet we’re told to set it aside.

We’re told to “get back to basics,” as if love, connection, and cultural responsiveness were fluff. As if what we know in our gut isn’t evidence enough.

And in all of this — the noise, the pressure, the rhetoric — we’re losing ourselves.

We are being told what to value. What to teach. What to prioritise. And somewhere along the way, the very reasons we came into this profession — they’re being stripped from us.

Think about it. Why did you become a teacher/an educator?

It probably wasn’t for the paycheck. It definitely wasn’t for the admin. Most of us didn’t come for the holidays.

We came because we cared.

Because at some point, someone hurt, and we wanted to help. We came because we believed in justice. Because we believed schools could be a force for good.

So what happens when that care is treated as weakness?

When our sense of justice is buried under compliance?

What happens when the system itself becomes the trigger?

What happens when you’re gaslit into thinking your exhaustion is a failure  — rather than a rational response to unsafe conditions?

That’s when trauma happens.

Not just to the kids.

To us.

Trauma isn’t just what happened, it’s what happened inside you when no one was there to help you hold the hurt. It’s not the pain alone, but the absence of safety, connection, and co regulation that turns pain into trauma. — Jase Williams

Let’s name the unsafe conditions teachers are working in:

• Speaking the truth comes at a cost.

• Sharing context is seen as making excuses.

• Questioning policy is labelled as resistance.

• Holding compassion is dismissed as unprofessional.

  
  

And if you're a principal or leader? Even liking a post like this one is seen as political.

I know there are principals reading this now, nodding silently, unwilling to comment. Because it’s not safe to be seen agreeing.

The higher your title, the thinner the air.

Dissent is no longer discourse — it’s risk.

We’ve built a culture where educators are expected to be neutral, silent, and agreeable — even while their insides are screaming.

During an ERO visit, context is discarded.

Stories are sidelined.

Data is held up like gospel, even if it’s built on the bones of burnt-out staff and unheard tamariki. To speak to the media is to carry the pain alone — to be labelled dramatic, emotional, or politically inconvenient.

So let’s call this what it is:

Minister Erica Stanford, under your leadership, teachers are being traumatised. You are creating unsafe working conditions — and we are paying for it. 

With our health.

With our whānau.

With our ability to show up for children with the aroha they deserve.

You ask for us to stand fast.

We ask — where is our safety?

You praise “evidence-based practice.”

We ask — what evidence do you have that these conditions produce thriving children?

You speak of "raising standards" as if trauma doesn’t exist in our classrooms.

You ban te reo Māori terms from our curriculum refresh, as if language isn’t deeply tied to identity and healing.

You reduce education to economic utility, as if tamariki are future employees before they are present humans.

And then I wonder:

What trauma does Erica Stanford carry?

Because every adult carries trauma.

To want this much control over people.

To erase cultural identity.

To weaponise test scores and data.

To value the business of humans more than the humanity in schools.

That’s not leadership. That’s unresolved pain in action.

Maybe she was overlooked at prizegiving.

Maybe she was rewarded at every turn.

Maybe she grew up believing that achievement is proof of worth, and compliance is the path to success.

And if that’s true — that’s trauma too.

As Alfie Kohn wrote in Punished by Rewards:

“The more rewards are used, the more the individual's interest in the task tends to decline. The goal becomes the reward, not the work itself.”

If Erica was raised on gold stars and merit badges, maybe she learned to chase outcomes over meaning. Maybe she became so fluent in compliance that challenge now feels like threat. Maybe she sees education not as transformation, but transaction.

And now, she governs through that same lens.

She’s not dismantling education — she’s replicating the very systems that shaped her. And in doing so, she’s inflicting that trauma down the line — onto teachers, principals, kaiārahi, and ultimately, our mokopuna.

This isn’t policy. This is projection.

We are becoming a profession marked by moral injury.

We are bleeding from invisible wounds, and then told to smile through the staff photo.

If you’re wondering why teachers are walking away, it’s not because they stopped caring. It’s because everything that made us care is now treated as resistance.

We are not okay.

And the curriculum doesn’t cover this.

Disclaimer:

The words in this post may not be direct quotes, but rather an echo — an echo chamber of Jase Williams’ kōrero on Trauma Informed Practice resonating through my ngākau. What I’ve written is a reflection of how his mahi landed in me — raw, real, and deeply felt.