It’s been so long since I wrote, that I forgot my own website address.
It’s not that there haven’t been things to share, it’s more that I don’t know where to begin. That I have lived back home in Denmark for four years now, and been a teacher here for nearly three, and yet still feel like Bambi on ice. Trying to find my footing but knowing that I am more than likely spinning in circles and sliding farther away from my intended target.
So instead of trying to catch anyone up, don’t even know if there is anyone to catch up here, I am simply beginning again.
Hello and welcome to my thoughts about teaching, about life, about being a mom, a woman and living in this world right now with all its complications and wonders.
I am supposed to be the one that teaches children to read and write in my first grade classes. This is a burden I never wanted to have and yet the puzzle of trying to make the pieces click into place, of trying to help children find their way into story, and place their stories into the world, is one I relish. Will this little thing work? What if we do this? Try this? Stop this?
My students are both willing and unwilling participants; while happy to be in school still, they don’t get to choose that they should learn how to read or write. Like so many other things, that choice has been made for them.
But how we do it, together, that can be rife with choices. Some we are exploring cautiously, some we throw ourselves into just happy to try something new.
There is so much we can do together that I feel paralyzed at times. The weight of this wondrous world of literacy so heavy that I am not sure of what is best, what to do, what to keep. Imposter syndrome at its finest.
Because am I enough for everyone? Probably not. But can I show up and try my best, yes. Can I plan something every day that is one part of an expansive path that will expand these readers and authors? Can I teach strategies, offer practice, and pull them into the magic of what it means to read and write and leave the door so wide that even the most cautious of children can bumble through. Yes. Always yes.
I can observe, and tweak, and dream, and wonder and try. I can try again when it didn’t work. I can offer myself grace when it feels like too much to do and not enough me.
Because the power we have to experiment and pilot cannot be removed when we sit in our classrooms. We are allowed to try again again and again.
Because that’s really all this great big thing is. Whether it be life or teaching. An invitation to show up every day and try again. To leave knowing that you tried something. To leave in a way that makes you want to come back.
So I may not always know what I am doing, or even how to do something well, but I know how to show up. And for now, that’s going to be good enough.
It seems, no matter what I do, it still happens. Year after year.
I started this work in 2010 and the voices were smaller then. Present but quiet. Now, with passive consumerism, with the need to be constantly entertained, with the pressures of life growing for so many kids due to inequity, it seems to have grown to a cacophony of voices. Eagerly chanting. Even from my 1st graders. Before they had even fully learned to read, they would say it.
I hate reading.
I know I cannot be the only one.
So what do we do? How do we speak to them in a way that shows we are actually listening — and also that it doesn’t have to be this way?
I don’t think the answer is a better book recommendation. I don’t think it’s making reading more fun or more gamified or more rewarded. I think it starts with a question. The right question. One that treats what they said as information rather than a problem to solve.
I’ve been collecting those questions for a while now. The ones that seem to open something up rather than shut it down. The ones that get underneath the “I hate reading” to whatever is actually being said. And I posted them on Instagram, and it seems like I wasn’t the only one who needed ideas for this work.
So here, I put them together here as a free conferring tool, something you can print and keep in your folder for those moments when a child says the thing and you want to respond with more than a recommendation.
I keep thinking about the ones who came to us loving books.
You know the ones. The kids who wanted to tell you everything about what they were reading, who recommended titles before you could recommend them first, who couldn’t walk past a shelf without stopping. Somewhere between then and now, they faded into the wallpaper. They still sit in our rooms. They still do the things we ask. But the books? The books stopped mattering to them. Or maybe they stopped believing the books were for them. And somewhere along the way, we stopped noticing that the energy we had poured into them as readers had quietly drained away.
That’s the loss I want to talk about. Not the child who never loved reading — we see that child, we have some ideas for that child. I’m talking about the reader we already had. The one we thought we didn’t need to worry about anymore.
We have systems for the child who stops reading.
Logs. Conferences. Check-ins. We notice when the pages stop turning and we intervene. That system exists because we built it, and mostly it works.
But there’s a second loss we almost never catch. The moment a child stops sharing their reading with us. Stops recommending. Stops bringing things to our desk. Stops starting conversations about books at all.
Those are not the same loss.
