Why kids hesitate to ask questions (and 3 small things you can do to help)
I’m a 4th grade general education teacher, and last week my last parent-teacher conference of the day ran 10 minutes over. Milo’s mom pushed open the classroom door, rain dripping off her canvas hood, Milo trailing behind her staring at the toes of his scuffed blue sneakers. She pulled the folding chair across from my desk, smiled tight, and said, “Hello all—sorry to run late, I just have a question.”
Her question was one I hear all the time, from parents and even from kids themselves: “He says he doesn’t get half the math we do in class, and he thinks of a question every single day. But he just can’t get it out to raise his hand. Why won’t he just ask?”
I nodded, because I’ve been on both sides of that question. Three years ago, my own daughter Lila came home crying every Friday in second grade, because she’d missed the homework assignment the teacher had announced at the end of the day, and she never worked up the nerve to ask after class. Back then, I gave the same generic advice everyone does: “Just tell her there are no stupid questions!” “What’s the big deal, it’s just a question!” It took me almost a whole year of watching Lila shrink into her hoodie every time I said that to realize that advice doesn’t help. It just makes kids feel like their nerves are wrong.
I’ve spent the last few years adjusting how I handle this in my classroom, and testing small changes at home with Lila, and I’ve found a few things that work way better than generic encouragement.
First, stop telling kids there are no stupid questions, and start normalizing the awkwardness of asking. When I first started teaching, I ended every lesson with, “Any questions? Remember, there are no stupid questions!” What I didn’t realize is that line lands differently for a kid who’s already convinced they’re the only one who doesn’t get it. It feels like I’m calling them out for being silly for feeling nervous. Now I end my lessons with, “I got stuck on this part when I was learning it, too. Who else is with me?” If no one speaks up, I add, “I’ll give you a minute, I’m gonna go refill my water bottle, and if you want to flag me down on my way back to ask, that’s totally fine.” At home, when Lila tells me she didn’t ask her teacher a question she had, I don’t push her to explain why. I just say, “Yeah, I get that. It’s so weird when everyone’s waiting for you to talk, right? I almost didn’t ask the principal for a bigger supply budget last semester because I was nervous it would sound rude.” Naming the awkwardness out loud takes away its power, instead of acting like it shouldn’t exist.
The second thing is give kids a low-stakes way to ask that doesn’t involve speaking in front of the whole class. I used to call on quiet kids when I saw they looked confused, thinking I was helping. That just made them freeze up. A couple years ago, I put a plain cardboard box covered in blue construction paper on the shelf by my desk, labeled “Question Box.” Kids can write any question on a slip of paper, slip it in, and I answer all the questions at the start of class the next day, no names attached. Half the questions are about silly stuff (“why do we have to plant beans if we can’t eat them?”) and half are about the lesson, and every kid uses it, not just the quiet ones. For parents, you can do the same thing at home: keep a small jar by the fridge, and let your kid write down questions they don’t want to ask out loud (about homework, or something that’s bothering them at school) and you can go over the answers together after dinner. It’s low effort, no pressure, and it gives them time to work up to asking out loud later.
Third, don’t push a big public ask before they’re ready. If I see a kid staring at their worksheet chewing their pencil, I don’t stop the whole class and ask if they have a question. I just wander over, lean down so my voice is only for them, and say, “Want me to walk through that step again, or do you have a question I can answer right here?” No one else notices, no one is staring, and 9 times out of 10, they’ll ask.
After that conference with Milo and his mom, I showed Milo the question box, told him even the silliest questions were fine to put in there. He just nodded, still staring at his shoes. Two days later, I pulled a crumpled slip of paper out of the box that said “i dont get long division step 3.” No name, but I knew who it was from. I re-explained step 3 to the whole class the next morning, didn’t mention anyone asked, and after class Milo lingered by my desk and said that it made sense now.
This week, he raised his hand for the first time to ask a question. It wasn’t about math. It was if we could go out to recess five minutes early because the PTA brought popsicles that were going to melt. It was small, but it counted.
I still don’t ask every question I have in staff meetings sometimes. Lila still avoids asking her piano teacher why she messed up a measure sometimes. This isn’t something you fix overnight, it’s just something you make a little easier. Some days, that’s all you can do.
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