education – Emma Williams: Latin tutor

The Dangerous Myth of the “Natural” Student

“She’s just not a languages person.”

If I had a pound for every time a parent has said these words to me, I could probably have retired by now.

Every now and then somebody announces, with complete conviction, that their child simply “doesn’t have a languages brain”. They might say the same about the sciences. Whatever the subject, the sentiment is always the same: somewhere along the line, often years before they arrived in front of me, students have absorbed a mythology about what kind of learner they are. More importantly, they have already reached a conclusion about what kind of learner they are not.

The extraordinary thing is the certainty with which the students themselves then make those pronouncements. They are delivered not as opinions but as established facts, rather like informing me that they have blue eyes or are left-handed. “I’m just not academic.” “I’ve never been any good at languages.” “My sister got the brains.” There is no discussion to be had. The case, apparently, is closed. In many cases, they have reached this conclusion after spending no more than two or three hours a fortnight studying the subject.

Imagine hearing a fourteen-year-old say, “I’m just not a driving person.” Or, “I’m not really a mortgage sort of individual.” We would laugh, because those are things they have never seriously attempted. Yet children routinely write themselves off in academic subjects before they have even finished compulsory education. At the age of thirteen or fourteen, they have somehow become convinced that their intellectual destiny has already been mapped out.

I suspect that adults bear some responsibility for this. We are extraordinarily fond of describing children with labels. One child is “sporty”. Another is “creative”. Somebody else is “musical”. We speak warmly of “natural mathematicians” and “born linguists”. Children who succeed with apparent ease are praised for being clever, while those who struggle are reassured that “not everybody is academic.” All of this is done with kindness. None of it is intended to do harm. Yet, perhaps contrary to popular belief, children tend to believe what adults tell them.

The educational psychologist Carol Dweck became famous for distinguishing between what she called a “fixed” mindset and a “growth” mindset. Like all psychological theories, it has been over-simplified to the point of parody, and there is now a healthy academic debate about precisely how powerful those effects are. (Spoiler alert: not very, if you try to replicate them artificially). Nevertheless, the central idea has always struck me as reasonable and worthwhile. Children who believe that ability can develop through hard work generally respond to difficulty very differently from those who believe that intelligence is something fixed at birth. One group tends to interpret failure as evidence that they have more to learn. The other is far more likely to interpret it as evidence that they were never capable in the first place. The question is whether it is possible to actively encourage a growth mindset and the answer to date appears to be “no”. Like most important learning, the development of a growth mindset comes subliminally, from watching your parents and your peers, not from being told to get one. If your family lives and breathes it as their approach to life, then you are far more likely to develop one yourself. Like so many things in childhood, our earliest attitudes towards learning owe a great deal to simple good fortune.

Once you become aware that some students have more of a growth mindset than others, you begin to realise just how important it is. One student translates a difficult Latin sentence incorrectly and says, “Can you explain where I went wrong?” Another translates the same sentence incorrectly and sighs, “I told you I wasn’t any good at this.” The first student has made a mistake. The second has made a judgement about themselves. They are not remotely the same thing.

But there is another side to this story that is discussed rather less often. People assume that being labelled “clever” is entirely beneficial, yet I have taught plenty of students for whom this has become something of a burden. If a child grows up believing that success ought to come naturally, what happens when they finally encounter something genuinely difficult? Very often, they panic. Suddenly, they are no longer the child who always gets things right and that, when you think about it, is terrifying: it shatters their very sense of self. Rather than seeing challenge as an inevitable stage in learning, students whose identity has become bound up with being clever can begin to wonder whether they have somehow ceased to be so. It is one of the reasons why some exceptionally bright students develop a horror of making mistakes. Their identity has become entangled with effortless success. Yet genuine learning is rarely effortless.

As I explored a few weeks ago, one of the most important findings to emerge from cognitive science is that learning often feels considerably less successful than students imagine it ought to. Retrieval practice is frustrating. Spaced revision feels inefficient. Difficult questions expose weaknesses that many students would rather not confront. In other words, the very strategies that produce the strongest long-term learning are often the ones that make students feel least intelligent while they are doing them. Education has an awkward habit of rewarding perseverance rather more reliably than immediate brilliance.

One of the great privileges of tutoring is that I get to watch children change their minds about themselves. Contrary to what television dramas would have us believe, this does not happen in a single inspirational lesson accompanied by soaring orchestral music. It usually happens so gradually that neither the student nor I notices it at first. A child who once apologised before answering begins having a go without prompting. Somebody who announced in September that they “couldn’t do Latin” quietly translates a difficult passage by Easter. Nothing miraculous has happened. They have simply accumulated enough evidence to make their old story about themselves increasingly difficult to sustain.

This is why I have become rather wary of the word “gifted”. Of course, natural aptitude exists: anyone who has taught for more than about five minutes knows that children differ enormously in the speed with which they grasp new ideas. To pretend otherwise would be absurd. Yet, education is not a horse race in which the order established after the first furlong determines the final result. Children develop at different rates and excellent teaching can transform performance. So can hard work. So can discovering, perhaps for the first time, that making mistakes is not a catastrophe.

Perhaps the greatest danger posed by the myth of the “natural” student is that it persuades children to mistake who they are today for who they will always be. It encourages them to believe that ability is something to be discovered rather than something to be developed. Once that idea takes hold, challenge becomes threatening rather than exciting, because every struggle feels like confirmation of an identity that has already been decided.

I would much rather children left school believing something altogether different. By all means recognise talent when you see it, celebrate achievement and admire those who make difficult things look easy. But never allow a child to conclude that the boundaries of their ability have already been fixed. Childhood is surely far too early to decide what sort of learner you are going to be for the rest of your life.

The Hidden Curriculum

“Why don’t schools teach [insert personal life-skill I have struggled with here]?”

From tax returns to wiring a plug (I KNOW THAT DATES ME!), this is one of those complaints that appears with remarkable regularity in the press, usually accompanied by a list of supposedly useless things that schools insist upon teaching instead. Why study Dickens when you could learn about mortgages? Why learn about the life-cycle of the moth when you could learn how to change a tyre? Why spend time analysing poetry when you could be finding out about investments? Such criticisms are superficially appealing but fundamentally baseless.