A child can still be reading every night and you can have no idea what their reading life actually looks like anymore. Because they stopped bringing it to you. And there was no system to catch that. No log for the conversation that didn’t happen. No conference protocol for the reader who went quiet.
We track whether they read. We don’t track whether they still want to bring it back to us.
And those are two different losses.
So why does it happen?
I don’t think it’s one moment. And I don’t think it’s about judgment, not usually. Most teachers I know aren’t dismissing the readers who go quiet. They’re just not getting to them. Because the curriculum needs covering. Because there’s an assessment coming. Because the things that get measured are the things that get time, and a quiet conversation about who a child is as a reader — what they’re choosing, what they’re abandoning, what they’re curious about — that conversation isn’t on anyone’s rubric.
And children notice.
Not in a conscious way. But they are always reading the room. And what the room tells them, slowly and consistently, is that their reading life — the one they own, the one they choose, the one that exists outside of any assignment — doesn’t need to be brought here anymore. Nobody is asking. Nobody has time. And so they stop thinking of themselves as people with a reading life worth talking about. They hand the agency back. Quietly. Without making a fuss.
And we let them. Because the system made it easy to let them.
That’s the loss I can’t stop thinking about. Not the reading. The sense of self that goes with it.
And yet. We are not helpless here.
The first one is simple. Go first. Tell a child about a book you abandoned. Not a book you loved — one you put down and walked away from. Tell them why. This does something important: it lowers the stakes entirely. It says reading is a relationship between a reader and a book, not a performance for an adult. And it makes the conversation mutual. You went first. Now it’s safer for them.
The second move is harder because it requires resisting a very natural instinct. When a child does start to share, don’t evaluate. No “did you understand it?” No comprehension check disguised as curiosity. Just: “What was it like for you?” That question has no wrong answer. It hands the agency straight back to them. And children who have learned to be guarded around reading conversations will slowly start to open up when they realize there’s no trap waiting.
The third move costs nothing. Find a book that genuinely makes you think of a specific child — not because it’s at their level, not because it would be good for them, but because something about it just reminds you of them. Leave it on their desk. A small note: “made me think of you.” No expectation. No follow-up. No asking if they read it.
Just the book. And the message that you saw them.
That’s sometimes enough to make a child remember that they are a reader. That someone noticed. That it still matters.
We cannot get those years back. The ones where they loved books and we were too busy to notice when that changed.
Next week, in my 3rd grade Danish class, we’re starting something new — or maybe something old, just done differently.
We’re bringing the Thinking Classroom to our literacy work. I have seen the excitement from it in math, which made me wonder; how can we model the same concept but within ELA (or DLA in my case 😊).
So in true Pernille fashion, I asked if anyone was interested in seeing the slides with prompts I had made in either Danish or English, and it turned out that, yes! Many were interested, thus this blog post. I’ve made about 40 slides filled with open-ended prompts — things that make kids talk, think, argue a little, and notice patterns together. They’ll work in groups of three at whiteboards with pens in hand, no right answers in sight.
Some prompts are silly. Some are uncomfortable. Some might just stay half-finished on the board — and that’s fine. The goal isn’t to finish, it’s to think.
We’ll spend 15–20 minutes at a time exploring ideas like the rules of horror, what truth really means, or how emotions might have colors. The work will shift with them — from laughter to silence to something that feels almost like discovery.
I can’t wait to see what happens next week when we start.
If you want the Danish slides, join my Facebook group: Læselyst i Danmark.
A month off with big plans of all the things I was going to do, and so many things I didn’t. I didn’t plan really. I didn’t read PD books, or watch webinars, or delve into education shorts. I have not stressed, mostly. Instead I have read, I have cooked, I have gardened, I have explored, I have napped – so many glorious naps. And I have been present with people I care about as much as possible. It has been glorious, and oh too short.
But now a new year beckons, and with that I will teach 2 different third grades in Danish. I cannot wait to experience what being a split classroom teacher will be like.
I know many of you are also gearing up to head back. Some of you still have weeks left, others only days. Perhaps like me you are looking for some inspiration of where to start? Two years ago, I created this resource for my Patreon community, and so I thought it might be helpful to share it here- it’s called the “First 20 Days of Reading” calendar, and here is a sneak peek of what is behind the link.
