Why One Teacher I Had As A Kid Still Sticks With Me: What It Teaches Us About Supporting Anxious Learners
The fluorescent lights in 7th grade math hummed so loud you could barely hear the teacher talk, and I was shoving my blank notebook deeper under my desk, palms sticking to the cold linoleum. I’d mixed up the homework assignment the night before, copied the wrong page numbers, and had nothing to turn in. I’d already gotten two late marks that month, and I was sure this time I’d get sent to the principal’s office, or have my name written on the board for everyone to see.
Ms. Henderson was the oldest teacher at the school, wore the same cream cardigan with a coffee stain on the cuff every day, and kept a jar of butterscotch candies on her desk that she only refilled once a month. She didn’t do fun group projects or sing songs about algebra. Most kids thought she was boring.
She walked past my desk on her way to the trash can, glanced down at my lap, and didn’t stop. She just kept walking, and when she came back a minute later, she dropped a tiny scrap of paper on my desk that said “After homeroom. My desk. Bring your book.” I spent the next 40 minutes convinced I was getting detention. When I knocked on her door after the bell, I was already blinking back tears.
She pulled out an extra sheet of notebook paper from her drawer and pushed the butterscotch jar toward me. Before I could say I was sorry, I blurted out that I wasn’t stupid, I just forgot, and I can’t do anything fast when everyone’s watching. I told her I get so worried about being wrong that my brain goes completely blank. She nodded, and didn’t say “I know you’re smart” or “It’ll be okay” like every other adult did. She said, “Okay. Let’s make a deal then.”
The deal had three parts. One, any time I don’t finish work in class, I can bring it home and turn it in the next day, no late penalty, no questions. Two, when we have to go up to the board to solve a problem, I can go last or not go at all, no one will call on me to go if I don’t raise my hand. Three, any time I feel my brain going blank during a quiz or test, I can put my head down on my desk for two minutes, and I won’t get marked down for it. That was it. No extra help sessions, no meetings with the counselor, no note home to my parents telling them I had a problem.
I didn’t suddenly turn into a math whiz. I still got brain freeze on midterms. I still turned in work late once every few weeks. But for the first time that year, I stopped going home with a stomach ache every afternoon. I stopped skipping lunch to hide in the bathroom and finish worksheets I couldn’t get done in class. At parent-teacher conferences that fall, my mom asked her why I wasn’t keeping up with the rest of the class, and Ms. Henderson pulled out my stack of quizzes, all marked mostly A’s, and said, “She gets the material. Pacing isn’t the same as understanding.” That line still sticks with me.
Now I’m a parent of a 10 year old who gets the same brain freeze I did. I’ve sat in more than one parent-teacher meeting where teachers tell me he’s “behind on pacing” or “doesn’t participate enough when we do group work.” I’ve caught him hiding half-finished worksheets in the bottom of his backpack, just like I did, because he’s scared he’ll get in trouble for not being done fast enough. That’s when I think of Ms. Henderson.
What most people don’t talk about when they talk about favorite teachers is that the best things they do aren’t big, grand gestures. They’re tiny, free adjustments that meet the kid where they are. Ms. Henderson didn’t need a big budget or extra training to make that deal with me. She just decided that my need for extra time wasn’t a disciplinary problem. Any teacher can do this today: if you see a kid hiding their work, pull them aside quietly instead of calling them out in front of the class. Offer unpenalized extra time for anyone who needs it, no questions asked, instead of making kids prove they “deserve” it. Let kids take two minute brain breaks mid-test if they need them. It takes 10 seconds to agree to that, and it changes everything.
For parents, the lesson is just as simple. Next time your kid says their brain feels stuck before a test, don’t tell them to just relax or that they’ll do fine. Try saying, “If you get stuck, you can put your head down for two minutes before you start, okay?” When their teacher says your kid is working slower than the rest of the class, ask what your kid actually understands, not just how fast they’re going. That’s what Ms. Henderson did: she cared more about whether I got the material than whether I finished it on the class’s timeline.
I ran into Ms. Henderson once at the grocery store when I was in college, pushing a cart full of ramen and laundry detergent. She remembered my name, and offered me a butterscotch from the bag she was buying. I mumbled that her deal helped me a lot, and she just smiled and said “I figured it would.” I never got a chance to tell her that I’m using the same rules with my son now, that I keep a jar of butterscotch on my kitchen table for when he gets stuck. He still gets anxious. He still hides unfinished work sometimes. We’re still working on it. Some days, that’s all you get: a small deal, a candy, and the knowledge that someone sees you, and doesn’t think your brain working a little differently is a problem. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.
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