Why Some Kids Can’t Sit Still: What I Learned Preparing a Neuroeducation Talk
Yesterday, in the windowless workroom where the printer sits next to stacks of old spelling tests, Ms. Ruiz found me with research articles spread across the table. I was trying to organize notes for a talk I’m giving at a congress on neuroeducation—a word that still feels too large to say out loud. She didn’t ask about the conference. She dropped into the chair across from me and said, “I need a solution for Mateo.”
Mateo is the second grader who cannot sit still during morning meeting. She had tried sticker charts, new seats, sending notes home. That morning, he tipped his chair back and landed against the bookshelf. Nobody was hurt, but she was exhausted. She said, “I’m starting to think he’s doing it on purpose.”
I told her I didn’t think so. I’ve been reading about how the brain actually learns, and one of the clearest takeaways is this: learning doesn’t start from the neck up. The body and the emotional state are involved before any lesson begins. When a child is moving, hungry, thirsty, or feeling watched, the part of the brain that helps with self-control is not fully online. For young kids, that part is still being built anyway.
I’m not a neuroscientist. I’m a teacher. But a lot of neuroeducation is less about brain scans and more about common sense, backed up by evidence. It asks us to look at behavior differently. Instead of asking, “What is wrong with this child?” it asks, “What is this child’s body trying to tell us?”
For Mateo, the answer seemed to be: I need to move before I can think.
We decided to try a few changes that cost nothing and required no permission slips. The first was to stop telling him to sit down. That sounds small, but every time Ms. Ruiz said “Mateo, sit down,” he sat, then bounciness came back a minute later. The instruction wasn’t working because it was aimed at his behavior, not his body.
So we changed the environment. He moved to the edge of the rug, where he could lean against the bookshelf instead of being surrounded by other bodies. During read-aloud, he was allowed to stand. We put a piece of velcro under his desk so his feet had something to press against. He was given a job—turning off the lights, passing out the headphones—right before activities that required him to be calm. Movement before stillness, not movement as a reward after stillness.
That last part made a difference. For a child like Mateo, movement isn’t the opposite of paying attention. It can be what gets attention ready. Expecting a six-year-old to sit perfectly still for twenty minutes and then expecting him to be focused is backwards. His body needed to release some energy first so his brain could settle into the task.
At pickup that week, I ran into Mateo’s mom. I told her what we were doing at school. I said, “When he gets home, don’t put him straight into homework. Let him go outside or carry the groceries in from the car. Then do homework in short chunks—ten minutes, then a five-minute break.”
She laughed. “So you’re saying he needs to run around?”
“Sort of,” I said. “But it’s not about running around forever. It’s about letting his body catch up to his brain. After that, he can sit.”
She told me that homework usually turned into a fight. I told her to try this: snack first, then movement, then the table. Not all at once. No lectures. Just change the order. She said she’d try. I didn’t say this to her, but I’ve learned to give parents changes that are doable in one afternoon, not a whole system.
And the truth is, I learned most of this because I used to be a kid like Mateo. I remember being the child who was always told to sit still, who sat in the hallway after lunch because I couldn’t stop swinging my legs. Back then, nobody explained what my body was doing. They just told me I was being bad. I wasn’t being bad. My body was looking for something it needed.
Now, when I prepare this presentation for the congress, I keep coming back to one idea: behavior is information. It’s not always a misbehavior that needs to be stopped. Sometimes it’s a message that needs to be read.
That doesn’t mean there are no limits. We still have rules. Mateo can stand, but he can’t wander around the room during story time. He can have the velcro strip, but he can’t unstrap his shoes and toss them at the table. There are still moments when he needs to be reminded. But the reminders are different. Instead of “Sit down,” Ms. Ruiz will say, “Your body is wiggling. What do you need?” Usually his answer is a walk to the water fountain or a quick job. Sometimes it’s just, “I need to shake my hands,” and that’s allowed.
I’m not saying every child who moves a lot has a learning problem. Some kids just move more. Others are fidgeting because they didn’t sleep well, or because their shoes are too tight, or because they’re worried about something at home. Parents know this. Teachers know this. The hard part is remembering it in the middle of a busy classroom.
There is still a lot I’m unsure about. I don’t think any of us want to turn classrooms into therapy offices or diagnose every child on our own. And I’m aware that neuroeducation can become just another buzzword. But I’ve seen what happens when you adjust the environment instead of punishing the child. The behavior doesn’t disappear overnight. Mateo still has rough days. Last week, he threw his pencil when a classmate traded seats with him. But the number of rough mornings is smaller than it was.
The conference is next month. I still haven’t finished the article. Ms. Ruiz asks me every few days to get it done, mostly because she wants a copy to show Mateo’s next teacher. I think about what to say in the final paragraph. I want it to be honest. I don’t want to promise that movement will fix everything.
What I can say is this: when a child can’t sit still, we tend to see it as a problem of will. But willpower is a grown-up idea. For kids, especially younger ones, self-control grows out of feeling safe, fed, rested, and sometimes out of being allowed to move. The lesson isn’t “let kids run wild.” It’s “notice the body before you ask the brain to behave.”
Yesterday, Ms. Ruiz told me that Mateo stayed on the rug for the entire first chapter of the read-aloud. She said he was rocking a little, but he was listening. When it was over, he raised his hand and answered a question correctly. Then he asked if he could put the chairs on the tables for the next activity. She said yes. It’s not a complete success. It’s just a next step. But for a child who was once labeled “disruptive,” it’s a quiet sign that something is changing.
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