I once watched a student run back and forth through a music school,
upside down on the ceiling.

At various points they attempted to touch their ears with their heels, paused to see whether it might be possible to scratch their back with their nose, then tried to shake hands with themselves from behind.

All of this was accompanied by joy, confidence, and complete enthusiasm — utterly oblivious to the environment and its very real limitations.

Direction changed without warning.
Speed varied arbitrarily.

Everyone else kept pretending this was creative exploration.

The parents were present. Calm. Almost relieved — as if responsibility had quietly changed hands.

And the teacher?

The teacher was busy searching for a backing track — something the student might finally connect with.

As if the problem were musical.
As if the chaos were a question of engagement, not orientation.

The student was very happy.
And completely lost.

No one would call that progress.

But in education, we do it all the time.

When Kindness Becomes a Problem

Kindness matters.
Care matters.
Warmth matters.
Encouragement matters.

It is an argument against the modern confusion between kindness and giving people what they want.

Because kindness without understanding quickly becomes indulgence.

Feed a student sweets because it keeps them happy.
Let them watch television all day because it avoids conflict.
Never challenge behaviour because it feels uncomfortable.

You may be very kind.
You are not being helpful.

Comfort is easy.
Care is not.

The Cult of Comfort

Somewhere along the way, education absorbed a dangerous belief:
that discomfort is harmful, and boundaries are unkind.

That if a student disengages, the material must be wrong.
If behaviour deteriorates, the connection must be lacking.
And if progress stalls, the teacher must be at fault.

This sounds compassionate.
It isn’t.

It quietly removes responsibility from everyone involved — except the teacher.

The Sacred Circle of Connection

The Cult of Comfort produces a very specific pattern of behaviour — what I think of as the sacred circle of connection.

Inside this circle, everything is framed as caring.
Outside it, everything is framed as harmful.

Maintaining a pleasant emotional atmosphere becomes the primary goal.
Anything that risks disrupting it is quietly reclassified as dangerous.

Questioning behaviour becomes “judgement”.
Naming avoidance becomes “pressure”.
And boundaries are dismissed as cruelty.

Connection, in this form, becomes sacred — not because it is deep or effective, but because it is morally protected.

Once inside the circle, improvement is no longer required.
Only harmony.

The student feels heard.
The adult feels kind.
And nothing actually changes.

This is how teachers end up searching for ever more engaging material while behaviour deteriorates.
How backing tracks replace orientation.
How effort is discussed endlessly — and expected never.

The circle is closed.
Any challenge to it is treated as an attack on care itself.

But connection that cannot survive honesty is not connection.
It is avoidance with good branding.

Real connection is not fragile.
It can tolerate boundaries.
It can survive disappointment.
And it does not collapse the moment someone says, “This isn’t working.”

The sacred circle of connection feels compassionate.
But it quietly removes direction.

And without direction, students are left doing what they were doing already — confidently, comfortably, and without progress.

Taboo One: “Bad Behaviour Means the Teaching Is Bad”

This is one of the most persistent myths in modern education.

The idea that if a student is disruptive, unfocused, or resistant,
it must be because the material is uninspiring or the lesson insufficiently engaging.

Sometimes that is true.
Often it is not.

Students are capable of being bored, defiant, restless, or resistant even in excellent lessons, with thoughtfully chosen material, delivered well.

Behaviour is not a performance review.
And pretending it is helps no one.

A Necessary Clarification

This is not a denial of SEN, neurodiversity, trauma, or genuine additional needs.

Some students require adapted communication.
Some require different pacing.
Some require specific behavioural strategies.

But none of that removes the need for boundaries.

In fact, for many SEN students, boundaries are more important — because they provide predictability, safety, and orientation.

Support does not mean the suspension of expectations.
Understanding is not the same as indulgence.

Taboo Two: Avoidance Is Human

This is uncomfortable to say, but necessary.

Not every lack of effort has a complex psychological backstory.
Not every unfinished task is a silent cry for help.
Not every unpractised week is trauma.

Sometimes students do not practise because they did not feel like it.

That does not make them bad.
It makes them human.

But refusing to name avoidance when it appears does not make us kind.

It makes us evasive.

And evasion teaches students something very specific:
that effort is optional, and explanations will do.

Taboo Three: Don’t Buy the First Story

A student tells you they were “too busy to practise.”

Out of politeness — or discomfort — we nod and move on.

But if you ask one or two gentle follow-up questions, the story begins to wobble.

Busy with what?

A hamster had a playdate.
A dog needed therapy.
An iguana was shedding its skin and required supervision.
A cat had a solicitor’s appointment and could not be left alone.

The animals multiply.
The responsibilities escalate.
None of them materially affect the practice schedule.

This is not dishonesty in a moral sense.
It is avoidance — a perfectly ordinary human response to effort.

Children do not invent these stories because they are manipulative.
They invent them because they work.

And adults accept them not because they are convinced,
but because disbelief would require a brief moment of discomfort.

Accepting the first explanation feels kind.
Questioning it feels awkward.

But accepting the story is not care.
It is abdication.

Students do not need us to believe every explanation they offer.
They need us to help them face the real one — calmly, honestly, and without drama.

