Tag: education

Be the change, being me

One breath at a time

Pernille Ripp

I have the lung capacity of a 70-year-old.

Several years ago, I was diagnosed with a genetic deficit in my lungs and liver. One that can lead to emphysema, asthma, and a whole list of other things no one hopes to casually collect. It made sense. Walking up the stairs while talking would leave me breathless, still does. And yet, hearing that my lungs were not the way they were supposed to be was a quiet devastation. One more heavy thing to carry. A moment where my imagined ending shifted, where my future suddenly looked smaller, more fragile, than I had planned for.

And then we did what people tend to do.

We carried on living.

I noted how biking uphill became harder, how running became officially impossible (not that it was ever my thing), how nearly every cold turned into bronchitis or pneumonia, how exhaustion lingered long after the illness had passed. How my body kept whispering, something isn’t right, even when I was trying very hard not to listen.

And my fear grew. Because living beside your own mortality, really beside it, is exhausting. It’s scary. It makes you feel out of control.

A year ago, I realized I needed to change the trajectory. That I was living inside a self-fulfilling prophecy of decay. Because I knew biking would be hard, I didn’t bike. Because I knew exercise would leave me gasping for breath, it did, and once I was out of breath I stopped. I avoided the very things that might help because they confirmed everything I was afraid of.

But I also knew this: the constant current of stress, needed an outlet. And sugar wasn’t it. Alcohol wasn’t it. Tears weren’t it. Rage definitely wasn’t it.

A change had to come.

So I signed up for an introduction to CrossFit, bought actual trainers, and showed up — wildly out of my depth, unsure of what I was doing, and hoping no one would notice how hard breathing felt. I didn’t do it because I suddenly believed in myself. I did it because staying the same felt worse.

What followed wasn’t a transformation. It was resistance.

It was showing up fueled more by desperation and anger than motivation. It was loud, angry music. It was the fear of being the first to die in a zombie apocalypse. It was learning that I will never like running, or be good at it — and that this does not mean I can’t do it.

It didn’t come from a big training program. It came from small steps. From doing a little, resting, and then doing a little more. From learning that my pace is not a failure, but a necessity.

My pace. My way.

How much of change is exactly this?

Not the sweeping programs. Not the inspirational speeches. But lacing up your shoes (I promise this won’t turn into an exercise blog) and seeing how it goes.

So on January 1st, I made the goal that I wanted to be able to run one kilometer in a month. I turned to ChatGPT and asked it to create a plan. Its first suggestion was to warm up by running three kilometers.

And I couldn’t stop thinking about how familiar that felt.

How often do we ask for a small change and are handed an overhaul? A new program, new training, new language — when what we really needed was permission to start where we are. To try one thing. To begin without confidence, without mastery, without pretending this will be easy.

I see this all the time in education. We want to support children better, reach them sooner, help them regulate, belong, and learn. And so often, the answer becomes more: more systems, more steps, more expectations, more work for the adults — while the children wait for us to fix everything.

And then we wonder why we burn out.

Because the truth is, we cannot meet every child’s need. And that expectation, implicit or explicit, is impossible to carry alone. What we can do — what truly matters — is show up. Notice. Offer presence, consistency, and a small, safe step forward. For some children, just knowing that someone sees them, waits for them, or trusts them to make a choice is enough to shift something inside.

The children carrying so much anger, fear, grief, and overwhelm spill it into our shared spaces. They trust us enough to bring all of that mess into school — even when we cannot fix it.

This work rarely starts with big interventions. It starts with the smallest possible step. Not because it will fix everything, but because it might shift something, and because we, too, need to survive alongside them. And so we start small.

Letting a child decide when a check-in happens — now, later, or not today — and trusting that choice as information, not defiance.

Creating one predictable question that never changes, not to extract answers, but to signal safety: Do you want me close, or do you want space?

Making the exit plan visible before it’s needed, and then honoring it without commentary when it is used.

Lowering the academic demand in the moment without lowering the relationship — fewer words, shorter tasks, a pause instead of a push.

Offering literacy as regulation: a book already on the desk, a familiar text reread, writing without an audience, reading without assessment.

Naming what you notice without asking for repair: Something feels heavy today. I’m here when you’re ready.

Returning to the child later, always later, to restore, not resolve.

It is allowing yourself to not be perfect. To say good enough. To try, live with it, and then, when it becomes familiar, add another layer. It is resisting the urge to rush toward resolution and choosing presence instead.

This is slow work. It is unglamorous. It is deeply human.

And maybe that’s why we miss it while it’s happening. Because change rarely announces itself.

And like taking small steps with your own health or fitness, it is done one breath at a time.

