By Amy Dooley
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August 18, 2026
I don't teach children the way I used to. And sometimes, when I think about the teacher I was at the beginning of my career, that's hard to sit with. I was young. I was authoritarian. And I was very much under the illusion that being a good teacher meant being able to control my classroom. I thought my job was to get children to do what I wanted them to do, when I wanted them to do it. Even writing that now makes me uncomfortable, because today I see the problem in the premise itself. I was so focused on getting children to do what I wanted that I wasn't asking nearly enough about what they needed. Back then, though, I didn't see it that way. I yelled. I threatened punishment. I took away recess. I moved clips down and put kids "on red." I used time-outs, moved children to the back of the line, had them stand instead of sit, and absolutely used the old "the whole class is going to suffer because one person can't behave" routine. Oh, when I think back. There have been times I've felt deeply embarrassed by the way I handled children early in my career. There has been shame there, too, especially now that so much of my work involves advocating for children to be treated very differently than I once treated them. I've wondered whether that makes me a hypocrite. I've wondered how I can stand here now and talk about connection, regulation, empathy, curiosity, and emotional safety when I wasn't always the adult offering those things. But I've come to realize that changing isn't hypocrisy. Hypocrisy would be continuing to live one way while telling everyone else to live another. What happened to me was different. I learned. I Had to Forgive the Teacher I Used to Be I taught first grade for the first five years of my career. After that, I moved into special education, where I spent the next six years teaching a mixed group of K–5 students with autism, ADHD, cognitive disabilities, and a wide range of learning and behavioral needs. When I started teaching, I knew a lot of things about children. I had gone to college. I had learned instructional methods, behavior management, classroom systems, lesson planning, assessment, and all the other things we decided new teachers needed to know. But no one had really taught me about relationships. No one had taught me to look deeply at the child in front of me. So I didn't. I looked at behavior. I looked at compliance. I looked at whether the lesson was getting done and whether the classroom was under control. I knew how to think about what I needed children to do, but I didn't yet know how to ask what might be getting in the way of them being able to do it. A couple of years into teaching, that started to change. Slowly at first, and then in ways that made it impossible to keep seeing children the way I had before. I started looking at the child. And once I did, so much of what I thought I knew started to crumble. When Everything I Knew Started to Dismantle There wasn't one magical moment when I suddenly became the teacher I wanted to be. It was much messier than that. My beliefs about children, behavior, authority, discipline, and what it meant to be a "good teacher" started dismantling over a period of years. At the same time, I was trying to reconstruct something new in their place. If control wasn't the goal, what was? If punishment wasn't teaching the skills a child was missing, what would? If a child already knew what they were "supposed" to do and still couldn't do it in that moment, what was I missing? And if I wanted cooperation, what would happen if I stopped trying so hard to control children and started building relationships with them instead? Those questions changed my teaching. Eventually, they changed much more than that. But the process wasn't neat. I didn't wake up one morning enlightened and never yell again. I was learning about regulation while still struggling to regulate myself. I was beginning to understand connection while still falling back into control. I was developing new beliefs while old ones were still deeply ingrained. I had to learn how to do something different while acknowledging that some of the things I'd done before weren't okay. And I think both of those truths have to be allowed to exist. I can give the younger version of myself grace for what she didn't know while still taking responsibility for what she did. I can recognize that she was doing the best she knew how to do while acknowledging that sometimes her best still hurt people. I can believe she was a good person without pretending every choice she made was a good one. That's a distinction that has become incredibly important to me. "But They Know Better" There's an irony in all of this that I can't help but laugh at a little now. How often do adults say about children, "They know better" ? They know they're not supposed to hit. They know they're supposed to listen. They know they're not supposed to yell. They know what the rule is. And maybe they really do know better. But knowing and doing are two entirely different things. A child can intellectually understand what they're supposed to do and still not have access to the regulation, skills, impulse control, or capacity necessary to actually do it in that moment. And, well... Apparently adults aren't all that different. For years, there were things I was beginning to know about children that I still couldn't consistently do in my teaching. I knew yelling wasn't helping before I completely stopped yelling. I knew connection mattered before I fully understood how to build it. I knew I wanted to respond differently before I actually had the skills to respond differently. Funny how quickly we demand that children "know better, do better" when most of us can probably point to areas of our own lives where we know better and still struggle to do better. Maybe we're all a little hypocritical there. The difference is that as adults, once we become aware, what we do with that awareness becomes our responsibility. Grace Doesn't Remove Accountability I think this is where I've eventually landed with the teacher I used to be. I don't want to shame her. But I don't want to excuse her either. There are reasons I taught the way I did. There are things I learned growing up, things I was taught professionally, things I wasn't taught at all, and things I simply didn't understand yet. All of that context matters. But eventually, awareness creates responsibility. Once I could see that something needed to change, it became my responsibility to do the work of changing it. I couldn't spend the rest of my career saying, " Well, that's how I was raised ," or " That's how teachers did things ," or " Nobody taught me another way. " At some point, I knew enough to start asking harder questions. So I did. And twelve years after that dismantling first began, I'm still asking them. I'm still refining what I believe. I'm still noticing places where something doesn't quite align. I'm still learning how to become the next version of myself who can meet the students of today and my own child, in front of me rather than relying on what worked, or seemed to work, years ago. I don't think that process ever really ends. I'm Thankful for Her, Too For long time, I wanted to distance myself from the teacher I used to be. I still feel that once in a while. But something I have space for now that I didn’t before: I'm thankful for her. I'm thankful for the young teacher who walked into a first-grade classroom and did really hard things that the older version of me might look at now and wonder how on earth she managed. I'm thankful for how much she cared, even when she didn't yet know how to translate that care into the kind of connection children needed. I'm thankful she was willing to have what she believed dismantled instead of clinging to it simply because admitting she was wrong was uncomfortable. And I'm really thankful she changed. Because her willingness to change is part of the reason I get to keep becoming more empathetic, more curious, more discerning, more passionate, and more dedicated to the work of children today. I don't believe authority is about becoming the never-erring adult whose job is to make children do what we want or face the consequences. I want to look at the child now. I want to understand what they're communicating, what they're struggling with, what they need, and what skills they don't have access to yet. I want children to experience adults who can lead without controlling them and who understand that safety and connection aren't rewards children earn through cooperation. They're part of what makes cooperation possible. So no, I don't think changing your beliefs makes you a hypocrite. Sometimes it means you've grown enough to look back at who you were and tell the truth. You can offer that version of yourself grace. You can take accountability for what needs to be owned. You can be grateful for everything that person carried you through. And then you can keep changing. That's what I intend to do.