What I’ve Learned From Writing About the Realities of Our Classrooms

by Rebecca Thomas

When I wrote “Teaching Structured Literacy and Maths to Students Who Can't Regulate”, I wasn’t expecting over 3,500 people to read it.

I wasn’t expecting it to travel across time zones, across learning philosophies, across the guarded borders of policy.

And I definitely wasn’t expecting it to uncover so much love — and so much complexity.

Love from the teachers who messaged to say, “This is my classroom. Thank you for saying it out loud.”

Love from the leaders who shared it with their staff, saying, “Let’s talk about this together.”

But also, unease — especially from those working at the intersections of policy implementation. Not because the intention was to criticise, but because sometimes, when teachers speak from lived experience, our words land in places not everyone is ready to hear.

I get that.

And I’ve felt it too — the way truth can stir discomfort, even fear.

Fear — not just from those in education, but from those in politics, who may read these words as a challenge to their policies, or feel them as a discomforting mirror rather than an invitation to listen. I often wonder: why does speaking the truth from the classroom floor feel so threatening to those seated in Parliament?

I understand that fear. I really do.

In the PLD space — where I once stood — there were always reasons. Reasons tied to contracts, to frameworks, to political winds that shifted fast and often without warning. I remember the pressure to align, the quiet cautions about what not to say, the tightrope walk between advocacy and acceptability.

I spent six years in that world — through the hard times, through COVID, through the urgency of equity. I remember writing scripts for TVNZ so no child missed out on learning, even when schools were closed. I know the goodwill, the expectations, and the constant balancing act of trying to serve many while staying grounded in the needs of the few.

It was during those dark and disorienting COVID days that Engaging Learning Voices was born. Steve and I had had enough — enough of the silence around what teachers were really facing. We were watching frontline educators battle giants — isolation, exhaustion — and still somehow hold onto hope in a world that had shut down and become wildly unpredictable. ELV began as a response to that silence — a way to give voice to those who weren’t being heard, but who were holding the system up from the inside.

So I do understand how, when your mahi is tied to rollouts, frameworks, and mandates, someone holding up a mirror to what’s not working can feel like an accusation.

But that was never my intention.

I’m just a classroom teacher — standing in the mess and the magic — reflecting what I see so we don’t pretend these realities are isolated.

What’s happening in my classroom is not unique to my school.

It’s not even unique to Aotearoa.

These are our children — everywhere.

Their needs, their signals, their struggles — they are telling us something, and I’m simply choosing to listen and write it down.

I didn’t write to judge — I wrote to witness.

Behaviour is Communication

And the classroom speaks in a hundred voices, all at once.

To the boy holding the class ransom — Maybe you’re not defiant. Maybe you’re afraid. Afraid to read aloud, afraid to fail, afraid that someone will see the truth you’re trying to bury beneath bravado.

To the autistic student — I’m sorry your teacher aide got sick. I know how much that disrupted your world. You weren’t “difficult” today. You were disoriented. And you did the best you could.

To the student who used their hands instead of words — I promise, in time, with support and love, I’ll help you find a better way. But I won’t shame the way you coped today. Not when the world gives you so few tools.

To the rest of you — The ones who waited, who sat quietly while chaos danced around you — I know you want to learn. I love your patience. And as always, tomorrow I will reflect and try harder. Because that’s what teachers do.

What I’ve Learned

I’ve learned that when a teacher tells the truth, people listen. But some also flinch — because the truth, when held up to systems, casts long shadows.

I’ve learned that structured literacy is not the enemy — but the way we’re measuring, mandating, and rolling it out can be. Especially when it silences the relational, the cultural, the contextual.

I’ve learned that RTLits were never obsolete — they were our literacy kaitiaki, and their removal is not just short-sighted. It’s cruel.

I’ve learned that those who work in PLD can sometimes feel judged when teachers speak their truths — but here’s what I ask:

Please, Don’t Assume. Just Listen.

When I speak about the realities of my classroom:

I’m not dismissing your research. 

I'm not attacking your mahi. 

I’m not calling you out. 

I’m calling you in.

Walk a mile in my shoes before you define my context.

Observe with open heart before you prescribe with confidence.

And if you’re truly here for tamariki — then let’s talk.

But let’s not pretend we’re all starting from the same place.

Where I’ll Stand

I’ll stand beside the boy in fight-or-flight mode, 

Beside the teacher who cried in her car at lunchtime, 

Beside the principal who chose culture over compliance and paid the price, 

I’ll stand in discomfort if I must — but I will not stop standing for truth.

Because what I’ve learned is that love and torment live side by side in our classrooms.

And unless we make space for both, no structured system will ever truly serve our tamariki

He aha te mea nui o te ao? 

He tāngata, he tāngata, he tāngata. 

— And for us, as teachers, it begins with the child.

Always.