There’s a moment in education when curiosity meets friction. When discomfort surfaces not because something is unsafe — but because something is deep. What happens next often decides the tone of a classroom, the fate of a teacher, and whether learning becomes a shared journey… or something more fractured.
I lived that moment. I didn’t forget it.
What Happened in Our Classroom
A while ago, during my education, a pedagogy teacher assigned work that stopped me in my tracks. It was complex, emotionally layered, and purposeful. It made sense — not in an easy way, but in a necessary one.
I found it brilliant. But my classmates struggled. Many didn’t turn it in. And then something subtle shifted: people weren’t just uncomfortable with the work. They were uncomfortable with the teacher herself.
They called her unstable. Said she was “unsafe.” They whispered among each other . The emotional charge in the classroom was thick, brittle, reactive.
Some chose not to attend. Not because of illness or schedule, but because of whispers, in the casual edits of hallway language. Attendance became a weapon. And slowly, the classroom emptied. It can be called a collective withdrawal, a kind of informal boycott masked as personal choice. But its effect? Deeply isolating.
Especially in an academic context — does more than disrespect. It builds an invisible narrative that others might join without even questioning. It turns opinion into mythology. And the person at the center doesn’t even know they’ve become the villain in a story they didn’t write.
Pedagogical Risk vs Emotional Safety
One of her group exercises asked students to play out exclusion — three students were told to ignore the fourth in a role-play scenario. Her goal, I think, was to make us feel and reflect on social dynamics and how they play out in real educational spaces.
But here’s the truth: some of my classmates were already behaving like that toward me, before the exercise ever happened.
And when the simulation mirrored reality, rather than acknowledging it, they labeled the teacher “abusive.” They didn’t say: “I recognize these patterns in myself.” They said: “She is the problem.”
And the teacher — someone intelligent, deeply intentional, and full of pedagogical insight — was left without support.
It was heartbreaking. And it scared me.
Why Teachers Feel Vulnerable
I didn’t speak up. Not loudly. I didn’t confront the blame. But I didn’t swallow it either. I responded with presence, admiration, and truth — even when truth felt unpopular.
I offered encouragement, smiles, energy — a gentle presence. But I didn’t have the tools to stand in front of my group and say: “You’re blaming her because the assignment exposes something you can’t face.”
I didn’t tell her: “I think what you gave us matters. I think you’re brave.” And part of me still grieves that silence.
Because if she — one of the most thoughtful teachers I’d met — could be isolated like this, then how could I feel safe later in my own future as a dance pedagogue? How could I trust that depth wouldn’t be mistaken for danger?
Finnish Academia: Flat Hierarchy, Fragile Protection
Finland’s academic culture values emotional safety, low hierarchy, and shared respect. In principle, it’s powerful.
But when students feel challenged, when discomfort arises from complex assignments, there’s little institutional structure to hold and protect the teacher. And I saw how delicate a teacher’s position can be when emotional discomfort is mistaken for harm, and feedback becomes a tool for avoidance.
What Happened Next — In Practice
This spring, I was doing my teaching practice in a school. In one particular class, bullying was happening: students refused to pair with certain classmates, didn’t want to hold hands or include them in group work — even when it was part of my dance exercises.
Suddenly, I saw the importance of that pedagogy teacher’s lessons with such clarity.
She wasn’t creating harm. She was preparing us to face it. And we didn’t learn how — not in our group, and not for our future roles as teachers.
What needs to change in education
We need more tools to talk about this. We need psychologists in schools — especially in dance education where people spend long hours in physical closeness. We need teachers to be supported when they provoke depth — not punished for making students feel. We need students to learn how to tolerate discomfort instead of weaponizing it.
And we need pedagogy that teaches us how to sit inside tension… without turning it into cruelty.
Conclusion: Rethinking the Culture of Learning
I wasn’t able to write this earlier. I didn’t have the words, the structure, or the clarity. But now, with support and reflection, I do. This isn’t a message of blame. It’s a message of witness.
And maybe, it’s a small act of protection for every teacher who gave something valuable — and was met not with engagement, but with judgment.
Because I believe that: Challenge is not cruelty. Thought is not harm. And silence should never be the final grade.
''Like a dancer holding perfect posture
in a room of loosened limbs, her clarity was
mistaken for critique.''
in a room of loosened limbs, her clarity was
mistaken for critique.''