Firstly, schools do in fact teach many of the things people claim they do not. Budgeting, careers education and interview skills all feature in modern citizenship, which is compulsory in all schools. Whether students remember these lessons is another matter entirely, as in my experience they were spectacularly uninterested. Who wants to learn “life skills” from a boring old teacher? Most teachers can testify that the average teenager is not an enthusiastic participant in discussions about tax codes and household budgeting. They didn’t even seem particularly enthralled when it came to sex ed. There is a certain irony in hearing adults complain that schools never taught them something when I know for a fact that this is impossible. So, next time you bemoan the fact that you weren’t taught something in school, do please consider the notion that you were actually taught it and you simply weren’t listening.

Even this revelation misses the bigger picture, which is that the most important life skills children learn at school are often not formally taught at all. Educationalists sometimes refer to this as the “hidden curriculum”. The phrase sounds faintly mysterious, as though schools are secretly teaching children things behind closed doors or using subliminal messaging to indoctrinate the next generation. In reality, the hidden curriculum refers to everything that children learn simply by participating in school life.

Consider punctuality and equipment rules. No school offers a GCSE in arriving on time. There is no examination in remembering your stuff or organising yourself for the day ahead. Yet children spend years learning that other people are affected by their reliability, that deadlines matter and that poor preparation has consequences. This is one of the many reasons why the most successful schools have made this a huge focus. As the Headteacher of Harrow once said, “we make a fuss about the little things.”

In a good school, children learn to remember books, equipment, homework, revision materials and commitments. They learn that forgetting things has consequences. They learn that somebody else will not always be available to solve every problem on their behalf or cover for them when they mess up. Some master these skills quickly, while others take considerably longer and need more support. Many adults are still working on them.

Consider social interaction. A significant proportion of school life involves learning how to function alongside a diverse range of human beings and this is a good thing. Friendships must be formed and maintained, disagreements navigated and conflicts resolved. Children learn how to join groups, leave groups, compromise, negotiate and apologise. They learn that not everybody thinks the same way they do. They learn that some people are easy to get along with and others require considerably more effort. Adults frequently underestimate how complicated this process of socialisation is and how long it takes for young people to develop these skills. No formal lesson on “interpersonal skills” could fully replicate that experience.

School provides one of the first opportunities for children to participate in a community that exists beyond their immediate family. At home, rules are usually created by people who know and love us unconditionally. School introduces something different. Children must learn to operate within a larger institution, one designed around the needs of hundreds of people. This is where they begin learning about cooperation, compromise and collective responsibility. Lest we forget, for some children who do not come from loving and stable homes, school can provide a safe and predictable sanctuary from the chaos. I will never forget being profoundly affected during training when I was told that as a form tutor I may potentially be the first adult that some children have interacted with positively (or indeed at all) on that day. I never forgot it.

Contrary to popular belief, providing a stable school environment with clear boundaries is not primarily about obedience or authoritarianism. It is about helping young people to recognise that participation in any community requires a degree of give and take. Adults encounter this reality constantly in their workplaces, neighbourhoods and organisations. School is the crucial dry run.

In addition to all of this, and perhaps most controversially, schools also provide children with regular opportunities to fail. A disappointing test result, not making the team, forgetting their homework, falling out with a friend, getting something wrong in front of the class. None of these experiences are enjoyable and some of them, as I discussed a few weeks ago, may loom large in our memories for life. Yet they provide opportunities to learn a lesson that becomes increasingly important with age: disappointment is both inevitable and survivable.

Much of adulthood consists of recovering from setbacks, adapting to changing circumstances and continuing despite occasional failure. As a tutor, I occasionally encounter students who are academically capable but deeply uncomfortable with making mistakes. Somewhere along the way, they have absorbed the idea that getting things wrong is evidence of inadequacy rather than a normal part of learning. Yet mistakes are not evidence that education has failed. More often, they are evidence that education is happening. Schools provide a relatively safe environment in which these experiences can occur and students can learn from them.

Most of these lessons never appear on a timetable. There is no examination in resilience. No coursework assignment on conflict resolution. No formal qualification in learning to cope when things do not go according to plan. Yet these skills often prove every bit as important as the academic content that receives so much attention. This may help to explain why so many adults remember school in emotional rather than academic terms. When people reflect on their education, they rarely begin by discussing a particular worksheet or textbook. They remember the teacher who inspired confidence. The friend who taught them loyalty. The setback that taught them perseverance. The embarrassing moment that taught them humility. In many respects, these experiences are part of the curriculum.

So, the next time somebody on television or on social media complains that schools should spend less time teaching academic subjects and more time teaching life skills, it may be worth remembering two things. Firstly, schools already do teach far more practical skills than many critics realise. Secondly, some of the most important life skills cannot be taught through lessons alone. The most important life skills are not learned from lessons about life. They are learned through living. School is where much of that living takes place.

Curriculum Matters

Why do children study geography but not architecture? Why do they learn algebra but not tax returns? Why is Shakespeare considered essential while countless other writers are ignored? And why have I spent my career sharing knowledge of a language that nobody speaks any more?

The more time one spends in education, the stranger the school syllabus begins to appear. Most of us can remember questioning at least one subject during our own school days. We all sat wondering when exactly we might ever need trigonometry, struggled through poetry we did not understand or questioned the value of learning about oxbow lakes and the savannah. Yet beneath these familiar complaints lies a more interesting question. Why do schools teach the subjects that they teach? The answer, perhaps unsurprisingly, is history.

It is easy to assume that the modern curriculum is the result of careful planning by education experts. While it contents certainly are debated endlessly and frequently revised, many of the subjects that dominate the school timetable owe their current existence less to educational theory and more to historical accident, social change and centuries-old ideas about what an educated person ought to know. Few examples illustrate this better than Latin.

For much of British history, Latin was not a niche subject on the curriculum of a handful of schools. It was the curriculum in all schools. From the medieval period through to the 19th century, grammar schools existed primarily to teach Latin. The clue is hidden in the name. The “grammar” being taught was not English grammar but Latin grammar. Boys — and it was, overwhelmingly, boys — spent years memorising declensions, translating texts and mastering the language of scholarship, religion, law and government. Ancient Greek followed for the most academically successful.

By modern standards, this is downright peculiar. Why on earth did the system devote so much time to a language that was no longer spoken? Yet for centuries, Latin functioned as the language of educated Europe. Universities taught through it. Scholars published in it. Lawyers, clergymen and statesmen were expected to understand it. Mastering Latin was not an intellectual luxury; it was an essential qualification for participation in educated society.

