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.
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.
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?
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.
In my Patreon community, a fellow educator recently reached out with a growing concern: their district has mandated the exclusive use of Lexile-leveled texts in English classes. That’s right—only texts that align with students’ grade-level Lexile scores are now considered acceptable. The frustration in their message was tangible. Texts that students love, that have sparked rich discussions, and that they’ve built curriculum around are now off-limits because they don’t “fit” the approved band.
I’ve long raised concerns about the over-reliance on Lexile scores. Like many of you, I’ve seen firsthand how these measures, while perhaps well-intentioned, can be wielded in ways that do real harm to reading joy, choice, and depth. So, if you’re facing increasing pressure to center Lexile in your classroom—if you’re trying to navigate a system that keeps narrowing what “counts” as appropriate reading—I hope these thoughts and ideas help.
Limitations of Lexile
Limited Understanding of Text Complexity
Lexile scores are essentially math. They rely on sentence length and word frequency—quantifiable features that can be measured by an algorithm. But we all know that complexity is never just about numbers. A book like Night comes in at a relatively low Lexile level, and yet its themes of loss, isolation, and moral ambiguity leave readers shaken. A text might be “simple” on paper but profound in practice.
Instead, try:
Use a text complexity triangle (quantitative, qualitative, reader & task) when planning. Bring students into that process—ask, What makes this book challenging? What makes it powerful?
Encourage student reflection journals or book clubs where kids identify their own “hard” books—not based on Lexile, but on how the text made them think, feel, or struggle.
Create classroom charts that define complexity through student terms: “Books that made me cry,” “Books I needed to reread,” “Books I’ll never forget.”
Considerations:
How does Lexile account for the cultural and historical significance of a text?
What qualities of a book matter most to your students?
How can we expand students’ definition of what makes something “challenging”?
Exclusion of Inclusive Texts
One of the most heartbreaking outcomes, and oft-overlooked aspects, of Lexile-only policies is the quiet erasure of culturally rich and relevant literature. Books written in vernacular, verse, or translanguaged text often get pegged with a low Lexile, despite their emotional and intellectual heft. That means fewer books by authors of color, fewer windows and mirrors for our students, and fewer moments of deep connection.
Instead, try:
Curate parallel text sets: pair a high-Lexile nonfiction article with a lower-Lexile but deeply resonant novel or memoir. Let students draw connections between form, voice, and truth.
Push back by documenting engagement: show how students are thriving with texts “below level” by collecting writing, discussion notes, and self-reflections.
Use picture books and graphic novels with older readers—these often get dismissed due to low Lexile, yet offer rich analysis opportunities and accessibility.
Considerations:
What culturally relevant texts are missing from your curriculum because of Lexile?
How can student voices help you advocate for broader criteria?
How do we make the case that what students read matters more than how difficult it is to decode?
Narrowing Students’ Reading Choices
If we want kids to love reading, we have to let them choose what they read. That means trusting them with books that fall outside their “band.” Lexile-driven mandates send the opposite message: we don’t trust your choices, your interests, or your readiness. But reading joy isn’t built through constraint. It’s built through access, autonomy, and meaningful support.
Instead, try:
Build “just-right-for-me” libraries where students classify books based on interest, not level. Include sticky notes with peer reviews and genre tags.
Hold 1:1 conferences where students reflect on how books make them feel, not just how hard they are to read.
Share stories of your own reading life: books you loved that were “easy,” books you gave up on, books that changed you. Model complexity in decision-making, not just content.
Considerations:
What happens when we let students build their own definitions of “good reading”?
What are the long-term consequences of only offering scaffolds instead of skills?
How do we teach students to be readers without us?
Ignoring Individual Student Needs
Teaching is about relationships. About knowing the kid who hides behind her hair and always picks dog books. About the one who just discovered he loves horror. About the quiet student who will read 600 pages if you don’t make him write a log. Lexile scores can’t know them—but we can.
Instead, try:
Use Lexile as one data point—alongside student interviews, running records, self-assessments, and your own observations.
Let students set reading goals that reflect their identities: “I want to finish my first series,” “I want to read a book by someone like me,” “I want to try nonfiction.”
Co-create book stacks that mix comfort reads, stretch texts, and “wild cards” just for fun.
Considerations:
How can we restore the nuance of teaching in a data-driven system?
What tools do you use to get to know your readers deeply and personally?
How can you document growth in ways that go beyond numbers?
I’m not anti-data, far from it. But I am against any system that flattens our readers and limits our reach. We deserve better tools. Our students deserve broader definitions. Reading instruction should be built on relationships, curiosity, and choice—not compliance.
So when Lexile threatens to become a gatekeeper, let’s push back. Let’s expand what counts. Let’s keep joy at the center. And let’s keep sharing what works—not just because it sounds good, but because we’ve seen it in action.
I’d love to hear how you are navigating this. What has worked in your district? How are you reframing conversations about levels, choice, and rigor? Let’s keep this conversation going.
An oldie but a goodie as many start to slide into summerbreak. Here in Denmark we go all the way until the end of June, with “just” a month off, before we head back in August. Perhaps like me, you need to find a way to stop the teacher thought train?
As an educator in the US, it normally took me weeks to finally relax at the end of the year. In the countdown to goodbye, my body took on more and more thoughts, as it got ready to finally have the time to process the whirlwind of a ride I had just been on.
Those thoughts churn into late evening, meticulously turning over the last school year, analyzing needs, reflecting on mistakes, and, of course, planning for the next year. Is a teacher’s brain ever truly at rest?
So while the calendar may finally say break, my body takes a long time to believe it.
A few years ago, I realized that if I was ever going to get to a point of relaxation faster, I needed to somehow stop this process of thought pile-up my brain otherwise jumped into. And so I started reflecting in a way that felt opposite of how I normally reflected. In a way that focused on reclaiming my identity beyond teaching, as a way to find a better footing when, inevitably, the rush of the school year would swallow me whole again.
It didn’t always work and I go through many questions, sometimes they work, other times they don’t. Perhaps a silly exercise, but in so many ways these questions allow me to recenter, give myself permission to say “good enough” and also make some promises to myself about how I want to face another year that is bound to be even crazier than the last (at least, if the last couple of years have been an indicator).
So here are a few I have tried that seem to help me unlatch from the mania of teaching. That allow me to find myself again as my kids wait for me to become present once more. Perhaps they can help you as well?
Perhaps you have your own to share?
PS: I don’t always write the answers down. These can also be used in discussion or simply thinking about them. If writing feels like more work then I don’t do it.
Pernille Ripp 