Increased teacher stress = decreased co-regulation

In this op-ed, educator Rebecca Thomas asks if dysregulated classrooms might be a product of teacher stress. 

It’s easy to look at the rising dysregulation in classrooms and wonder: 

Are these “COVID kids”? Is something fundamentally different about this cohort? 
Or
Are we seeing the impact of structured spaces that no longer flex?

Perhaps the more confronting answer is: it’s both.

Then there’s the third element we’re not talking about nearly enough: Increased teacher stress.

Not the kind that a day off or a few deep breaths can fix. But the kind that builds day after day, term after term. The kind that comes from trying to meet expectations in classrooms where children are coming in hot, raw, and already on the edge.

Structured literacy. 

Structured maths. 

Structured assessments. 

Structured progressions. 

Teachers are not resisting structure because they don’t value learning. They are resisting the rigidity that leaves no room to breathe, no space to adapt, no time to connect.

At the core of all this lies a simple, urgent truth:

Regulation in the classroom depends on the adult.

Co-regulation is not a technique; it’s a nervous system state. It’s not about doing calm—it’s about being calm. A stressed teacher, no matter how experienced or well-intentioned, has less capacity to lend their calm. When our own tanks are empty, we stop seeing the cues behind the chaos. We move to control, not connect. And when we move to control, children move to protect.

We are watching a feedback loop unfold:

• Increased expectations lead to teacher stress.

• Teacher stress reduces capacity for co-regulation.

• Reduced co-regulation increases student dysregulation.

• Student dysregulation disrupts learning.

• Disrupted learning increases pressure.

Round and round it goes.

Every week, teachers share the same things:

“I don’t have time to think anymore. It’s like I’m just reacting all day.”

“I know what this kid needs. I can see it. But I’ve got 28 others and a timetable that doesn’t stop.”

“I feel like I’m constantly choosing—do I meet the emotional needs in front of me or keep up with the structured programme I’ll be questioned about?”

“I’m implementing approaches I’ve had zero training in. I’m scared I’m getting it wrong, but I don’t even have time to reflect on what right looks like.”

These aren’t isolated stories.

This is the emotional climate of our classrooms.

Absolutely—and you don’t need to be a therapist to solve problems with kids.

We just need time and trust.

Educators have always done this. We are the frontline agents in society doing the most essential work: socialising our tamariki. That was never clearer than during COVID. When the world shut down, schools didn’t. Teachers responded overnight to deliver learning, connection, and comfort—often to the most vulnerable. 

It was us, alongside the medical profession, who held the community together. Supporting regulation and emotional safety isn’t therapy—it’s pedagogy, and it’s grounded in humanity. It lives innately within every teacher.

There’s increasing international research suggesting that children born during the pandemic are entering school with developmental vulnerabilities—especially in language, social-emotional readiness, and regulation.

While New Zealand has no longitudinal study specifically tracking pandemic-born children into early schooling yet (which is surprising, given we were world-leading during that time—with a Prime Minister the world envied and an education system that rose to meet the moment),  ERO’s 2024 report revealed that nearly two-thirds of early childhood and new entrant teachers believe COVID has negatively impacted spoken language.

Teachers are observing five-year-olds with limited vocabulary and sentence structure, attributed to reduced early social interaction and increased screen time. Yet ironically, some of the same ERO reports highlighting these concerns are now being used to justify mandates that run counter to their own findings. The data tells us our tamariki need more time for oral language, connection, and relational support—yet teachers are being told what to do without the time, training, or systemic space to do it well. Mandates are getting in the way of what ERO itself found to be true for twenty percent of our children.

Considering this evidence—and the fact that two-thirds of new entrant and ECE teachers report oral language concerns—it would make sense to structure Year 1 of school differently. Not as a race to hit academic milestones, but as a dedicated foundation year. One focused on communication, connection, and co-regulation. A space where teachers are empowered to model, guide, and build the essential skills ERO rightly identifies. Because if we want those outcomes, we have to create the conditions for them to emerge. These are different children in front of us now and we must acknowledge that. When this cohort enters tightly structured environments that offer little relational buffer, it’s no surprise we’re seeing amplified dysregulation.

If we want to calm our classrooms, we need to calm the system.

That means trusting teachers.

It means valuing relational teaching as much as structured delivery.

It means making room for flexibility—and having a Minister who understands the lived reality of our classrooms; one who genuinely listens, learns, and leads with humility.

Because these aren’t just “COVID kids.” These are children shaped by uncertainty—and children reacting to rigid environments that demand regulation – but offer none.

And teachers? They’re not just tired. They’re wired. Holding too much, too often, with too little support.

So before we roll out another programme or track another data point, please, let’s ask:

Who is holding the adults who are meant to hold our tamariki?

Because when the adult is supported, the child is safer. 

And when the adult is regulated, the child can begin to be too.

We don’t co-regulate from a checklist. We co-regulate from a nervous system that feels safe enough to offer calm. And that begins not with another policy, but with compassion.

We need leaders—at every level—who read the research and respond with the same trauma-informed care we ask of teachers. 

Leaders who understand that healing-centred education begins with the adults in the room.

Leaders who know that structure matters—but not at the expense of human nervous systems. 

Leaders who are bold enough to ask: what would it look like if wellbeing wasn’t an add-on, but the core of our approach?

This is how leaders coped during COVID—they trusted their staff, honoured their judgment, and prioritised connection over compliance. That wisdom shouldn’t be lost now.

Research from New Zealand’s COVID response reinforces this—principals led with empathy, decentralised decision-making, and trusted their staff. A 2021 study by Thornton and Rodley found that secondary school leaders prioritised wellbeing over curriculum, engaged in collective leadership, and remained transparent even under immense pressure. ERO’s 2020–21 survey likewise highlighted the relational leadership and innovative flexibility shown across schools.

This wasn’t just a crisis response—it was a blueprint for what works when trauma is real, and compassion leads.

One can’t help but wonder—does Minister Erica Stanford make herself aware of findings like these? 

If she did, perhaps she might connect more deeply with the people she’s trying to persuade—because the answers are already living and breathing in our classrooms.

Because in the end, it’s not just about policy or performance. It’s about people.

And they need holding, not handling.