“Back to Being a Nobody in School”

By a mother

Torah has always defined chinuch as something that must be good for the child. When dignity and relationship are overlooked, even well-intentioned education can miss its mark. This piece explores what our sources and our classrooms are teaching us today.

My son turned eleven last week, and he relished all the small moments that made it feel special.

He wore a crisp white shirt to school, a quiet but confident signal to everyone around him that today was his day. He was met with smiles and birthday wishes from bochurim and staff as he passed them in the hall. For a child who often feels unseen, this felt big.

And then came the highlight every birthday boy looks forward to. He walked the halls with a box of donuts, visiting each of his former teachers with a brief stop in every classroom, collecting a smile, a warm word, a moment of attention, a reminder that he is seen, cherished, and valued.

It’s a beautiful ritual. A small but powerful acknowledgment that relationship matters.

That night, when the house grew quiet and his big day was over, he came to me in tears.

“Ma… just like that, my birthday is over. Now I go back to being a nobody in school.”

A nobody.

That sentence has stayed with me. Not because it’s about my son, but because it captures something many children feel and rarely say out loud. And it forces a question we need to be brave enough to ask:

How does a child come to feel like a nobody in a place dedicated to teaching Torah?

This isn’t a question asked in blame or criticism. It’s offered with deep respect for teachers and the complexity of their work, and invites a pause to notice how the emotional experience of a child can sometimes get lost along the way.

In many classrooms, we’ve grown accustomed to interpreting a child’s behavior as a reflection of his intentions.

A child doesn’t do his work.

A child doesn’t have the place.

A child calls out or disturbs.

A child answers defensively.

And the default interpretation becomes: chutzpah, laziness, lack of accountability.

But almost always, what we are seeing is not refusal. It is distress. There’s a silent need not being met, and a child who feels repeatedly unsuccessful, publicly corrected, or quietly judged will protect himself the only way he knows how. What looks like non-compliance is very often self-protection.

When we skip curiosity and go straight to consequence, we may gain momentary order. But we lose something far more precious: a child’s sense of safety, the reassurance that he is welcome and wanted here, perfectly imperfect.

A child who feels unsafe cannot learn.

The Gemara makes a striking statement about what chinuch actually is — and what it is not. Torah itself defines chinuch in a way that may surprise us.

In Nazir, the Gemara teaches that a father may declare his child a nazir in order to be mechanech him in mitzvos. Yet relatives are allowed to intervene and stop him. The Gemara asks why, and answers with a line that should stop every mechanech in their tracks: “Because chinuch d’lo chashuv is not chinuch” – education that is not chashuv is not chinuch at all.

What does chashuv mean? Rashi explains what chashuv means in this context: “tov lo” – it has to be good for the child. If the “chinuch” itself will harm him emotionally or socially, it doesn’t qualify as chinuch. And here, Rashi says, making him a Nazir can become a bizayon, a humiliation. He’ll look different, he’ll have long hair, he’ll stand out, people will laugh – and if it’s a bizayon for him, it isn’t chinuch and therefore the relatives are allowed to intervene.

Tosfos takes it even further, explaining that the word chinuch itself means “l’hachshivo” – to make the child feel chashuv: significant, respected, valued. In other words: chinuch isn’t merely transmitting information or enforcing behavior. Chinuch, by Torah definition, includes the child’s dignity. If the process of teaching Torah makes him feel small, ashamed, or worthless, that is not chinuch.

Let that sink in.

This is not a modern sensitivity.

This is Torah.

So we must ask ourselves honestly: When a child leaves my classroom, does he feel more chashuv — or less?

Because if a child feels diminished through learning Torah in school, something fundamental has gone wrong.

What this looks like in the classroom

Picture a familiar scene: A boy refuses to write a d’var Torah. He grasps it quickly and retains it. He’s passionate about it. But the tedious act of writing overwhelms him. The common response is procedural: he’s sent to the principal.

A chinuch-driven response looks different: The teacher walks over (in the moment or at the very next opportunity), lowers his voice, and says: “Levi, what’s going on for you? Is the writing hard? I’m here to help.”

That one minute does not lower standards.

It does not undermine authority.

It does not derail the class.

It preserves the child.

And it communicates something essential: you are not in trouble for struggling.

A child can survive a hard perek.

He cannot survive chronic shame.

A child can survive material that challenges him, a test he doesn’t ace, or feeling bored and restless. But he cannot survive repeated public embarrassment, being treated as “the problem” or the message that Torah is where he feels stupid.

A child who feels like a failure in math may dislike math.

A child who feels like a failure in Torah doesn’t just dislike school – he begins to sever his relationship with our mesorah.

That is not a risk we can afford.

Over the years, I’ve watched my son shine under certain teachers whom we’ll be forever grateful for. And I’ve watched him wither under others. The difference was never intelligence or effort. It was something far more fundamental:

Some teachers loved teaching.

The ones under whom he flourished loved children.

Rabbi Shimon Russell, who has spent decades working with schools and adolescents, speaks with genuine admiration about a new wave of teachers he has seen emerge — mechanchim who understand that in this generation, loving children must come before loving the act of teaching. They notice talmidim, connect with them, and celebrate who they are. Torah follows naturally from there. That order matters.

Prioritizing relationships with talmidim before teaching Torah does not weaken Torah – it creates the only conditions under which Torah can actually take root. If we teach Torah while losing the talmid, we risk losing both.

When Behavior is a Message

Rabbi Russell understands the concerns of today’s teachers and offers a real solution to the various behavioral challenges teachers are facing. Before labeling or reprimanding, he urges teachers to pause and ask three questions:

Connection: Does this child feel a relationship with me?

Capable: Does he believe he can succeed at what I’m asking?

Contributing: Does he feel that his presence adds value to this class?

When one of these is missing, behavior problems multiply — not because the child is difficult, but because he is disconnected.

Repairing those three things often resolves what discipline never could.

When a teacher forms a relationship with his talmid and the child feels connected, capable, and valued, desire emerges naturally — not as something demanded, but as something awakened. Torah enters not through pressure or fear, but through a relationship in which the child feels safe enough to want it.

Rules without relationship produce fear.

Structure without safety produces shutdown.

Torah without respect for children’s differences or challenges produces distance.

And children are exquisitely sensitive to this.

They may comply. They may sit quietly. They may even perform, forcing themselves to be a version of themselves they were never meant to be. But inside, something withers. The flame goes out. And what shatters is not behavior – it is the child’s sense of worth.

Years later, when adults reflect on their schooling, they rarely remember what page was covered. They remember how a teacher made them feel. They remember who noticed them, who believed in them, who chose curiosity over correction, who paused long enough to understand, and who offered help when criticism would have been quicker.

These moments were rarely time-consuming, but they required intention.

They weren’t grand gestures – just small decisions chosen again and again.

When we look honestly at what endures, a pattern emerges: Mesoras HaTorah travels through relationship. It always has.

The birthday visits were sweet. The smiles were genuine.

But no child should need a birthday to feel seen.

Chinuch is the daily work of relationship, communicated through countless small moments:

You matter here.

We want you here.

You belong here – just the way you are.

If our classrooms leave children feeling like nobodies, we have misunderstood chinuch – no matter how much material we cover. Chinuch that produces obedience without attachment may look successful in the short term, but fail completely in the long run.

And if we get this right, we won’t just see better behavior. We will see children who remain connected: to Torah, to Hashem, to themselves, and to a system that taught them in a way that honored who they are, and made them feel chashuv.

That is chinuch.

And that is the standard Torah itself sets for us.