Have you ever made a student cry? I have.
Earlier this year, one of my fourth grade students kept disrupting my instructions during class. This behavior was unusual for her. I had taught her all of last year, and she had always been attentive and engaged. I tried various classroom management strategies: positive narration, proximity and whole-class attention-getters. Nothing worked. Finally, I issued a verbal warning. Upset by the consequence, she shouted across the room, “I wasn’t even doing anything!”
Her response stunned me, not just because she had yelled, but because of who she was—a student who had been a leader in my classroom, someone with whom I had built a strong relationship through teaching art the previous year.
I walked over and quietly asked her to step outside with me. She stood up, slammed her chair against the desk, rolled her eyes and let out a groan of annoyance. Outside the classroom, I turned to her and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she muttered, turning away.
I hesitated. “Is everything okay?” I asked again, perplexed by her shift in demeanor.
“Yeah,” she answered, but her tone, flat and unconvincing, contrasted sharply with the calm and collected student I thought I knew.
I wasn’t sure what to do. But before I could fully process the situation, the words left my mouth instinctively: “I’m sorry.”
I continued, “It seems like you’re having a bad day, and maybe I said something that upset you. Did I? If I did, is there anything I can do differently next time?”
She froze. Then, suddenly, silent tears rolled down her cheeks.
I felt horrible, worried that I had only made things worse. She stood there, unable to speak, tears streaming down her face. I didn’t want to push her further. I handed her the hallway pass and told her to take a walk, wash her face and drink some water. I reassured her that she could return to the lesson whenever she was ready, and if she needed more time, she could go to the calm corner. Then, I walked back inside and continued teaching.
For weeks, I couldn’t stop thinking about her reaction. I hadn’t expected my apology to move her to tears. What was it about those words that had struck her so deeply?
That moment forced me to confront a difficult truth about teaching: we often talk about respect, kindness and emotional awareness, but how often do we model them? How often do we demand that students apologize after an argument with a classmate? And how often do we only receive a reluctant, mumbled “I’m sorry” in return? We expect students to admit when they are wrong, yet as teachers, we rarely do the same.
Teaching is more than delivering content—it’s about modeling humanity, and my apology that day reshaped my understanding of education’s deeper purpose.
Education as a Humanizing Practice
In “Pedagogy of the Oppressed,” Paulo Freire argues that education should make students more human. It should nurture self-awareness, critical thinking and emotional intelligence, not just enforce compliance. But too often, especially in schools serving marginalized communities, we prioritize obedience over connection. We emphasize control rather than empowerment, reinforcing rigid power structures that mirror the inequalities students experience outside of school.
This realization made me rethink the power dynamics within my classroom. By apologizing to my student, I wasn’t conceding authority, but rather, I was shifting it. I was showing her that she deserved respect and that her emotions mattered. I was teaching her, through action rather than words, that mistakes, including mine, are not signs of weakness but opportunities for growth.
And I saw the impact.
Since that day, her behavior has improved remarkably. Not because she fears consequences but because she feels valued. She listens attentively, engages deeply and tries her best, even when the work is challenging.
The Power of Apologizing as a Teacher
Apologizing didn’t weaken my authority—it strengthened it. It demonstrated to my students that learning is a lifelong process that includes humility and accountability.
Too often, children and young people rarely hear an apology from adults, especially those in positions of power. But if we want to teach students to navigate the world with empathy and integrity, we must first model it ourselves. A genuine apology is an act of courage. It acknowledges fault and shows a willingness to do better. It also signals to students that they have the right to be heard and respected, too.
I am committed to fostering critical consciousness in my students, giving them the tools to challenge power structures and help them understand what it means to be human. Shifting the power dynamics in a classroom doesn’t mean losing control—it means transforming the space into one where students see themselves as active participants in their own education.
Apologizing was a small act, but it challenged traditional hierarchies, demonstrating that respect should flow both ways. It helped humanize my classroom, reinforcing the idea that mistakes—on both sides—can lead to deeper learning.
What It Means to Be Educated
What I initially saw as a moment of classroom disruption became a profound lesson in humility and connection. My student’s tears weren’t about the warning I had given her. They were about feeling seen, acknowledged and valued.
It has been almost six months since that day, and her transformation continues to remind me of an essential truth: education is not just about mastering content. It’s about preparing students to move through the world with empathy and self-awareness. If we want students to resist dehumanization, we must model humanization first.
And sometimes, that starts with a simple “I’m sorry.”
