Where will $118 Million Go?

by Rebecca Thomas

AI generated image

Outside, the storm will pass. I hope the one within our sector does too — not by tearing things down, but by building something better, together.

What began as concern has turned into a relentless surge of frustration — a swirling mass of posts, comments, closed threads, politically charged headlines, and quiet unfollowing. 

Educators turning on educators. 

Colleagues accusing colleagues. 

Assumptions and judgments tossed around with barely a pause to breathe. It’s disheartening. It’s exhausting. And it feels like we’ve lost something of ourselves in the process.

I have tried — not to defend the government, or to say Kāhui Ako is perfect — but to ask that we don’t reduce this moment to a binary; that we don’t pretend this is a simple choice between a failing model and some magical alternative that will fix everything. And no matter where the money goes, does the existence of funding automatically guarantee the skills, knowledge, and systems to use it well? Will it be channelled in ways that truly benefit our students — or risk being absorbed by another layer of corporate providers, publishing agents, or administrative machinery that sits further from the needs in our classrooms?

I have heard the argument — again and again — that the cookie will simply be re-cut into new shapes with the same dough. That there is no more money for learning support unless taxes are raised. That this isn’t about values, but budgets. That one way or another, the same $118 million will be spent — just by a different set of hands.

Still, I’ve tried to hold space.

To stop educators with pitchforks from turning the comment section into a digital 'Lord of the Flies' scenario.

To interrupt the “vote now” threads that call to disband Kāhui Ako with no space for discussion, no space for dissent — because comments are turned off.

I’ve tried to suggest we stay a community of collaborative learning — that maybe, just maybe, there’s still value in what this model was originally designed to do. But that’s met with: “Collaboration doesn’t need a budget,” or “Not all schools are in a Kāhui Ako, so it’s not equitable anyway.”

I’ve acknowledged the truth — not all Kāhui Ako function well. Many drift. Some stall. But from this acknowledgement, the conversation tilts into something sharper: “Some teachers are paid more for doing nothing.” “They don’t deserve it.” “They should say if they’re on the Kāhui Ako payroll before speaking — so we know what bias they’re bringing.”

As if a salary voids a voice.

As if being paid to lead collaboration means your perspective is no longer valid.

As if we should question the person before we question the argument.

Because if we’re turning on each other now — over the perceived imbalance of leadership salaries for roles designed to lift collective practice — then what happens when performance-related pay rears its head?

What’s hurt most, though, is watching the shift — a subtle, quiet move from shared purpose to school-by-school survival. I’ve tried to warn that if we scrap structures without reimagining how we work together, we will silo ourselves. That the future could look like 2,000 schools competing — measuring success by metrics, by test scores, by funding wins. Performance pay and accountability spreadsheets creeping in while those down the road struggle in silence.

I say this not as a hypothetical, but as someone who lived it. I was there when it unfolded in the UK — when the competition model took hold, and schools once united drifted apart. I saw great teachers burn out. I saw vulnerable learners fall through gaps that no one was paid to mind anymore.

If we’re already this inhumane about professionals earning more in a collaborative system, imagine the harm when pay is tied to student results, equity comparisons, or league tables.

I don’t want that for us.

We are better than this.

And so, as the storm rages outside and online, I ask: Can we find a way to hold complexity without tearing each other apart? Can we look at the $118 million not as a prize to be won, but as a shared responsibility? Can we ask: what impact do we want to see, and then how can we get there — together?

That, to me, is a conversation worth having.

So with all this on the table — the frustration, the fracture lines, the fatigue — what have I learned?

I’ve learned that no matter how divided we are about the structures, we are united in one thing: everyone wants better outcomes for our learners. Everyone sees the need for change. But what we can’t seem to agree on is how — and more crucially, with what.

So let’s start with what we can measure. Let’s focus on the one clear, tangible piece of this whole situation that isn’t wrapped in politics or perception: the money.

$118 million.

It’s the amount currently tied to Kāhui Ako roles and support structures. It’s what’s on the table — potentially being reallocated, redirected, or rebranded. And while everything else is up for debate, this figure is not.

So I asked AI to run the numbers. To see what $118 million could mean if reimagined through the lens of learning support.

Here’s what it suggested, each bullet point means four different ways to stretch the $118 million,

What could $118 million do?

• 1,700 full-time LSCs at $70,000 a year. Or,

• Targeted top-ups for high-EQI schools. Or,

• Doubling RTLBs or boosting specialist PLD. Or,

• Extra teacher aide hours for early intervention

  
  

These are just based on rough numbers — But they make something clear: the money is significant. It’s not limitless, but it’s not crumbs either.

I don’t have all the answers.

But I do know we can’t keep turning on each other. Not when there is so much at stake. Not when the real conversation — about what we do with this funding, about what kind of system we want — still lies ahead.

Let’s focus less on who's paid what.

And more on what we're paying for.

Will the government truly invest this $118 million into areas that address the real problems we face in our schools?

Can we reimagine how this money might better support learners — especially those slipping through the cracks? Could there be a way to strengthen both collaboration and learning support rather than forcing a choice between them?

So let’s talk. Not in soundbites or scorecards, but in the spirit of shared care for our tamariki.