Even after Latin began to lose its practical utility, it retained cultural prestige. Throughout the 19th century, proficiency in Latin and Greek remained one of the principal gateways to higher education and many professions. Even to this day, I meet people who remain firmly convinced that Latin is compulsory for entry into medicine or the law, when in fact this has not been the case for many, many decades. Classical education has retained its association with intellectual rigour, social status and membership of the elite, but in terms of its universality, the 20th century changed everything.

As education expanded beyond a relatively small privileged class, questions began to emerge about what schools were for. Were they intended to preserve the traditional academic culture? Or were they there to prepare young people for life in a rapidly changing industrial society? The answer increasingly favoured the latter. Science grew in importance, modern languages expanded, technical and vocational subjects gained ground. Latin was in retreat. This period of change is illustrated beautifully in The Browning Version, a play written in the late 1940s and turned into a film starring Michael Redgrave in 1951. In 1994, it was remade again in a version starring Albert Finney as the unpopular Latin teacher of ever-diminishing relevance. It is a deeply, quite agonisingly moving portrayal of a man reflecting upon a life of failure.

Today, Classics as a subject remains highly respected in the schools that teach it, yet only around 2% of state schools offer Latin and still fewer offer ancient Greek. What was once the backbone of the curriculum has become a rare specialist subject, offered to a vanishingly small minority of students. Whether one celebrates or laments that transformation largely depends upon one’s view of what education is for. Most people expect me to wax lyrical about the benefits of my subject, but I feel no need to do so. Instead, I would merely say this: no subject is taught merely for its utility. Most students will not use their mathematics beyond what they are taught in primary school, yet we still consider the acquiring of a mathematics GCSE as essential for all. The vast majority of students will not require a knowledge of the English language beyond the very basics of communication, yet no one would argue that this subject should be discontinued at the secondary level. All subjects lack a practical utility for most of us, yet all of us deserve the opportunity to be exposed to them.

The story of Latin is merely one chapter in a much larger curriculum story. Almost every subject in the modern programme of study arrived there for historical reasons that are far from obvious. Take geography. Today, it is regarded as one of the standard academic disciplines, and is included on the Russell group’s traditional list of facilitating subjects. Yet its prominence owes much to Britain’s history as a maritime and imperial power. Understanding maps, trade routes, resources and distant territories was considered valuable knowledge for a nation whose influence extended across much of the globe. In the 19th century, geography was not merely a subject about rivers and mountains; it was used to teach children about the British Empire and colonial administration. It was about understanding Britain’s place in the world. History followed a similar trajectory. For generations, the subject was often taught as a largely national story, designed in part to foster a sense of shared identity. Modern history teaching has become far broader and more critical (too critical for some), but its origins reveal how closely curriculum design is linked to wider social and political goals. The modern concern to teach our children about the sins of our forefathers is merely the latest iteration of this fact.

English literature offers another fascinating example., for the notion that all educated people should study literary works written in English is surprisingly recent. For centuries, the cultural prestige enjoyed by Latin texts far exceeded that granted to English authors. Shakespeare himself would probably be astonished to discover that generations of schoolchildren now analyse his plays in examination halls, something that we take as a given. The rise of English literature as an academic subject reflected the growing modernist belief that the nation’s culture could be explored through its own language and writers rather than exclusively through Classics.

Modern societies depend upon scientific knowledge and technological innovation, so the scientific curriculum has undergone profound changes in the classroom. Victorian students would scarcely recognise some aspects of today’s programmes of study, while many scientific ideas that were once regarded as essential have long since disappeared from classrooms. The same is true of mathematics. Although few school subjects seem more timeless, the mathematics taught in schools has changed repeatedly according to social and economic needs. Different eras have emphasised arithmetic, geometry, algebra, statistics and problem-solving in varying proportions. The question has never simply been how much mathematics children should learn but which mathematics they should learn.

Perhaps the most dramatic changes, however, can be found among practical subjects. Many readers will remember a time when boys and girls were routinely taught entirely different skills. Boys attended woodwork, metalwork or technical drawing. Girls learned needlework and “domestic science”. Such arrangements reflected assumptions about the adult life that these boys and girls would go on to lead, and now appear grotesquely segregated. When it came to teaching practical skills, schools were preparing children for highly gendered futures. The gradual disappearance of these distinctions, a process that was beginning even when I was at school, tells us a great deal about how society has changed. “Domestic science” evolved into “food technology” (an equally laughable title, in my humble opinion. Can’t we just call it cookery?) Craft subjects expanded into design and technology and children of both sexes learn technical drawing and draughtsmanship. Increasingly, schools have moved away from preparing boys and girls for separate roles and towards providing all students with access to a broader range of knowledge and skills. Hurrah for that.

Even so, debates about practical subjects have never truly disappeared. Every few years somebody asks why schools teach Shakespeare but not personal finance, or why students learn about chemical equations but not mortgages. Such arguments usually generate considerable public support because they appeal to a common-sense view of education. Surely schools should teach things that people will actually use?

This question quickly becomes more complicated than it first appears. The purpose of education has never been simply to provide immediate practical utility. If that were the case, subjects such as history, literature, philosophy, music and art would be impossible to justify, leaving our curriculum grossly impoverished. Schools do not exist merely to prepare children for their first job or their first mortgage application. How depressing would that be? Schools are tasked with introducing the next generation to the accumulated knowledge, culture and intellectual achievements of human civilisation. Hurrah for that also.

The modern curriculum remains the product of countless historical decisions and is currently undergoing yet another review courtesy of our (relatively) new government. At whatever time you look at history, the school curriculum reflects the priorities, anxieties and aspirations of previous generations as much as it reflects the needs of the present one. By the same token, subjects that seem permanent today may not appear nearly so permanent in another hundred years. Perhaps that is the strangest thing about school subjects. We tend to treat them as though they emerged naturally, like mountains or rivers. In reality, every school timetable is a historical document. Every subject occupies its place because somebody, at some point, argued successfully that it mattered.

