The Trauma of a Routine Change
Over the years, teaching has become more than just my profession; it has been a lens through which I observe the broader human experience. With every new school year, children and adults alike are repeatedly called to adjust, learn, and grow. It’s striking how even the subtlest shift can ripple through a school community, revealing so much about our instincts, beliefs, and values.
Recently, we implemented what I considered a minor, yet necessary, change to our daily routine. The adjustment hardly altered anyone’s schedule in any substantial way. Yet, the reaction from a select group of parents was immediate and intense. Some described the alteration as a “crisis” and the word “traumatic” surfaced time and again in conversations and emails. I found myself oscillating between confusion and concern. Why would something so benign evoke such a profound emotional response?
Upon reflection, I realised that words like “traumatic” have become increasingly common in our everyday vocabulary, sometimes detached from their clinical or psychological roots. True trauma, as understood by mental health professionals, is a deep wound to the psyche – a response to events that overwhelm an individual’s capacity to cope. In our school’s corridors, I meet children who contend daily with very real trauma: the emotional fallout from parental separation, anxiety stemming from food insecurity, or the hidden grief of losing a loved one. Their burdens, so often carried in silence, are the kind of challenges that forge resilience through genuine struggle.
Witnessing these young people navigate authentic adversity injects a sense of dissonance when comparatively minor inconveniences are elevated to the level of ‘trauma.’ It leads me to wonder about our collective threshold for discomfort and our modern impulse to classify any deviation from the ordinary as catastrophic.
A Parent’s Instinct
I have no doubt that the parents’ responses are rooted in love and a profound desire to protect their young from pain or uncertainty. Parenting, after all, is a relentless exercise in vigilance. Our society prizes safety, efficiency, and predictability; when one of these is threatened, our protective instincts rush to the surface. The intent is always to nurture, to provide, to shelter. And yet, with the best of intentions, we risk imparting an unintended message: that the world is too hostile and that our children are too delicate to withstand its inevitable challenges.
The trend I’ve witnessed is what some commentators have dubbed “snowplough parenting.” Rather than preparing the child for the road, parents attempt to clear away every potential bump: a lost homework assignment, an uncomfortable social situation, a slight schedule change. While this is an extension of love, it may, paradoxically, leave children less capable of handling setbacks on their own.
I see the consequences in the classroom daily. When a student’s pencil breaks, or when they forget their lunch, some are undone by the experience. They have not yet been given enough space to practise the crucial micro-skills of resilience: improvisation, problem-solving, and self-soothing. Life’s smallest challenges, meant to be lessons in resourcefulness, feel insurmountable unless a caring adult steps in.
The Quiet Power of Trust
Ultimately, the crux of this issue is trust – a word that speaks to the very core of community life. A thriving school is a tapestry of trust: trust that teachers are doing their utmost for every child, trust that students will rise to challenges, and trust that parents’ concerns will be met with respect and understanding. As educators, our job is to observe, make decisions rooted in collective welfare, and respond compassionately to individual needs – even those that are invisible to others.
It is not uncommon for a change in plans to serve a far greater purpose than a single child or family’s convenience. Sometimes, those small pragmatic shifts are a lifeline for a vulnerable student, or a logistical necessity to deliver equitable opportunities to all. When parents challenge minor decisions publicly and persistently, it not only erodes professional authority but models a worldview for children in which the default response to discomfort is mistrust, complaint, or escalation.
The reality is that our most meaningful work as educators often happens far from public view. Much of our energy, focus, and emotional resources go towards supporting those silent strugglers: the pupils who rely on school as a haven from instability, the children wrestling with anxiety or insecurity, the families quietly asking for help. Every minute spent defending a harmless routine change is time not spent nurturing a child who genuinely needs extra compassion.
The Gift of Resilience
One of the most profound lessons my students have taught me is the human capacity to recover and grow from adversity. I think of the children who have weathered formidable storms – loss, disappointment, fear and emerged with a strength that belies their years. Their resilience isn’t a sign of invulnerability. Rather, it’s proof that adversity, when met with support and care, can become alchemy for confidence and wisdom.
What we often refer to as resilience is not the absence of difficulty but the ability to carry on in its presence. It’s the muscle that becomes stronger through use, the result of confronting setbacks and finding a way forward, even when that path is not obvious or easy. True resilience is built in the small, everyday moments: a pupil discovering a solution to lost homework, a child negotiating the rough edges of friendship, or a teenager responding to unexpected bad news with grace.
So, what’s the solution? I do not claim to have all the answers. But I believe passionately in the importance of allowing children to experience “productive struggle”, to face manageable challenges and, importantly, to make mistakes in a safe, supportive environment. These moments of frustration and error are where resilience is formed.
As parents and educators, our response must be rooted in perspective. We must let children stumble and recover, offering help without removing every obstacle from their path. This doesn’t mean neglect or indifference. It’s about practising a kind of loving restraint – being present, encouraging, and trusting, rather than controlling, rescuing, or smoothing the way at every turn.
Practising what we preach is, perhaps, the hardest lesson of all. Children absorb not just what we say but how we respond to difficulty. If we meet change with composure and trust, if we approach others’ decisions with the assumption of positive intent, our children will learn to do the same. If we show patience and flexibility when life is unpredictable, we teach by example that they, too, can withstand a world that does not always bend to their preferences.
In the end, I hope we can give our children not just the gift of protection, but the even greater gift of self-trust. Let’s teach them that setbacks are not signs of weakness, but opportunities to discover their own resilience. Let’s show them that their teachers, and the systems around them, are worthy of trust, even when they don’t agree with every decision. And let’s remind ourselves that discomfort, handled with perspective and equanimity, shapes our children into capable, confident adults.
Perhaps, by embracing change, both trivial and profound, with a spirit of openness, we can all find greater resilience and a deeper sense of perspective.
agirlcalledlynsey 
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