Tag: teachers

Reading Identity

When a Child Says They Hate Reading: What to Ask Next

Pernille Ripp

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.

Download: When a Child Says They Hate Reading — What to Ask Next

It won’t fix everything. But it might start a different kind of conversation.

Reading, Reading Identity

Two Different Loses

Pernille Ripp

What we track. And what we miss.

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.

But we are here now. And so are they.

That’s enough to start.

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?

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.