Babies and bathwater

A recent study reported in the press this week has apparently found that strict bans on mobile phones in schools have “close to zero” impact on student learning and show no evidence of improvements in attendance or online bullying. If we take such findings at face value and conclude that school phone bans are like to be ineffective, we are not only misreading the data but also misunderstanding the purpose of removing smart phones from our schools. The crucial point is not whether removing phones from the classroom instantly boosts results or turns around behaviour in schools that have problems; it is that schools have an opportunity to model healthier norms and support families in standing against what has become a tidal wave of addiction for the next generation.

The recent study cited in headlines found minimal measurable differences in academic outcomes or attendance between schools that banned phones and those that did not. Yet even the researchers themselves cautioned against interpreting this as evidence that bans are pointless. This is because educational outcomes (such as grades and attendance) are blunt instruments for measuring complex behavioural and psychological phenomena. Countless variables such as family life, socioeconomic conditions, prior attainment and curriculum quality cannot be neutralised simply by removing a device during school hours. Expecting a ban to produce immediate, measurable improvements is akin to expecting a single dietary change to transform long-term health overnight: I am currently trying to reduce my LDL cholesterol levels, and I don’t expect to see results in less than six months, nor do I necessarily expect to see them at all, as my high cholesterol may be genetic. (I strongly suspect, however, that my genetic inheritance might be a love of cheese rather than a fault in my liver’s ability to process lipids).

To understand why it is a good idea to remove smart phones from the school enviornment, let’s look at the broader research on smartphone use and adolescent wellbeing. A growing body of evidence points to significant associations between problematic smartphone use and mental health difficulties. For instance, research funded by the NIHR found that teenagers exhibiting problematic smartphone behaviours were twice as likely to experience anxiety and significantly more likely to suffer from depression and insomnia . Importantly, this research distinguishes between mere “screen time” and patterns of use that resemble addiction in the form of compulsive checking, distress when separated from the device and displacement or even rejection of other meaningful activities in favour of the device. It is this compulsive, immersive use that appears to be most harmful to young minds.

Other studies reinforce this pattern. Reviews of digital media use consistently show associations between heavy engagement and increased symptoms of anxiety, depression and isolation, while clinical research links intensive social media use even with suicidal ideation. Longitudinal studies suggest that adolescents with increasingly addictive patterns of screen use are two to three times more likely to develop suicidal thoughts over time. These findings are not trivial. They point to a behavioural ecosystem in which smartphones are not neutral tools but powerful, psychologically immersive experiences that can shape mood, identity, and social experience.

Government-commissioned reviews have noted concerns about severe harms including bullying-related distress and premature death among young people in digital environments. Parliament has examined evidence that cyberbullying via smartphones can lead to self-injurious behaviour and suicidal ideation. While causation is complex and multifactorial, coroners’ reports in the UK have increasingly referenced online experiences, including exposure to harmful content and sustained digital harassment, as contributing factors in youth suicides. Most famously thanks to her grieving father’s tireless campaigning, Molly Russell’s death was linked directly by the coroner to “the negative effects of online content”. It would be irresponsible to ignore this accumulating body of concern simply because a short-term study fails to detect immediate improvements in outcomes.

Moreover, the effects of smartphones extend beyond mental health into the texture of daily life. Young people now spend several hours a day on their devices, often displacing sleep, face-to-face interaction, and focused attention. Many platforms, driven by algorithms optimised for engagement, deliberately encourage habitual checking and prolonged use, creating feedback loops that are difficult for adolescents to regulate: frankly, they are difficult for adults to regulate. I chose to step away from social media entirely for personal use and the platforms I maintain for business I have removed from my phone, so that I can only look at them on a laptop: this helps to mitigate against their addictive nature, which is palpable and undeniable. The addictive design of social media platforms is driving a broader shift in how young people experience boredom, social interaction and cognitive effort. Schools, as institutions dedicated to learning and development, cannot simply ignore this shift, indeed they are experiencing the fallout firsthand. Ask any teacher (myself included) who has worked with young people both before and after the advent of smart phones and they will tell you: smart phones are detrimental to children’s ability to focus and concentrate. They are a net negative.

This is where the true rationale for banning phones in schools becomes clear. It is not about improving outcomes, it is about creating a protected environment in which alternative norms can be experienced and practised. Schools are one of the few spaces where society can collectively decide how young people spend their time. By removing phones, schools model a way of being that prioritises sustained attention, face-to-face interaction and engagement with the immediate environment. These are not trivial skills: they are foundational to learning, relationships and mental health, and they may not be being modelled at home.

Critics might argue that such modelling is paternalistic or authoritarian, but this fundamentally misunderstands how behavioural norms are formed. Young people do not develop their habits in isolation, they are shaped by their environments. If every space they experience, including their classroom, is saturated with digital distraction, then the idea of focused, device-free engagement will seem completely alien to them. Conversely, if schools consistently enforce phone-free environments, they can provide a counterweight to the rest of the day. Over time, this can help recalibrate expectations about when and how phones are used. Even if the measurable impact on grades is initially small, the long-term cultural effect may be substantial.

Equally important is the role that schools can play in supporting parents. Many parents currently feel overwhelmed by the challenge of managing their children’s phone use, particularly given the social pressures involved. If one child in a friendship group is allowed unrestricted access, others will quickly follow. School policies can shift this dynamic by creating a shared baseline and encouraging parents to listen to the instincts that are telling them that these devices are a threat to their children. When phones are banned during the school day, it becomes easier for parents to enforce limits at home, knowing that expectations are consistent across the community. In this sense, school bans are not isolated interventions but part of a broader ecosystem of guidance and support. The messaging becomes clear that smart phones are a cause for concern, in the same way that alcohol anc cigarettes are a cause for concern: while schools can’t prevent all children from discovering the highs that can be found via alcohol and nicotine, they can at least model the principle that these substances are problematic and undesirable.

It is also worth noting that the absence of immediate measurable benefits does not mean the absence of meaningful effects. Some studies have found improvements in classroom behaviour or reductions in distraction, even when academic outcomes may remain unchanged. These are valuable in their own right. A calmer, more focused classroom is a better environment for both teaching and learning, even if its impact on examination grades takes time to materialise. Education is not a simple input-output system: it is a complex, cumulative process.

Phone bans are not a silver bullet, they are one tool among many, to be used alongside education about digital literacy, parental guidance and broader societal conversations about technology use. Expecting them to single-handedly reverse trends in mental health or academic performance is not just unrealistic, it sets them up to fail. When the inevitable modest results appear, critics can then dismiss the entire approach, reinforcing a cycle of inaction. You throw the baby out with the bathwater.

