What Lies Beneath the Behaviour
As a primary school teacher in my early working life, I have deep empathy for those who remain in the profession. I take my hat off to anyone who has stayed longer than I did. Alongside my admiration, however, is a clear recognition of the immense challenges teachers face every day in the classroom.
Many of these challenges arise despite training that is thorough in many respects, yet often overlooks one crucial area: how the brain develops, and in particular, how trauma impacts the brain and behaviour.
Most mainstream schools will include children who have experienced some level of trauma in their lives. Even a single incident can have a lasting effect on a child’s sense of safety and their ability to concentrate, regulate emotions, and engage with learning. Classrooms are also seeing increasing levels of neurodiversity—some of which may be intertwined with trauma in ways we are only beginning to understand.
Understanding does more than provide strategies and skills; it cultivates empathy. And empathy is vital when working with children who have experienced trauma. So often, a child’s behaviour is communicating something deeply important—“I don’t feel safe,” “I can’t trust you,” “I’m overwhelmed”—yet these messages are frequently misread as “naughty,” “defiant,” or “disruptive.”
A key idea to hold onto is this: our past shapes our present. Whether through nature or nurture (or, more realistically, a complex combination of both), our experiences influence how we think, feel, and act today. A short clip from the Disney film, Ratatouille, illustrates this beautifully. When the food critic tastes the dish, he is instantly transported back to a childhood memory filled with warmth and safety. The same process occurs with negative experiences. Small, often unrecognised triggers can send a child back to a time when they felt unsafe.
When this happens, the body moves into survival mode. The brain prioritises protection over learning, and the child may fight, flee, or freeze in an attempt to cope.
In a classroom, potential triggers are everywhere. Some are obvious—loud noises, being left out, public correction. Others are far more subtle: transitions, the build-up to home time, not understanding the work, or feeling watched or judged. The child may not consciously recognise what has triggered them, but their body remembers the feelings—fear, overwhelm, loneliness, helplessness—and responds accordingly. This might look like fidgeting, shouting out, hitting, hiding, or distracting others.
These behaviours are easily misunderstood. In a room with thirty children and relentless time pressures, it is understandably tempting to focus on removing the problem rather than exploring what sits beneath it. I’ve been there.
So the question becomes: how do we create the conditions that allow teachers the breathing space to ask, “What is behind this behaviour?”
What is missing? Is it trauma-informed training? Greater staffing and support? A shift in expectations and systems?
Perhaps it is all of these—and more. What feels clear is that without understanding and empathy, we risk continuing to misunderstand the very children who most need to feel seen, safe, and supported.
I leave the question open, because this is a conversation that needs many voices.
What is behind the behavioiur?
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