Why Boundaries Matter

Boundaries are not punishment.
They are orientation.

They tell the student where they are, what is expected, and what happens next.

Without boundaries, students do not feel free.
They feel lost.

Like someone confidently walking upside down on the ceiling, convinced joy alone will change the laws of physics.

What Real Connection Actually Is

Real connection is not instant.

It does not come from endless agreement, lowered expectations, or avoiding difficult conversations.

It takes time to build.

It grows out of honesty, consistency, and shared goals — from the student gradually realising that the teacher is not there to entertain them, but to work with them.

When that connection clicks, something important changes.

The student stops working because they are told to.
They work because they understand they are part of a team.

A team with standards.
A direction.
And a shared outcome.

Being Kind Isn’t Enough

Kindness without direction becomes avoidance.
When boundaries soften to prevent discomfort, responsibility drifts.

This is how education ends up offering emotional safety without orientation —
comfort without progress.

That kind of comfort is easy to provide.
It asks little of students — and even less of adults.

But real care is different.
It requires holding direction when it would be easier to soften it.
It requires tolerating brief discomfort so students don’t remain lost.

Being kind isn’t enough.
Someone still has to hold direction.

And comfort, without limits, is already available elsewhere —
usually in all-inclusive packages.

The Call That Keeps Happening

Hi.

I’m calling about today’s lesson.
We seem to have lost the piano somewhere.
The music books are still being written. The composer’s been busy.

We’ve been away for seven months since last week.

But we do have a lesson today. In about three minutes.

Also, there was a birthday.
A great-granddad’s uncle’s 145th.
A generally busy week. Roughly ten sleepovers a night.

Just so you know, our child has a mock of a mock exam next year.
GCSEs next decade.
Graduation in about fifteen years.

We’re not entirely sure about lessons for the rest of this month,
given everything that’s coming up.

The child is very talented.
And we really want to foster their love for music.

Could you please take care of this?
Ideally in thirty minutes.
Once a week.

Oh, and now that you’re here —
could we do the lesson online?

This is exaggerated.
On purpose.

Versions of this conversation happen constantly, just phrased more politely and without the jokes.

And they point to a misunderstanding that has quietly crept into education.

When Learning Is Treated Like a Service

Somewhere along the way, learning started being framed as a service.

And once something is treated as a service, certain expectations follow:
it should be smooth,
it should feel reassuring,
and once you’ve paid for it, something should improve.

That logic works in many areas of life.
It doesn’t survive contact with learning.

Not in music.
Not anywhere that involves skill.

What a Lesson Can — and Can’t — Do

A lesson is not a fix.
It’s a demonstration.

It shows what to work on.
It shows how to work.
Sometimes it shows why something isn’t working yet.

What it cannot do is replace the environment the skill has to live in.

No amount of expertise can override missing inputs.
Time still matters.
Repetition still matters.
Continuity still matters.

Paying for a service doesn’t suspend those rules.

Where Frustration Actually Comes From

When progress is slow, it’s tempting to assume something is wrong with the delivery.

The explanation wasn’t clear enough.
The method wasn’t engaging.
The teacher wasn’t the right fit.

Sometimes that’s true.
Often, it isn’t.

More often, the system around the lesson is doing the damage:
irregular attendance,
practice that only happens when life is calm,
materials that exist more in theory than in reality.

Expectations stay ambitious.
Conditions quietly erode.

This Isn’t About Blame

This isn’t malicious.

Modern life is busy.
Children have more competing demands than ever.
Parents are juggling impossible schedules.
Teachers are working inside tight time constraints.

None of that changes how learning works.

Skill doesn’t accumulate because we want it to.
It accumulates because something happened yesterday — and the day before that.

Why This Shows Up Everywhere

This pattern isn’t limited to music.

You can ignore a lawyer’s advice, pay the invoice, and still lose the case.
You can attend physiotherapy once a week and skip the exercises, and still not recover.
You can hire a consultant, agree enthusiastically, and change nothing.

Services don’t override systems.

Why Teaching Gets Misunderstood

When progress stalls, it’s easier to question the person in the room than the structure outside it.

It’s more comfortable to adjust tone than priorities.
To soften expectations rather than rebuild conditions.

But learning can’t be outsourced cleanly.
It’s shared.
Messy.
Slow.

And it only works when the environment supports it.

Roles Still Matter

Teachers teach.
Students practise.
Parents prioritise and support.

Those roles aren’t rigid.
They’re not about blame.
They’re about alignment.

When they blur, progress doesn’t just slow.
It becomes confusing for everyone involved.

Flexibility Still Needs Structure

This isn’t an argument against flexibility or support.

Some students need different pacing.
Some need adapted communication.
Some need more reassurance.

All of that still requires structure.
In fact, it requires more of it.

Support without clarity becomes noise.
Kindness without boundaries becomes avoidance.

The Part That Hasn’t Changed

The hard part of learning hasn’t changed.

Only our tolerance for it has.

We want results without inconvenience.
Progress without friction.
Confidence without the long, dull work underneath.

Reality doesn’t negotiate.
Music doesn’t respond to intention.
Neither does anything else worth learning.