Smartphones are deeply embedded in modern life. Schools cannot control what happens outside their gates, but they can shape the environment within them. By doing so, they send a signal about values: that attention matters, that conversation matters, that not every moment needs to be mediated via a screen. Ultimately, the debate about phones in schools is not just about education policy; it is about the kind of childhood and adolescence society wishes to cultivate. In that context, focusing solely on short-term academic metrics is a profound misreading of the issue. Schools cannot solve the problem alone, but they can play a crucial role in modelling a different way of living and learning: one that recognises both the power and the peril of the devices in our pockets.

The Trouble with Sleep

As someone who works almost exclusively with young people between the ages of 14 and 16, I am well-versed in the problem of teenagers and sleep. Any teacher who has been scheduled a challenging class on a Monday morning will understand the issue, but since working online I regularly have the pleasure of being presented with a youngster who has quite obviously been peeled unceremoniously from their bedsheets less than a minute prior our session. I have often advised parents to book a later session, on the grounds that their child is simply not in a fit state to absorb anything prior to mid-morning. There are some that can cope, but for others it becomes apparent that their parents will be wasting the money that they pay me, so groggy and unengaged is their child when the session begins. But just why do teenagers find mornings so palpably difficult?

At the centre of everything is our circadian rhythm, the internal clock which governs when we feel sleepy and when we feel alert. In younger children, as every parent knows, the clock tends to run on the early shift; but somewhere around puberty, the clock shifts — enough to have a pretty big impact. In adolescents, the hormone melatonin, which is central to what drives our urge to sleep, is released later in the evening compared to both children and older adults. This shift in their natural sleep phase means that teenagers genuinely feel more alert late into the evening and do not feel ready to sleep until much later than they used to. I remember this with visceral clarity. Staying up to watch Moonlighting, followed by Indelible Evidence, felt effortless, while waking the next morning felt simply agonising. Teenaged bodies, still growing and developing rapidly, require a substantial amount of rest — typically around eight to ten hours. But if a teenager is wired to fall asleep at midnight, yet still needs to wake up at 7.00 a.m. for school, then we’re faced with a problem.

I always like to ponder why these evidential facts about our biological nature and development might have evolved. It is undeniable that most teeangers experience a change in their body clock as they develop, and it is also undeniable that adults vary in terms of their own body clock: some are natural night owls, some are larks. (You probably have a good idea which one you are, but it’s quite fun to do the test: some people are very strongly one or the other, some people are flexible. I am as much of a lark as it is possible to be). So, why might it be that we vary in this way? As humans evolved, it would have been useful for a tribe to have a variety of members within it, to ensure that there is always someone that is capable of being hyper-vigilant at any time. When life was lived on a knife-edge, an endless battle for survival, it was crucial for the safety of everyone that at least some members of the tribe were capable of functioning at any one time. Thus, these subtle differences in how alert we feel at different times of the day may have been an essential advantage and thus these differences were perpetuated through natural selection.

Of course, biology is only part of the story. If teenagers were tucked away in candlelit rooms with nothing but a paperback novel and their thoughts, they might still stay up slightly later than the adults in the household, but probably not quite as late as they do now. Modern life has introduced a dazzling array of sleep-delaying tactics, most notably in the glowing rectangle of the smartphone. Social media, messaging apps, streaming platforms — all of these operate on the principle that there is always one more thing to see, one more conversation to have, one more video that might be even funnier than the last. If you can establish one rule in the home, it should be that these devices do not take the journey to bed with you. Teenagers are particularly sensitive to reward and novelty, meaning that the little bursts of satisfaction provided by notifications, likes and new content are especially compelling. The result can be a perfect storm: a brain wired to seek stimulation, a body that doesn’t feel sleepy yet, plus a device that delivers endless entertainment on demand. Bedtime, under these conditions, becomes achingly oppressive.

Waking up early for school is difficult not because teenagers are being dramatic (although, to be fair, some drama may be involved in some cases), but because the teenaged internal clock is still firmly set to “night mode.” When an alarm goes off at 6.30 a.m., it is essentially interrupting the biological equivalent of midnight. Imagine being forced to wake up at 2.00 a.m. and then expected to perform algebra, write essays and engage in meaningful discussion. That is not far off what most teenagers are experiencing every day.

The misalignment between biological rhythms and social expectations is sometimes referred to as “social jet lag”. It’s the same groggy, disoriented feeling one might have after flying across time zones, except instead of being a temporary inconvenience, it is a daily occurrence. The result is chronic sleep deprivation, which has a range of effects that extend far beyond simply feeling tired. In the classroom, this can manifest as difficulty concentrating, slower cognitive processing, and a general sense of mental fog. Teachers may notice students staring into space, struggling to retain information, or reacting with the enthusiasm of someone who has been asked to solve a puzzle while underwater. It’s not (always) that teenagers don’t care about their education; it’s that their brains are not operating at full capacity during the hours when learning is expected to happen.

Sleep deprivation is also closely linked to irritability, emotional volatility and increased stress. Sound familiar? Parents, who may already be operating under the assumption that their teenager simply needs to go to bed earlier, are so often met with morning grumpiness that can escalate into full-blown conflict. The state that a young person is in can reinforce the adults’ belief that the child should retire to bed earlier. The teenager, meanwhile, feels misunderstood and unfairly judged, leading to a cycle of frustration on all sides. What makes this situation especially tricky is that both perspectives contain elements of truth. Teenagers do, in many cases, make choices that exacerbate the problem — staying up later than necessary, using devices late into the night and underestimating the importance of sleep. I did this myself on an infinite loop and looking back it seems ridiculous. Yet at the same time, I remember vividly how alert I felt in the late evening and how utterly unattractive it seemed to take myself off to bed. The fact remains that the underlying biology of teenagers genuinely does make early sleep and early waking more difficult for them. It is not a simple matter of willpower, nor is it entirely in their control.

Some schools have tried to take the peculiar biology of teeangers into account by experimenting with later start times. Research suggests that even a modest delay in the beginning of the school day can lead to improvements in attendance, academic performance and overall well-being. Teenagers who are allowed to wake up in closer alignment with their natural rhythms tend to be more alert and more engaged. I have always wondered, however, what these schools are like for the adults. Speaking as someone whose energy is now heavily weighted towards the morning (I spring awake, starving hungry, at around 5.30am most days), I would hate to work in a place where the day was shifted later. This is the problem: the teenagers are not the only ones with skin in the education game.

