Over the past several years, I’ve had this conversation more times than I’d like to admit. I’ve scoured education blogs, devoured books, and reflected on strategies, yet I still feel adrift. Apathy among my fourth graders feels increasingly pervasive with each passing year.
We started by blaming video games. Then COVID. Now we talk about the pandemic and its aftershocks. We experimented with media-rich lessons, humor, and more engaging texts. We shortened instruction into “mini-lessons” to combat shrinking attention spans. We tried movement, flexible seating, abundant choice, and a sense of autonomy in nearly every daily task. And yet, the apathy grows stronger.
This summer, I devoted days—indeed, weeks—into preparing my classroom. I spent more on books and materials than I’ll ever be reimbursed for. I overhauled vocabulary instruction once again, redesigned daily word work tasks again, and layered in more motivational tactics than ever before. And yet, here we are in the fourth week of school, struggling to hold my students’ attention.
Today, I reached a breaking point and decided to quit in small, practical ways. I handed out a worksheet and asked for independent work. I followed with a graphic organizer that we had never used before, instructing them to fill it with information from this week’s reading after completing the worksheet.
The response was telling: blank stares, anxious glances from high achievers, and several students asking for help that I declined in hopes they would persevere. Minutes stretched, and many students wrote nothing.
When I finally asked what was happening, the truth came out: “We don’t know how to do this.” I could hear the stress in their voices. We had a long, honest conversation about what it feels like when I don’t “show them how to learn.” I reminded them that my job is to help and to make learning as engaging as possible, but that learning isn’t always fun or exciting—and that some tasks are simply necessary. A student’s remark, “Like when you have to go to meetings!” reminded us that adults also face less-than-glamorous responsibilities.
We talked about the emotional relief I felt when a lesson lands and the frustration that comes when it does not. We acknowledged the power—and the limits—of my role. We agreed that I will continue to strive to make ELA engaging where possible, while also addressing the dull but essential routines that underpin growth. In return, they agreed to participate, to try, and to persist—even when the work isn’t exciting.
I don’t know if I reached every student, but I hope that at least one or two walked away with a renewed sense of purpose. It’s a start, and I’ll take it.
I recognize I can’t control what happens at home, but I wish there were more opportunities for children to practice responsibility and to endure some of the mundane tasks that life presents. I don’t want to paint learning as dull, but I do want to acknowledge that not everything is fun. Compare this to video games, which offer instant gratification; real learning often requires patience and effort.
I wish families could eat dinner together around a table, without devices at the center of every interaction. I wish children could observe and participate in chores, and I wish adults could model the kind of sustained attention that daily life demands. I wish parents included their children in errands, to illustrate that some tasks—like grocery shopping—are tedious but essential.
Life’s not always engaging, and neither is learning. Yet if we want to cultivate productive, resilient citizens, we must teach students how to persevere through the hard things so they can truly appreciate the moments of joy and discovery that follow.
I’m still learning this balance myself. I’ll keep pushing, keep reflecting, and keep sharing what happens in my classroom—honest, messy, hopeful.
Teaching at 3am 