Why the First Day of School Isn’t Always the Best Day (And What To Do When It’s Terrible)
Last week, I stood by my second grade classroom door at 8:15 a.m., holding a stack of neon name tags, and watched 7-year-old Leo wrap his hand so tight around his mom’s wrist that his knuckles blanched. His mom kept laughing, brushing his hair back and saying “You’re gonna love it, look at all the new art supplies!” Leo just shook his head, face pressed into the side of her puffer coat, no tears just quiet, rigid resistance.
I’ve been teaching elementary for 12 years, and I’ve bought into the first-day hype as much as anyone. I’ve taken the first-day class photos, posted them to my classroom Facebook with a giddy caption about the “best year ever,” nodded along when other teachers and parents gush that first days are always the most fun, full of fresh starts. This year, though, by 10 a.m., half my new class had cried at some point. Three kids had bathroom accidents because they were too nervous to raise their hand and ask where the restroom was. Leo spent the first two full hours under the reading nook table, and wouldn’t come out for snack or our icebreaker name game.
When the final bell rang and the last kid ran out to meet their parents, a mom stopped me by the playground gate, grinning, and said “Wasn’t that just the best day? I just love first days!” That’s when it clicked: everyone talks like the first day is supposed to be the best, but for most kids, it’s actually the worst. And that’s not a failure—it’s just how new starts work for little people.
That evening, I texted Leo’s mom to let her know he’d been safe all day, and that his quiet day wasn’t a problem. She texted back 10 minutes later, saying she’d sat in her car in the parking lot crying for 20 minutes after dropping him off. All the other kids had bounded in holding their new backpacks, excited to see friends, and she’d left feeling like she’d messed up—like she’d pushed him too hard to start school right after their cross-country move, when they were still living in an Airbnb waiting for their new house to be ready. She’d bought into the hype too: first day is supposed to be exciting, so if her kid was miserable, something was wrong.
I’ve been there, too. Two years ago, my own daughter started sixth grade at a new middle school, and she came home, threw her brand new sparkly backpack on the kitchen floor, and said she hated every minute. I’m a teacher who talks about kid anxiety for a living, and I still caught myself saying “But it’s just the first day! It’s gonna get better, it’s supposed to be fun!” She stormed up to her room and didn’t come down for dinner for an hour. I was so focused on the idea that the first day should be good that I missed the obvious: all the newness that feels like an adventure to us is just a long list of unknowns for them. You don’t know if you’ll sit alone at lunch. You don’t know if the teacher will get mad if you sharpen your pencil mid-lesson. You don’t even know where to fill your water bottle without getting lost. None of that feels fun. It just feels overwhelming.
Over the past couple of years, I’ve adjusted what I do as a teacher, and what I tell parents to do at home, that takes the pressure off the first day being great. It’s all small, simple stuff, no big plans required. Instead of telling kids “you’re gonna have so much fun today,” I say “It’s okay to feel sad or scared today. Today is just for learning where everything goes. We don’t have to have fun today.” That one phrase takes all the pressure off. I don’t force kids to join group activities if they want to hang back on day one— I just leave them a snack and check in every 10 minutes, no fuss. I take any nervous kid on a quick 1:1 tour of the classroom and bathroom and water fountain, twice, so they don’t have to remember it from a big group walk. No one calls them out for forgetting, they just already know where everything is.
For parents, I tell them to skip the big “best first day ever” question at pickup. Asking that puts a kid who had a terrible day on the spot, like they have to lie to make you happy. Instead, ask something low-stakes, like “What was the easiest thing you did today?” or “Did you see anything weird today?” Leo’s mom asked him that first question when she picked him up, and he answered “The granola bar under the table was easy,” and that opened up into him talking about how the table had a loose leg he got to wiggle, and how no one bothered him there. No pressure to be positive, just space to talk about what actually happened. I also tell parents to skip the fancy celebratory first day dinner if your kid is wiped out. Order their favorite takeout, let them sit in front of the TV for 20 minutes, and go to bed 15 minutes early. That’s way better than forcing a celebration for a day that didn’t feel like one.
Leo’s still quiet some mornings. Last week I saw him playing four square at recess, grinning and yelling when he won a turn, and he waved at me between rounds. It took him a full week to sit with the group for morning circle, and that’s fine. I still get excited parents telling me they can’t wait for the best first day next year, and I don’t argue. I just tell them it’s okay if it’s not. Bad first days don’t mean bad years. They just mean your kid is human, starting something new, and that’s always a little messy.
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