Given that all schools still start significantly earlier than most teenagers would like, there are nevertheless small changes that can help. Exposure to natural light in the morning can nudge the circadian rhythm slightly earlier, making it easier to wake up over time. Limiting screen use in the hour before bed can reduce the stimulating effects of both blue light and stimulating content, giving melatonin a better chance to do its job. Consistent sleep schedules, even on weekends, can also make a difference, although this is perhaps the most challenging suggestion of all, given the powerful allure of a Saturday lie-in. It all seems rather easier said than done, and my parents certainly gave up even trying. Ultimately, understanding is key. If families can recognise that their teenager’s sleep patterns are not entirely a matter of choice, and if teenagers can be persuaded to acknowledge that their habits can influence their well-being, the conversation can at least be had.

It is, in the end, a delicate dance between what our bodies want and what our schedules demand. Teenagers, caught in the middle of this dance, are not failing at mornings so much as they are beginning to negotiate with them. If they’re lucky, they will become a lark like I did, and the world will become an infinitely easier place to negotiate (unless they want to work in the nightclub industry, I suppose). So, if your teen occasionally hits the snooze button one too many times, it might be worth remembering that they are not resisting the day — they are just trying to catch up with a night that ended a little too soon for them.

Flawed heroes

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the one thing we love more than a hero is to see a hero fall. I’m not sure whether this is an entirely modern phenomenon, but it is perhaps a tendency that has burgeoned in recent decades. More than this, something which I do think is peculiar to our age, is the expectation that historic figures should be judged according to 21st century western values. This, especially when it is pitched against some of the figures who had a significant hand in the process of carving those same values, leaves me distinctly uneasy.

Last week, the BBC reported that Hinchingbrooke School in Huntingdon was swapping the name of one of their pastoral houses from Pepys to Lady Olivia. The process was enacted via a democratic ballot, which turned out to be a classic example of western democracy in action, given that the much-celebrated result was voted for by less than 50% of the electorate. Nevertheless, Lady Olivia, wealthy landowner, school sponsor and evangelical Christian, now finds herself named as the chosen figurehead for modern students in the school that Pepys attended, along with Oliver Cromwell. One can only hope for her that there are no skeletons in her cupboard, to be discovered down the line. There’s always a tweet.

Samuel Pepys seems to have gotten away with being a prolific sex offender without much modern public disapproval until 2025, when historian and translator De la Bédoyère went back to Pepys’s original manuscripts and translated all of his coded entries, which he wrote in a kind of Franglish, Pidgin Latin and a smattering of Spanglish. De la Bédoyère re-published Pepys’s diaries in all their glory, and the result is the extraordinarily detailed snapshot of 17th century life that one might expect; unfortunately, that life is one of a man for whom praying upon vulnerable women was a something of a daily occurrence. It was certainly an education for me, reading what this serial predator got up to on an average day, and it very much does not chime with 21st century western values. Historians are keen to point out that Pepys’s behaviour didn’t even chime particularly well with 17th century western values, as he seems to have had something of a reputation in his day. I only wish I could believe the world has changed, but let’s not pretend that it has. Men with such reputations are still running several countries.

I have been pondering the school’s decision to demote Pepys from his position as a House name and I have no wish to criticise it. The school has already made it clear that there are parts of the school named after Samuel Pepys and that those tributes to him will not change. I have no doubt whatsoever that the school was placed under enormous pressure by a vociferous minority and I don’t even have a particular issue with that in some ways: perhaps those individuals are right. If I had a daughter in the school, perhaps I might have agreed with them that there are better figureheads for her to look up to. Whatever my individual thoughts on the matter, it is inescapable that these days it only takes one parent with a bee in their bonnet and an active WhatsApp group to dictate school policy and this — for better or for worse — is the reality of where schools find themselves today. Headteachers have to pick their battles, and going out to bat for Samuel Pepys was perhaps not something the Headteacher felt was a hill worth dying on.

What I think is more interesting is to ponder whether we have lost something when society cannot tolerate undeniably serious flaws in their heroes. Is this a quirk of the kind of modern puritanism that we find ourselves facing today? If we turn to the ancient texts for our model, the authors of those understood only too well the value of a rounded hero, indeed the very definition of hero required the inclusion of multiple flaws. The notion of a “fatal flaw”, popularised by Rennaissance readings of Aristotle’s Poetics, influenced Shakespeare and other writers. There is unanimous agreement from ancient times to modern that the most interesting heroes are the ones with inherent weaknesses: a perfect hero would be a thoroughly tedious creation.

When Virgil introduces Aeneas as the hero at the beginning of his epic work, he does something quite remarkable. When we first meet Aeneas, he is at his lowest ebb. Battle-fatigued and a travel-worn refugee, Aeneas is at breaking point. He screams and cries and implores the gods to take him: why did I not die in Troy? he asks. What was the point of it all? The visceral shock of introducing us to a hero who appears to have abandoned all hope and is wishing he was dead is one of the most exciting decisions that the author could have made, and it thrills me every time I revisit the text (which has been hundreds of times over the last two years, for that section of the text is on the specification for OCR GCSE). The point, I think, is for us to reflect upon how much more impressive it is when Virgil later describes Aeneas suppressing his emotions, resuming command and leadership over his men: someone we have witnessed at cracking point does the right thing for the good of the majority and for the men in his care. Now, that’s a hero.

Not only does Virgil start his epic work with a radical take on heroism, he ends it controversially, by demonstrating that Aeneas is very much less than perfect. At the end of the epic battle that ensures the supremacy of the Trojans in their new homeland, thus securing the future of what will become the Roman empire, Aeneas is faced with his arch enemy, who begs for mercy. The tradition in ancient texts was that good heroes are extraordinary warriors but they do not give in to blood-lust; whenever a warrior is taken over by this kind of crazed, emotionally-charged violence, disaster tends to ensue and the warrior is punished for his misdemeanours. Good warriors show mercy when the time is right. Yet Virgil does not finish his work in this way. As Aeneas looks down upon his enemy, he is overwhelmed by rage, bitterness and grief: he slays him, quickly and ingloriously, and the epic finishes with our hero’s enemy groaning his last, his tortured soul shrinking away to the underworld. It is a radically depressing way to close an epic work of propaganda and reflects a true genius at his peak. The reader (or more likely the listener) is left with an uneasy sense of disappointment in our hero, left to carry the burdensome knowledge that founding an empire is not without its price and that war makes even good men do terrible things.