As many of us embark on a new school year, I believe that fostering a love for reading is one of the most precious gifts we can give to our students. This calendar is designed to build independent reading stamina and cultivate a reading community within our classrooms.
📖 Why the First 20 Days? 📖
Research has shown that dedicating just 20 minutes of daily reading time can have a significant impact on children’s word acquisition, vocabulary, and writing skills. Moreover, creating a positive and engaging reading environment can help instill a lifelong love for reading in our students.
💡 What’s in the Calendar? 💡
The “First 20 Days of Reading” calendar is a curated collection of 20 fun and manageable reading activities, each meant to take little time and be added on to our independent reading time. These activities are designed to introduce reading choices, nurture reading enthusiasm, build reading stamina, and foster reading independence. And of course start the focus on reading identity development.
You can pick and choose between using some of these activities or all of them. You do not need to follow the order precisely either, as always, you know what you need. But I wanted to pull out a timeline approach for all of the components we can introduce when fostering reading culture and give you a placer to hang your ideas. The sky is the limit and I would love to hear what else I could add in.
👉 Access the Calendar 👈
To access the calendar and get started on this reading adventure, simply go here! Feel free to customize the calendar based on your students’ needs and interests. I included links to all the surveys and questions plus more.
So as I pack up my family to head home from a summerhouse, say goodbye to my family visiting from the US – wow is that ever hard – I hope this little post will give you some ideas, maybe save you some time, or maybe be that missing thing that you didn’t know you needed.
I will be sharing throughout the year as I embark on this new school year. Perhaps you will too?
How many times have we heard a child say, “I’m not good at reading”? Or watched one put a book back on the shelf, saying, “This is too hard for me,” even though we suspected that they could read it — if only they would give it a shot?
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about what stops kids from fully stepping into their reader identity. About the stumbling blocks that are, indeed, man-made. It’s not always decoding or fluency or stamina. Sometimes, it’s internal.
After reading Anne-Laure Le Cunff’s powerful piece on intellectual self-doubt, I couldn’t stop seeing the connections. The very patterns she outlines in adults show up, in different ways, in our students’ reading lives. Because while every reader is on unique path of discovery and reading exploration, there are similarities in how they interact with books when they don’t feel like a reader, and those we can look more closely at.
We know that the act of reading is wrapped in emotions. That self-worth and social hierarchy placement can be closely linked to your perceived skills as a reader. That being a reader or not being a reader can be anchored in childhood as an adult identity-marker. And so it makes sense that our students want to shield themselves from perceived hardship or failure – don’t we all? And so we often see a form of “reading resistance,” which to some may come across as laziness or avoidance. But what if instead we viewed as a form of imposter syndrome? Then we can enter the conversation in a different way, while bringing the readers in our care along.
Here’s how these patterns might show up in our classrooms — and what we can do to help.
Support: Model messy reading. Think aloud when you mess up. Celebrate effort over perfection. Give them low-stakes spaces to take risks — silly poems, decoding games, or buddy reading with younger peers where they feel competent.
The Reading Perfectionist
Potential underlying imposter syndrome: “If I don’t get every word right, I’m a bad reader.”
🧠 Manifests as:
Whispering or mouthing words when reading aloud, avoiding risk of error.
Fixating on misread words or “getting stuck” and refusing to continue.
Asking repeatedly, “Is this right?” before turning the page or writing about a book.
Getting upset during assessments even with high accuracy.
Support: Model messy reading. Think aloud when you mess up. Celebrate effort over perfection. Give them low-stakes spaces to take risks — silly poems, decoding games, or buddy reading with younger peers where they feel competent.
💡 Further ideas:
“Mistake of the Day” Club: Make small decoding or comprehension missteps a shared, safe laugh — create a space where every reader can submit one and reflect.
Sticky Notes of Bravery: Let kids mark pages with a note like “I wasn’t sure, but I tried.” Celebrate risk-taking during sharing.
Co-created anchor charts: “What Good Readers Do When They’re Stuck” — keep it visual and student-owned.
The Natural Genius Reader
Potential underlying imposter syndrome: “If this book is hard, it means I’m not a good reader after all.”
🌟 Manifests as:
Makes vague claims like “This book is boring” or “I already know what’s going to happen.”