Today, I ran 2.6 kilometers. That’s 1.6 miles for those of you in the U.S. A new personal record. Something I didn’t think I could do a year ago, and not even a week ago.

And maybe that’s the point. Change, for me, for a child, for a classroom, doesn’t announce itself.

It slips in quietly, one breath at a time.

So do we keep breathing? Or stop?

balance, Be the change, being me

The Work That Still Works

Pernille Ripp

It has been ages since I have written here.

Not created content, not shared ideas, but simply written in the ways that I have been writing for so many years. A familiar refrain, a coat that fits just so, but left forgotten in a closet because who has time to take it out?

It seems I moved to Denmark and forgot parts of myself.

As with so many other things, there are many reasons. We moved back home, but home was something brand-new. I had to create a support system for everyone in the move, which also included two of my children receiving neurodivergence diagnoses that finally made so many things make more sense. I had to learn how to be a teacher in an education system that I have only ever been a student in.

And so I put my head down, and I took the steps every day, trying to get all the pieces to fit together, even though the instructions never came, and the pieces seemed to change overnight.

And I ran, and I felt I couldn’t share because what we navigated was too hard at times, too raw, too foreign—even though it shouldn’t have been—and I knew I would have found solace in sharing out, but also felt that this story was one that had little importance, while the world we had left behind seemed to light on fire. And it didn’t feel new or worthy, because the whole world is filled with glitz and glam, and influencers telling you that they indeed hold the key to happiness.

But now, I am here. Back in this space, still holding hope that there is a space to return to.

Because the work is still there. The need to shout for more sanity, to slow down, to get back to basics, even though there are so many forces that work against us.

And so we take the basic steps every day to retain dignity, to further understanding, and to create spaces where children get to be fully human.

This year, I took over a parallel 3rd grade, a bunch of incredible kids who, through circumstances beyond them, have had a slew of incredible teachers who haven’t been able to stay. And so, rightfully so, they demand a lot of the adults who now get to be their teachers, because why should they trust us to stay when so many others have left?

And so we have done what we have always done: we have slowed down. We have integrated morning meetings every day, we have reclaimed independent reading. We have taught conflict solutions for them to use before they come to us. We have talked, and talked, and talked—but not at them, with them—giving them ways to voice their worries, their hopes, and their ideas. We have differentiated the work, given them more freedom to move, to shape their learning, so that they too can answer how they learn best.

And I have wanted to share about all the progress that we have built, but is there really a way that something as simple as starting with a morning meeting, and how simply asking children to hold space for each other’s voices, can help another educator out there?

Because it is not flashy. It is basic. And it is being pushed out of our schools at alarming speeds, replaced with more learning, more rote, more prepackaged programs. And in this rush, we forget that gathering in schools is also meant to simply gather us. And when so many of our children gather more and more behind a screen, they don’t know how to gather on the floor unless we make the spaces for it.

Unless we hold on to the value of it.

Unless we stand steadfast and refuse to let the invented urgency of more curriculum drown out our common sense.

And so we plan for it, because we see the inherent strength of asking others to listen, to set their needs aside while others speak, to wait their turn, and then know that when they do speak, others do the same.

And so, I sit in the light of my soon-to-be taken-down Christmas tree, and I recognize the need for simplicity. For recognizing and owning that I don’t want to create simply to produce. That what works for me still works. Basic, down-to-earth ideas that may not be flashy or glitzy, but at their core recognize the humanity of the children we teach.

And so, for now, I am here. I will share. I will hold space for those of you who are also running every day, who also feel that what you are doing is maybe not the flashiest of work, but Lord knows, it works. And we see it in the way the kids carry themselves. How they ask us whether we can do a morning meeting when our schedules are changed. Who want to share all the things they have been holding in. Who come to school knowing that when they are not there, they are truly missed.

Perhaps I was missed too, here. I am not sure, but I know I missed this.

student choice

The Thinking Classroom in ELA

Pernille Ripp

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.

If you want to try it too, I’ve shared all of the Thinking Classroom slides here — take what you need, change what you want, and see where your students take it.

Let me know how it goes.

authentic learning, challenge

7 games to promote brave questioning

Pernille Ripp

When I first moved back to Denmark, I had the privilege of working in marketing—a completely different field from teaching, but somehow familiar. Everything was new: teams, assignments, routines. It was exhilarating, exhausting, and, unexpectedly, deeply thought-provoking when I considered my work as a teacher.

One of the first things I had to learn, fast, was how to ask questions. I knew very little, every day I was surrounded by people who knew far more than I did, even those fresh out of school. My gut and past experience were all I had to rely on. And so I asked questions—constantly. Not because I wanted to seem smart, but because I wanted to learn, to understand, to avoid assumptions that could lead me completely astray.