Perhaps indeed we have lost something along with the present-day puritanism that judges historic figures according to our modern western values and — inevitably — finds them wanting. Personally, I don’t have a problem with recognising the contribution that Pepys made through his unflinching account of 17th century life alongside the fact that the life he describes is one to which I would viscerally object. It’s what history is all about. What I hope for the future is that we can have these discussions in a more mature and nuanced way. There is nothing more irksome that the modern tendency towards cancellation and extremism, the “no debate” lobby, who consistently fail to understand that the very pluralistic society that they believe in so fervently and lobby so hard for requires endless compromise and true tolerance, the kind of forbearance that makes you feel uncomfortable and sometimes forces you to question your own values. I occasionally wonder whether the louder the cancellation crew shout, the more they’re trying to drown out the voices of doubt in their own head.

Adolescent ramblings

“As a father, watching Adolescence with my teenage son and daughter hit home hard. We all need to be having these conversations more. I’ve backed Netflix’s plan to show the series for free in schools across the country, so as many young people as possible can see it.”

Keir Starmer, on X, March 31^st

There is so much that infuriates me about this tweet that I struggle to know where to start. But before I launch into my take from the standpoint of an ex-schoolteacher, let me speak simply as a voter. Where have all the statesmen gone? How do we find our country led by someone so easily swayed by the public response to a work of fiction, aired on a popular streaming channel? I suppose in the same way as we ended up with a leader who is currently overseeing the most significant change in UK human rights law for decades, simply because – and I quote – he “made a promise to Esther Rantzen.” The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom is governing according to what celebrities want him to do and according to the public hand-wringing about a Netflix drama. We truly are through the looking glass.

I have always had my frustrations with our robotic PM, merely the latest in a long line of identikit ministers, who appear to have no idea what they believe in or what they stand for, but my frustration with Starmer’s comments this week stem from the consistent way in which schools are now held accountable for every ill in society. Rising knife crime? Get schools to deal with it. Burgeoning antisemitism? Get schools to address it. Just this morning, Education Secretary Bridget Phillipson called for “more male teachers, so British boys have role models.” This call comes, despite the fact that we have zero evidence that increasing the number of men working in a school has any net positive effect on the boys in their care. Anecdotally, I am happy to report the blindingly obvious observation that for every boy inspired and managed by the 6ft 7 PE teacher with the booming voice (and believe me, I have gone to such men for help when managing a certain kind of boy), there are likewise just as many boys who will relate to and be inspired by me, by their flamboyant male drama teacher, or their zany female art teacher. I wouldn’t have thought, in 2025, that one needs to point out that there is more than one type of boy.

“Schools can’t solve these problems alone, and responsibility starts at home with parents. But only one in four of the teachers in our schools are men. Just one in seven in nursery and primary. One in 33 in early years,” says our illustrious Ed Sec. See just how much heavy lifting the “but” is doing in that quote? Schools can’t do everything, BUT … let’s focus on them anyway. This is how education gets treated by the government – we are the punching bag for society’s frustrations and we must solve all its ills. The drama Adolescence raised questions about parenting, as well as the potential role played by the influences of social media in young people’s lives, but governments don’t want to talk about these things. It is an obvious fact that more of their voters are parents than teachers, so it’s much easier to blame the latter than the former for society’s problems. As for social media and the internet in general, the government has absolutely no idea what to do and they certainly don’t want to do the most obvious thing, which is to challenge individuals to take more responsibility for what their own children find themselves exposed to. What they may do, which is take the opportunity to bring in more laws to curb free speech online, I can’t even bear to think about.

No, let’s say the schools have to tackle it all. Let’s argue about whether or not phones should be banned in schools, rather than discuss the fact that it is the children’s parents who fund the very existence of these devices in the first place. Schools are not responsible for the fact that many – perhaps even most – children have unfettered access to the internet. That responsibility lies with the adults that purchase the device, hand it to their kids and pay the bill for its extensive usage. Schools have had this problem dumped upon them and trust me, they feel the fall-out. You wouldn’t believe how much time is wasted in schools while pastoral leaders investigate cases of bullying, harassment, sexting, indecent images and incitement to violence that take place through these children’s mobile devices on a daily basis. One of my earliest shows for Teachers’ Talk Radio explored the relationship that teenagers have with their smart phones: I interviewed Matt Crowley, lead DSL (Designated Safeguarding Lead) in the school in which I was working at the time. He talked about the serious safeguarding risks and the systemic damage to a child’s mental health, self-esteem and personal safety which can arise from the use of these devices – in school and beyond. None of this is news to teachers; we’ve been saying it for years.

To return to Starmer’s tweet, let’s focus on the absolutely ridiculous proposal that Adolescence, a Netflix drama, should be “shown in schools”. Unsurprisingly, the writers and producers of the show are delighted by all the fuss. I bet they can’t believe their luck. There are influential talk-show hosts out there, not only recommending the show, but berating politicians who have not watched it as “ignorant”, “uncaring” and “out of touch”. Apparently, it’s compulsory viewing and if you haven’t viewed it, you’re an officially Bad Person. But let’s actually think about the idea that this drama should be “shown in schools”, shall we? Firstly, shown to whom? The drama is rated 15, so schools would not be able to show it to any year group below Year 11, since some students in Year 10 will not turn 15 until after the end of the academic year. If Starmer thinks the drama is so significant and truly reflective of reality (he has twice accidentally referred to it as “a documentary”, which is actually terrifying), I would point out that the perpetrator of the crime in the drama is thirteen years old. Showing the drama to 16–18-year-olds would thus seem to be missing the point.

Furthermore, and this applies to the equally insane directive that schools are now somehow responsible for teaching children how to brush their teeth, what would Starmer like schools to remove from the curriculum in order to make time for this four-hour TV marathon? One assumes that he doesn’t want them taken out of maths, English and science, so perhaps he sees it as fitting within the PSHE programme. Does he know that most schools barely manage the advised one hour per week? That they seriously struggle to fit this in? What would he like us to remove from the curriculum in order to make way for a drama that at least half of the kids will already have seen at home? Sex education and consent? I would have thought that was pretty important to cover, given the content of the drama. Alcohol, smoking and illegal drugs? How about college applications and how to present yourself at interview? Financial literacy? Martin Lewis won’t be happy, and given Starmer’s terror of celebrities that will mean some more sleepless nights for him. What a dilemma, Keir! Isn’t leadership difficult?!

