Dare to slow down

Last week I visited four schools in Denmark. I spent the Thursday at a school for young people with additional needs. Many had spent long periods at home without attending school. Others had struggled to find a school environment in which they could thrive.

Two conversations stayed with me.

A fourteen-year-old boy explained that he had felt everything at his previous school was moving too quickly for him, leaving him tired all the time.

A fifteen-year-old girl described being made to read aloud in front of the class, even though it made her deeply uncomfortable, and then being told to speak louder. To her, this felt like bullying by the teacher, and she explained that it also triggered bullying from her classmates. More than once, it became so overwhelming that she ran out of the classroom and didn’t want to go back.

Listening to them, I kept thinking about how easily our intentions can differ from a learner’s experience. We may believe we are encouraging participation or helping someone grow, while they experience pressure they cannot manage.

At the school I was visiting, the staff were willing to slow things down.

Relationships came first. For a learner who had struggled to attend school at all, showing up was something to celebrate. The starting point was what that individual could manage, with support.

The pace at the school could feel uncomfortable to those of us accustomed to full timetables, visible activity and measurable results.

Are they learning enough? Shouldn’t we be doing more?

I understand those questions. I feel that urge too.

But when a young person begins to trust an adult again, or discovers that school can be a place where they are listened to, I would call that meaningful progress. It creates a foundation on which further learning can grow.

It also made me think about our discomfort with quieter moments.

Many of us recognise the experience of opening Instagram or TikTok for a moment and staying much longer than intended. Each new video offers another reason to keep scrolling. Putting the phone down can leave us restless, reaching for something else to fill the gap.

In Dopamine Detox, Thibaut Meurisse encourages readers to reduce distracting stimulation and make room for quieter activities, including moments of doing nothing. One practical idea I take from the book is that we do not need to fill every pause immediately.

The title needs care: we are not literally detoxing our bodies of dopamine. And I would not use the book to explain these young people’s difficulties. Their stories involved experiences that go far beyond distraction.

For me, the connection is a question for us as educators: how readily do we fill every quiet moment, and whose need are we meeting when we do?

At this school, I saw adults making room for a slower pace, supported by relationships. There could be space to pause, to recover, and sometimes even to take a whole day or more, without immediately adding another demand.

Boredom itself is no guarantee of curiosity or motivation. What matters is noticing the individual learner and working out, together, when and how to take the next step.

That takes professional judgement. It also takes discipline to stay with a slower approach when your own instinct is to hurry things along.

For me, high expectations include believing that a learner can grow while being willing to adjust the route, the support and the time they need.

Where might a learner need you to slow down, and what would meaningful progress look like for them?