Even now, I ask a lot of questions. I would rather ask and realize I already know, than assume and be wrong. It’s a habit I try to bring into my classrooms every day.

We tell our students the same thing: ask questions, share your ideas, don’t be afraid. And yet, we also know it’s not easy. It’s hard to speak up when everyone else is silent. It’s hard to admit you don’t know something, especially when you’re unsure if your peers will be kind—or if they even care. And in a world dominated by AI answers, misinformation, and polarizing rhetoric, the courage to wonder, to experiment, and to be wrong can feel more vulnerable than ever.

This is why we continue to focus on questioning as a core part of learning. Not just the act of asking, but creating spaces where students feel safe enough to risk it. Where curiosity is valued above correctness. Where play and collaboration make questioning something natural, not intimidating. Because the ability to ask, to wonder, and to explore ideas is not just a classroom skill—it’s an essential part of growing up in a world that constantly challenges what we know and what we believe.

So how about a few ideas that do just that?

Curiosity is at the heart of all learning—and asking questions is the brave part of that. When we give students the space to wonder, to take risks, and to speak up, we’re teaching them far more than facts. We’re teaching them how to think, how to explore, and how to navigate a world that often values certainty over wonder.

As teachers, our job is to make that bravery feel possible. By using play, collaboration, and experimentation, we can help every child see that their questions matter, their ideas are valued, and their curiosity is worth showing—even when it feels scary. Because when students feel safe enough to wonder, that’s when real learning happens—and the joy of discovery follows them long after they leave the classroom.

Passionate Readers, Reading, Reading Identity

The First 20 Days of Reading – Free tool to kick off reading for the year

Pernille Ripp

I go back to work tomorrow.

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?

being me, new year

When the Back-to-School Nightmares Start

Pernille Ripp

I had my first back-to-school nightmare yesterday.

Woke up feeling unprepared, heart in my throat, and all sorts of nervous. It was nothing special, the standard one where everything starts off smooth, and then all of a sudden everything falls apart. I am unprepared, lost, and being evaluated. I woke up in high alert, what do I need to do right now in order to not get there.

School starts August 11th in Denmark, and on that day I get to take on the role of homeroom teacher for two 3rd grades. I get to continue with the class that has made me a teacher in Denmark, and then I get to add their neighbor class to be mine as well. And the nervousness is real.

After all, how do you split yourself between two classes like that? How do you make sure that both classes know that they matter? How do you invent, create, reflect, and ponder without overworking yourself? How do you make each kid feel seen when you are split evenly between two communities that both need you in unique ways? How do you show up in the way that you know matters, when these new kids are wondering how much you will be their teacher and whether *you will be with us a lot, Pernille?*

It almost feels like I am welcoming my second child, hoping that my heart will stretch enough to love widely, knowing that it will.

But tell that to my nightmares.

In the past, I would have thrown my into prep wok, spending countless hours planning, conceiving, creating. I would have gone in for hours, trying to get it just so, trying to work my way through my nerves. Making copies until I could feel my anxiety ebb.

But not now. Not anymore. Instead, I garden. I bake. I go to cross fit. I read. And sure, I dream a little. I reflect on how I want that first day to be framed. I consider how I want to get to know them, and how we want to continue to build their community.

So I plan. But differently now, a plan where I don’t drown, and summer just feels like the checklist item to be done before another school year. I plan for presence. For slowness. For the moment when a child looks at me and wonders, Are you really here with us? and I can say yes—not just with my words, but with the way I show up. And to do that I need to not work. I need to not stay in that space where teaching takes up most of me. Because that doesn’t fill me in the ways I need to be filled, in order to go all in.

So I give myself permission to pull back. To trust that stepping away is also a kind of preparation—that rest is not a pause in the work, but part of it. Because when I give myself space to breathe, I make space for them too.

I think about how I want that first day to feel. Not just for them, but for me too. I want it to feel calm. Possible. Like a beginning, not a performance. I want them to know I see them, both classes, both groups of humans who deserve a teacher that isn’t running on empty.

And so, instead of drowning in to-do lists, I remind myself of what I already know: that the magic isn’t in the deeply detailed plans or the laminated name tags – although those will come. It’s in the way we build trust, one small moment at a time. It’s in the way I let my heart stretch and make room—just like it always has.

If you’re waking up from your own back-to-school nightmare, you’re not alone. This time of year is heavy with what-ifs and should-dos. But maybe the work isn’t to prepare more. Maybe it’s to believe more—in who you already are, and the teacher you’re still becoming.

We’ll be ready. Not because we’ve done it all, but because we’ll be there. And that matters more than anything else. We’ll be ready, because that’s what we do.