Early in my teaching career, I very nearly quit.
It wasn’t because I didn’t like kids. Nor was it because I didn’t care. One class – and one student in particular – was destroying my will to continue.
Her name was Amanda.
If I’m honest, she’s probably the toughest student I’ve ever taught.
Every day after lunch, like clockwork, Amanda would arrive late. Not quietly late, either. She’d enter the room centre stage with a full performance about how she’d been wronged by another teacher, denied water, pushed to the brink of dehydration. It was dramatic. It was rehearsed. And it worked.
The class temperature would spike. The collective engagement in our class novel would stop. I’d never finish the chapter. And the rest of the afternoon would slide into survival mode.
Around that time, a behavioural psychologist called Jo Lange asked me to talk her through what was happening. I told her I thought Amanda was attention-seeking. She listened, nodded, and then asked one simple question.
“What do you do when Amanda puts on the show?”
I hated the question. It felt like cheap theory challenging my lived reality. But I answered honestly.
“I look at her. I pay attention.”
She didn’t hesitate.
“Well, stop it.”
I didn’t like that either. But the next day, probably out of spiteful stubbornness, I tried something different. Before Amanda arrived, I made a deal with the rest of the class. I told them I was going to finish the chapter no matter what. They laughed. They knew what was coming. But they were in.
Amanda arrived. She performed. I kept reading.
She raised the volume and I sucked that book closer to my face.
She moved closer. I kept reading.
At one point I felt spit land on my forehead and wondered whether this was the moment I’d pushed too far. Then, halfway through her speech, Amanda stopped. I lowered the book just enough to see her staring at me.
“You’re being weird,” she growled.
Then she sat down.
That wasn’t the end of the behaviour. Far from it. But it was the beginning of change.
What shifted wasn’t Amanda. It was my response. I’d finally stopped feeding the motivator.
Here’s the thing we don’t talk about enough in schools. Behaviour usually isn’t random. It’s purposeful. Students are often trying to get something, avoid something, assert something, or push back against something. When we misread that, we respond in ways that strengthen the very behaviour we want gone.
When we change our response, things can get worse before they get better.
Amanda’s behaviour spiked for days. Then it eased. Then it plateaued. She was still late. But the performance disappeared. “Sorry I’m late… oh yeah.” And she’d sit down.
That mattered.
Behaviour change rarely happens all at once. It happens one behaviour at a time, in a supportive environment, when adults are calm enough to read what’s really going on and disciplined enough to ride out the spike.
Most teachers don’t fail because they don’t care. They fail because they give up too early on strategies that actually work.
Amanda taught me that understanding what’s driving behaviour doesn’t make the job easier in the moment.
But it does make it possible.
Keep fighting that good fight,
P.S. If Amanda sounds familiar, I reckon I’ve got something for you.
The Restorative Classroom Playbook is designed to make teaching feel sustainable again — maybe even enjoyable.
It’ll help you read behaviour properly, respond on purpose, and stay steady when things flare up. I’ll show you exactly how to stop feeding the motivator – and what to do instead.
The Restorative Classroom Playbook Online Workshop
For classroom and specialist teachers across all systems and year levels.
Friday 13 March 2026
10am – 3pm AEDT
Come and build your own Restorative Classroom Playbook – designed for your class, not someone else’s.
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