Still We Stay
- Jul 5
- 4 min read
by Rebecca Thomas
A reflection at the cusp of Term 3
I looked back over the titles Steve and I have written since January. They read like a kind of ledger—of heartbreak, of pushback, of holding fast. Grief stitched with grit. It’s the rhythm of 2025 so far. Shock, response, survival.
Since Term 1, we’ve watched the threads of our profession pulled tight—sometimes snapping—under the weight of political change. In the swirl of rewrites, Te Tiriti hasn’t vanished, but it has blurred. Once our compass, now a decorative border on policies written far from the whenua, far from the people.
Kāhui Ako and RTLit funding quietly disappeared, swept away by a budget that decided some roles were no longer necessary. PLD became a script. And the English curriculum was re-penned in voices that didn’t seem to know us at all.
Meanwhile, Māori and Pacific providers were cut out, structured sessions rolled in, and consultation became a post-it note afterthought. A UNICEF report named us near the bottom of the OECD for child wellbeing—and last for youth mental health. This is our inconvenient truth. These aren’t abstract statistics. They sit in our classrooms. They walk our playgrounds.
And yet.
And still.
We show up.
A principal confided in me last week, their voice low and tired. They finished Term 2 feeling hollow — not from a lack of effort, but from the weight of an ERO report that failed to see the aroha and relentless commitment poured into their school and their tamariki. “I’ve got nothing left,” they said. Last year, they weren’t having thoughts like this. But now, they’re staring into an abyss they never imagined they'd be standing at the edge of.
I’m holding hope that these holidays fill that emptiness with resolve. That they find—like so many of us have—that staying matters. That fighting back matters. That doing right by our communities, especially in times like these, is no small thing.
Steve and I have heard from people inside the curriculum rewrite camps. From inside ERO meetings. From inside the Ministry. Even from Parliament meeting rooms. Quiet voices who pull us aside, who whisper, “It’s all happening, just like you said.”
They aren’t telling us to gossip. They’re telling us because they want to be seen. They want to know they aren’t alone either.
That’s why we write.
Sometimes our words cut too close.
Sometimes the mirror we hold up shows more than people are ready to see.
But that’s the point. We write so someone sitting alone in a staffroom with tears behind their coffee knows—it’s not just them. Their reality isn’t an isolated event. That’s why sometimes our truths get questioned, silenced, shut down. But we stay—for our readers. For our kaiako. For our tamariki.
And let’s be honest—some of the responses we get are…’varied’.
Sometimes it’s a quiet message of support.
Sometimes it’s heartfelt advice.
And sometimes it’s the unmistakable tone of someone trying to tell us to pack it in.
We never really know how to respond. I once got caught off-guard when someone called to say a prominent figure had been spotted waving a Te Mātaiaho blog around in a meeting room. I didn’t ask whether it was in support or frustration—I was too stunned. Then they named the person. And what did I say?
“Oh. That’s cute.”
Cute?
What was I thinking?
In my defence, I was more humbled than anything, and completely lost for words. I hoped “cute” landed with grace rather than sarcasm. The truth is—I never really know who’s reading our posts. Or how far up the food chain our words go.
But maybe that’s the point.
We don’t write for power—we write for truth.
For connection.
For those who need to know they’re not the only ones feeling the weight of it all.
The wave may feel like it’s drowning us.
But we’re still breathing.
Still teaching.
Still loving our schools.
Because difficulty doesn’t last forever.
And no matter where you are on your journey—whether you're fired up or flat out—you are not alone.
That’s the truth we carry.
That’s the hope we pass hand to hand.
That’s why we stay.
And maybe—just maybe—when we look back again in a few months, the titles will have changed. Maybe we’ll get to write blogs full of hope and admiration like we have before:
We love to write those stories.
We’re ready for those stories.
But for them to be true, we all need to believe.
Believe that within each of us is the spirit for an amazing Term 3.
Believe our kids, our staff, our whānau can still be empowered to love education.
Believe that despite the noise, we still get to be the light.
Here’s to a term of holding on and rising up.
Still we stay.
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