I’m a Teacher Without Kids, and Sometimes I Vent Into the Void
The parking lot behind the school was nearly empty, just my car and the maintenance truck. I sat in the driver’s seat with the engine off, gripping the steering wheel, and started talking to the windshield. “He tapped his pencil for forty-five minutes. Forty-five. I asked him to stop six times. Six. And then he knocked his water bottle onto the floor and looked at me like I was the one making noise.” My voice bounced off the glass. Nobody heard it. That was the point.
I’m thirty-four. I teach fourth grade. I don’t have children. I like my quiet apartment and my weekends that don’t involve soccer practice. But from 8:10 to 3:15, I’m the closest thing to a parent that twenty-six kids have. And sometimes, when the last bell rings, I have a full conversation with nobody about one of them.
That day it was Marcus.
Marcus is a sweet kid—he brings me drawings of dinosaurs and offers to erase the board before I even ask. But that morning, he came in buzzing. He tapped. He bounced his leg. He asked to sharpen his pencil three times in one lesson. By eleven, I had given him six warnings and a “please sit still” that came out sharper than I intended. He knocked the water bottle over. I asked him to step into the hallway. He didn’t look angry; he looked relieved.
I stood in the doorway and said, “What’s going on?” He shrugged. I said, “Usually you’re able to keep your body calm. Something’s different today.” He stared at the floor. “My dad moved out last night.” He said it the way you’d say “I have a spelling test Friday.”
I sent him to the counselor’s office. He went without a fuss. I went back to teaching fractions to twenty-five kids who all needed me at once.
Later I sat with that dried-up coffee, feeling like I’d failed him. I wasn’t his parent. I didn’t know his family’s story. But I had seen the signs—the restlessness, the agitation, the way he couldn’t regulate himself—and my first response was discipline instead of curiosity.
Here’s the thing I’ve learned after a decade in a classroom: kids don’t usually act out because they want to be difficult. They act out because they don’t have the words to say “I’m scared” or “I’m tired” or “everything at home is falling apart.” A pencil tap is a cry for help with a rhythm problem.
I used to think venting into the void meant I was a bad teacher. Like I should have endless patience and every child’s behavior should roll off me. But I’ve come to see the vent as a release valve. It’s the pause between the chaos and the calm. It’s how I separate the child from the behavior.
What works for me might work for parents too. When I see a kid spiraling, I try not to ask “Why are you acting up?” That’s a demand for an explanation they might not have. Instead, I ask “What’s going on?” or even just “Are you okay?” It sounds too simple, but it changes the tone. One phrase accuses; the other invities.
I also learned to offer movement instead of punishment. Tapping usually means the body needs a physical release. I’ll ask a restless student to pass out papers, or to take a stack of books to the office, or to do ten jumping jacks by the sink. It sounds like an interruption, but it’s really a reset. A kid can’t keep bouncing in a chair after they’ve been trusted to carry something and deliver it. They get to feel useful instead of disobedient.
At home, the version of this might look like saying “I see you’re very wiggly right now. Let’s run around the yard once and then come back to homework.” It’s not giving in to behavior; it’s giving their nervous system what it’s asking for.
Another thing I’ve picked up: don’t take the behavior personally. When a kid snaps at me, it’s usually not about me. It’s about the fight they had at breakfast, or the test they’re dreading, or the hundred tiny fears they’re carrying. When I was younger, I’d feel my face get hot. Now I say “I can see you’re upset. I’m going to give you a minute. We’ll talk after.” Then I walk away. Not in anger—just to regulate my own body so I don’t escalate theirs.
Parents can do the same thing. If your child is screaming at you because you said no to ice cream, you can say “I see you’re frustrated. I’m going to sit at the kitchen table for one minute. When you’re ready, come find me.” It’s not a timeout for them; it’s a pause for both of you.
I remember a girl last year who cried over every math problem. Not genuine confusion—just tears. I finally sat next to her and asked, “What’s the hardest part?” She whispered, “My mom says I’m bad at math like her.” That wasn’t a curriculum issue. That was a belief stuck in her head. I couldn’t fix her mom, but I could say, “I don’t know about your mom, but I’ve watched you solve three problems correctly today. Your brain is building a bridge. It’s just still under construction.” She laughed, wiped her nose, and finished the worksheet.
When I tell parents this story in conferences, they often nod and say “I didn’t know that’s what was happening.” And I always say: you can’t know what you can’t see. The teacher sees the behavior without the history. The parent sees the history without the behavior. We’re both looking at one half.
So I vent. I sit in my car and say the worst of it—”I can’t handle another week of Marcus tapping” or “If one more kid calls me a bossy teacher, I’m going to lose it.” The windshield doesn’t judge. It doesn’t tell me I’m being unprofessional or that I should have chosen a different job. It just reflects a tired face and a cracked dashboard with a stale Life Saver in the cup holder.
After I’ve said everything, I feel lighter. I remember that Marcus was relieved to go to the counselor. I remember that he brought me a drawing yesterday—a T-Rex with an apology note on the back. I remember that the crying girl finished her worksheet.
I don’t have kids. I’m not going to pretend I know what sleep-deprived, school-night real-parenting feels like. But I know what it’s like to be responsible for a child’s day, to make a hundred small decisions before noon, and to wonder if I’m getting any of them right. The vent is how I survive it.
Last week, I saw Marcus in the lunch line. He was laughing with a friend, his body loose and easy. He caught my eye and waved. I waved back. No pencil tapping in sight.
I still don’t have an answer for how to stop the tapping forever. I’m not sure there is one. But I’ve learned that the void can be a good listener. It doesn’t fix anything. It just holds the noise until I’m ready to try again. And that might be enough.
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