A new relationship

The other day, I was cycling to meet a new student. That’s a rare event these days. My teaching schedule has been full for years, and most of my students stay with me throughout their educational journey. Some I’ve been working with for over seven years.

As I pedalled through the streets, I noticed something: I was excited.

Why? What was it that had me looking forward to this session? It wasn't just the prospect of starting something new. It was the opportunity to learn. From a student. But wait, I’m the teacher, right? Supposedly the source of knowledge, the architect of curriculum, the one who ensures every learning gap is filled. Because, as we often hear in schools, children must not have gaps in their knowledge. Gaps cause leaks. Leaks cause loss. And without this precise sequence of knowledge, delivered at just the right age, the child may fall behind.

Of course, I’m being a little tongue-in-cheek here. But these are genuine conversations held in many schools. Time and energy go into analysing gaps, reshaping curriculum maps, and ensuring measurable outcomes.

For me, the content of the curriculum has never been the most important thing. What matters more is whether a child can think critically about the information they encounter. Can they ask questions? Spot inconsistencies? Determine what’s true and what’s a scam? These are the skills that last. If something is relevant to a child, they’ll learn it quickly, because they need it. If it’s irrelevant, the learning becomes forced. That’s when we turn to revision schedules and cramming sessions. Our brains resist retaining information that feels unnecessary to our lives.

But I digress.

I was excited because I was about to learn about a new human being. Years ago, when I began working with disabled children, my brother asked how the job was going. I told him, “I’m loving it. But honestly, the children are teaching me more than I’m teaching them.”

He paused, concerned. “You should probably not tell the parents that.”

His response echoed the dominant idea that teachers are the givers and students the receivers. That learning flows in one direction. I don't agree with that. Education is built on relationships. And relationships require trust. Without trust, there is no safety. And as Maslow’s hierarchy of needs reminds us, without safety, not much learning is possible. The philosopher Emmanuel Levinas offers a deeper ethical lens to this view, suggesting that every encounter with another person is a moral event where we must take into account their needs and vulnerabilities. The act of meeting a student, truly meeting them, creates an ethical responsibility. In this framework, learning begins with the acknowledgement of the other.

When I meet a new student, I spend time getting to know them. What excites them? What makes them anxious or joyful? Not so I can shoehorn their interests into themed worksheets, but because this is how trust is built. Human relationships begin with curiosity and care. Once trust is in place, everything else becomes easier.

In all my years of working with children, I’ve never met a child who wasn’t interesting. I haven’t formally planned a lesson in years. My sessions revolve around conversation. Sometimes I’ll bring something to spark dialogue: a comic, a toy, a deck of cards. But mostly, we just talk. From those conversations, interests and questions emerge. Then we follow those threads. That’s where the learning happens. For both of us.

I’m fortunate in my role. Working in specialist provision for children with disabilities gives me a level of autonomy rarely found in mainstream education. I have the freedom to shape a curriculum that fits the child, not the other way around. And because of that freedom, I can let the child lead.

Research supports this approach. According to Deci and Ryan's Self-Determination Theory, humans learn best when their needs for autonomy, competence, and relatedness are met. When students feel they have control, feel capable, and feel connected, learning flourishes. Similarly, the Reggio Emilia approach, developed in post-war Italy, sees the child as curious, competent, and full of potential. In this model, the teacher is a co-learner, and the environment is seen as a “third teacher,” designed to support exploration and relationship.

During my own school years, most teachers stayed in one school for decades. From the time I started to the time my younger brother finished, the staff barely changed. Today, teacher turnover is much higher. That stability, and those long-term relationships, are often lost. And with them, the depth of understanding and trust between teacher and student can vanish.

Some educational models, like Steiner/Waldorf schools, prioritise continuity. A teacher may stay with the same class for multiple years. The goal isn’t just academic success but the development of a whole human being. There’s something deeply valuable in that approach.

In our increasingly digital world, relationships are evolving. Children are more likely to message friends across the world than talk to a neighbour. They turn to influencers instead of family elders. That’s not inherently bad, but it makes intentional relationship-building in education even more vital. When we model curiosity, empathy, and care in our interactions with students, we’re not just helping them learn, we’re teaching them how to sustain healthy relationships. This aligns with the findings of education researcher John Hattie, who identifies teacher-student relationships as one of the most powerful influences on student achievement.

And that matters. The Harvard Study of Adult Development, one of the longest-running longitudinal studies, found that the quality of our relationships is the biggest predictor of a long, happy life.

So yes, I was excited. Not because I had a lesson plan ready to go. But because I was about to begin a new relationship. One that, if nurtured, might help a child flourish.

And I might just learn something too.