The Real Reason Schools Struggle to Hire Paraprofessionals and Aides
The email came on a Tuesday afternoon, right as I was packing up my classroom. It was from our principal, a short note with the subject line: “Staffing Update.” I scanned it quickly, already knowing what it would say. Mrs. Alvarez, our newest paraprofessional, had resigned. Her last day would be Friday.
I wasn’t surprised. Mrs. Alvarez had been with us for four months. She was assigned to support a student in my third-grade class, a bright boy named Leo who had an IEP for ADHD and some significant reading delays. She was patient, consistent, and had a way of redirecting Leo without making him feel singled out. She was, by every measure, exactly the kind of support we needed.
On her last day, I walked her to the front office. She clutched a cardboard box with a few personal items—a small plant, a framed photo of her grandchildren, a coffee mug that said “World’s Best Grandma.” She wasn’t angry, just tired. “I loved working with Leo,” she told me. “But I can’t keep doing this. I’m making less than I did working retail, and I’m using my own money for gas to drive between two schools. It doesn’t add up.”
She wasn’t wrong. The starting pay for a paraprofessional in our district was just over $15 an hour. It’s a part-time position, often capped at 29 hours a week so the district doesn’t have to provide benefits. There are no paid holidays, no sick days, and the work is physically and emotionally demanding. You’re not just helping with reading; you’re managing behavior, supporting bathroom needs, and sometimes dealing with aggression. You’re the first line of support for the most vulnerable kids, and you’re paid like a temporary worker.
The turnover is relentless. In the three years I’ve been teaching, I’ve worked with six different paraprofessionals in my classroom. Each time one leaves, the students pay the price. Leo, in particular, thrives on routine and familiarity. Every time a new aide starts, he acts out for weeks. He tests boundaries, refuses to work, and sometimes cries. It’s not a behavioral problem; it’s a trust problem. He’s learned that the adults who help him don’t stay.
Parents often ask me what they can do to support their child’s education at home. We talk about reading logs, math facts, and limiting screen time. But the most impactful thing they could do is advocate for better pay for the people who make their child’s inclusion possible. It’s not a glamorous cause. It doesn’t have the emotional pull of a new playground or a laptop program. But it’s the difference between a classroom that runs smoothly and one that is in a constant state of triage.
What does this look like in practice? It means when a para is absent, the classroom teacher absorbs their duties. I’ve spent many mornings kneeling next to Leo, trying to help him decode a sentence while simultaneously managing twenty-two other students. It means that the one-on-one support he’s legally entitled to becomes a game of musical chairs. The special education teacher, who is already stretched thin, pulls someone from another room. The schedule falls apart.
The practical solution is straightforward, even if the politics are not. If districts want to retain qualified paraprofessionals, they have to make the job financially viable. That means offering a living wage, not just a minimum wage. It means providing benefits for part-time employees, or restructuring schedules so that aides can work full-time hours. It means paying for the training and professional development we expect them to have.
I’ve seen small changes work. One school in our district created a “lead para” position with a higher pay scale and additional responsibilities, like mentoring new hires and coordinating schedules. The turnover in that building dropped significantly. Another school started a program where parents and community members could donate to a “staff support fund” to cover things like gas cards or classroom supplies, but that’s a band-aid. It doesn’t fix the underlying issue.
The truth is, we are asking paraprofessionals to do a job that requires the skills of a teacher, the patience of a saint, and the emotional resilience of a crisis counselor. And we are paying them like babysitters. Until that math changes, the revolving door will keep spinning. Leo will keep meeting new adults, keep testing them, and keep losing them.
I saw Leo in the hallway last week. He was walking in line with his new aide, a young woman who started two weeks ago. He was holding her hand, looking up at her with a cautious smile. She looked overwhelmed but kind. I wanted to tell her to stay. I wanted to tell her that she was making a difference. But I also knew that in a few months, she might be the one walking out with a cardboard box.
The district announced a hiring freeze for non-certified staff last month. They said it was a budget issue. They didn’t mention that the budget issue was partly because they can’t keep anyone in the job long enough to justify the expense of training them. It’s a cycle that feeds itself. And the kids are the ones who get caught in the middle.
For now, I do what I can. I write letters to the school board. I share articles about para pay with other teachers. I try to make the classroom a place where an aide feels respected, even if they aren’t paid like it. But I’m just one teacher. The solution has to come from the top. Until then, I’ll keep meeting new faces, keep learning new names, and keep hoping that the next one stays.
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