I struggle to respect a leader who is so beleaguered by the ebb and sway of public opinion and general feelz. This is a Prime Minister who has somehow found time in what one would have assumed is a busy week to meet with the writer and the producer of the Netflix drama to discuss it. I mean … what?! I would rather he got on with the business of government. If the man stands for anything then he needs to convince me that he cannot be pushed around by celebrities and current talking points. But it seems we have somehow grown so used to weak leadership that now we take it for granted.

Let me count the ways

How do we let young people down in 2025? Let me count the ways. Beyond our inexplicable willingness to allow them unfettered 24-hour access to the dark world of the internet, beyond our discomfort with and unwillingness to take the responsibility that lies with adults, to be in charge and to be the grown-ups in the room, beyond this lurks yet another way in which we can let them down. We can teach them an inflated sense of their own importance; we can let them believe that the world revolves around them and let them imagine that, when they reach adulthood, their employer will bend to their every whim. How do we do that? Let me give you an example.

It is not often that I read a post on LinkedIn, as it’s never an enriching experience. But imagine my horror when I happen upon someone who claims to be a fellow educationalist openly celebrating the news that a child is missing their lessons for no good reason other than the fact that it is their birthday. “Let’s normalise taking your birthday off without any further explanation or drama required,” she exclaimed. “Life’s too short not to!” She also celebrated “the beauty of flexi/online schooling,” showing at least some awareness of the fact that the average UK school would take a pretty dim view of any student – or their parents – citing a birthday as a reason to take a day off.

To be clear, it was apparent from her post that this person was talking about the kind of tutoring that is there to replace traditional schooling, not supplement it. As someone who works with students who attend mainstream school, I have had several occasions on which parents have cancelled their evening appointment with me due to birthday celebrations, and that is just as it should be: the child has already done a day’s schooling and it seems more than reasonable to reserve their evening time for birthday celebrations with family and/or friends. But this tutor was celebrating the fact that their student was missing an entire day’s worth of schooling, and even seemed to be implying that – in an ideal world – schools would be willing to accommodate such a decision. The responses were mainly positive, with several people – all of them no doubt making money out of the increasing trend of parents taking their children out of the traditional education system – applauding the sentiment. “Brilliant! Joy, wellbeing and belonging first, then education will flow and be valued” asserted one, a remarkable claim which I would love to see the data on. “All my students take their birthdays off, and I encourage it,” said another. “Absolutely brilliant,” said a third: “I too encourage my students to take their birthdays off!”

There were one or two of us speaking up for sanity, so all is not lost. One or two people commented that allowing students to take random days off is disruptive to both the teacher and the learner. I commented that allowing students to take time off in this way is surely setting them up for future disappointment in life. There are not many people in this world who are so blessed that they can pick and choose whether or not they go into work on a particular day. If at least part of education’s purpose is to prepare students for working life, then what kind of precedent are we setting by normalising the expectation of a day off on their birthday, rather than explaining to them that school is still there – birthday or not – and reassuring them that celebrations will be had when it is finished for the day?

There are innumerable jobs which do not allow for days off at your preferred time, including some quite noble careers. Teaching, for example, is well known as a profession in which you do get lots of time away from the chalkface, but the price you pay for the significant chunks of flexible free time undeniably allowed to you is that the times when you are tied to the chalkface are 100% dictated by your employer. It is quite remarkably difficult for classroom teachers to negotiate any time away from their classroom, for blindingly obvious reasons. I remember a wealthy friend once invited myself and my husband to Glyndebourne, in an ill-fated attempt to convert me to opera. “You’d have to take the afternoon off,” he said, airily. I snorted with mirth, for this was just one example of how someone in his wealth-bracket tends to presume that the world works for everybody else. It was almost worth me booking an appointment with the Headteacher, just to see the look on her face when I requested the afternoon off “to attend the opera.” Many of our young people will end up in jobs like mine, when time off at one’s own behest is simply not on the cards. Granted, many of them won’t. The point is: all jobs include “have-tos” (true even for my wealthy barrister friend), and young people need to learn this simple fact. Otherwise, we are letting them down.

Beyond the fact that school attendance teaches children about the “have-tos” in life, allowing time off at a child’s behest devalues education itself. Taking students out of school for random events should not be done lightly, for in doing so we are inevitably sending a message to a child that their schooling is not important to us. This then echoes down the line when it comes to their day-to-day studies, their preparation for examinations, their overall efforts to achieve academically. Why should it matter to them, if we are constantly undermining the message that it matters to us by taking them out of school?

My third and final objection to the idea of allowing and encouraging students to take time out of school for their birthday is perhaps a little controversial, so brace yourselves. Here goes. Quite simply, I think it is too self-indulgent. I am so depressed at how society seems to be shifting more and more towards an entirely individualistic mindset, one which prioritises the wants and needs of the individual over and above the needs of the community as a whole. While I would never object to the idea that one should be mindful of one’s own health and wellbeing, indeed I write often about my efforts to centre my own, the expectation of one’s right to do so has become so unquestionable that we are beginning to forget what binds us together as a community. In our relentless pursuit of independence and self-efficacy, I fear we may end up with a world full of egocentrics.

In the grand scheme of humanity, nobody’s birthday is actually that important, because nobody is the centre of the universe. We need to keep our special dates in perspective. They matter to us and – if we are lucky enough – to those who care about us. They do not – nor should they – impact upon the rest of the world. If that seems a little too nihilistic for your liking, then here’s another way of looking at it: if it’s their birthday, wouldn’t it be better for a child to go into school and celebrate by sharing the love with their classmates? Over the years, I have had several colleagues who liked to make a fuss on their birthday, so they brought in cakes and shared them with all of us. It was an absolutely lovely thing to do and everybody enjoyed it. And everyone wished them a happy birthday! So, if we believe that birthdays are so special and important, then why don’t we teach our children that their birthday is a chance to bring some joy to their usual routines and responsibilities, not an opportunity to evade them?