Rapid early reading growth, followed by a plateau and sudden disengagement.
Avoids challenging books after one or a few “failures” (can’t pronounce, understand, or keep up).
Prefers familiar series or picture books they can master easily.
Support: Teach struggle as normal. Share your own stories of books that stumped you. Use “just right struggle” texts and help them see confusion as part of deep reading. Introduce the idea that strong readers ask questions — and don’t always know the answers.
💡 Further ideas:
“Struggle Stars” wall: Post quotes from students about books that challenged them. Normalize confusion as part of growth.
Teach the “Reader’s Curve”: A simple visual model showing early success → plateau → productive struggle → breakthrough.
Reading Journals with “Stuck Points”: Instead of summaries, have them record where they don’t understand — and celebrate re-reading or asking for help.
The Solo Reader
Potential underlying imposter syndrome: “If I ask for help, it proves I can’t read.”
🚪 Manifests as:
May quietly resist support or conferencing.
Hides books behind desks or reads in isolation.
Avoids joining book clubs, doesn’t volunteer to partner read.
Says “I’m fine” or “I like reading alone” but rarely talks about books.
Support: Normalize collaboration. Use pair shares, peer book recommendations, or “reading buddies” where asking questions is expected. Let them be the helper sometimes too — it builds trust. Shift the narrative: strong readers talk about books together.
💡 Further Ideas:
Invisible Book Clubs: Let kids respond to the same book on post-its or Flip videos without needing to talk face-to-face at first.
“Ask Me Later” buttons: Offer students a nonverbal way to defer help — gives autonomy without removing support.
“One Book, Two Readers” challenge: Quiet students read the same book as a peer — then choose their own way to share (drawing, writing, or private discussion).
The Super Reader
Potential underlying imposter syndrome: “I have to read more than everyone else to prove I’m a real reader.”
🏁 Manifests as:
May use reading to seek validation, not joy.
Logs 30+ books per month, but gives vague or superficial summaries.
Gets anxious when “behind” on reading goals.
Chooses quantity over quality: “easy wins.”
Support: Slow them down. Invite reflection. Use journals, book talks, or drawing to process books in new ways. Help them find balance by honoring books that move them — not just books they finish.
💡 Further Ideas:
“Read Slow” Challenges: Celebrate books that take a week or more to finish. Offer awards for “most thoughtful pause,” “best reread moment,” etc.
“This Book Changed Me” board: Help them reflect on impact, not volume.
Weekly Deep Dive: Once a week, they must pick just one book to discuss in detail — what moved them, surprised them, challenged them.
The Expert Reader
Potential underlying imposter syndrome: “I need to understand everything before I can say I read it.”
📘 Manifests as:
May demand “correct” interpretations from teachers. Freezes up during book discussions, afraid of being wrong.
Asks few questions, fearing they’ll reveal gaps in knowledge.
Abandons texts quickly if meaning isn’t immediate.
Support: Emphasize curiosity over correctness. Use “I wonder…” prompts. Let them see you grappling with questions too. Build habits of metacognition — maybe through post-its, wondering journals, or group discussions where questions are more valued than answers.
💡 Further Ideas:
“Wonder Logs”: Replace standard comprehension questions with “I wonder,” “I noticed,” “I’m confused by…” logs.
“One Word Summaries”: Ask students to capture a whole chapter or character using one word — forces synthesis, not certainty.
Un-Googleable Questions Wall: Collect and explore deep, complex questions that have no single right answer.
Bonus Tip: Support All 5 with Metacognition Mini-lessons
Build in weekly reflection that honors emotional and identity aspects of reading, not just skills:
“What kind of reader were you this week?”
“What made you feel confident — or not?”
“What book surprised you?”
“What was hard… and what did you do about it?”
So where do we go from here?
We remind ourselves and our kids: doubt is normal. Growth is messy. And identity — especially a reader identity — isn’t something we give them. It’s something they build, slowly, with support, belonging, and choice.
We can’t eliminate their reading struggles, but we can reframe them. We can help them see effort not as evidence they’re failing — but as proof they’re learning.
Like Anne-Laure writes, the most successful people (and readers!) aren’t those who never doubt themselves — but those who learn to keep going with the doubt.
