WHEN PARENTS QUESTION YOUR EXPERTISE
A humbling moment and what I learned
As a teacher, you spend years honing your craft. You go to workshops, read educational journals, and try new methods in the classroom to improve your teaching and connect with your students.
By the time I had spent five years in the profession, I felt confident in my abilities. I believed I could handle almost any situation that came my way, whether it was a disruptive student, a challenging subject, or a parent’s concern. But nothing prepared me for the moment when a parent directly questioned my expertise.
It all began one cool Thursday afternoon when I received an email from Mr. Osei, the father of one of my brightest students, Chiamaka. At first, the email seemed like any other—he wanted to discuss Chiamaka’s academic performance. However, as I read on, I realized that this would be no ordinary conversation.
“I don’t understand why my daughter is struggling in your class. She’s an excellent student, and I’ve been hearing from other parents that you’re not as qualified as the other teachers. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
I was taken aback. At first, I thought it was some sort of misunderstanding. Perhaps Mr. Osei had heard rumors or was just frustrated with his daughter’s performance. But as I read the email again, I couldn’t ignore the implication: my qualifications, my experience, my professional ability—everything I had worked so hard for—was being questioned.
The next day, Mr. Osei requested a face-to-face meeting. He came to my classroom, dressed in a sharp, business-like suit, looking very serious. As we sat down, the tension in the room was palpable.
“I’m sure you’re aware that Chiamaka has always been one of the top students in her class,” he began, his voice even, but laced with a subtle anger. “She’s never had any issues with learning, but now she’s failing your class. I’ve spoken to the other parents, and they tell me that you’re not quite as experienced as the other teachers. I need to understand what’s going wrong.”
I could feel my heart rate quicken. I had worked hard to build a rapport with Chiamaka and had always thought of her as one of my strongest students. Was she struggling because of me? Had I failed her? I took a deep breath, trying to calm the flutter of doubt that was rising inside me.
“Mr. Osei,” I began, trying to sound as composed as possible, “I understand your concern. Chiamaka is a bright student, and I truly believe she has the potential to do well. Let’s discuss what’s been happening, and I’ll share my observations.”
I proceeded to walk him through the assessments I had done, the extra support I had given her, and how I had been trying different teaching strategies to help her grasp the material. But Mr. Osei was unconvinced. He wasn’t interested in hearing about my strategies or the difficulties we had been facing in class.
“Look, I’m not concerned with strategies. I’m concerned with results. You say you’ve been doing your best, but my daughter’s performance says otherwise,” he replied, his voice growing firmer. “I’m paying your salary. I expect more.”
At that moment, I felt a sting in my chest. There I was, a teacher who had spent years learning how to manage a classroom, who had studied child psychology, and who had poured my heart into teaching—and here was a parent, questioning not only my approach but also my competence.
In that silence, as Mr. Osei glared at me across the table, I realized that I was in the middle of a humbling moment. This wasn’t about being right or defending myself. It wasn’t about proving to him that I was a good teacher or that I had worked tirelessly for his child’s success. What I needed to do in that moment was listen.
“Mr. Osei, I can see that you’re deeply concerned about Chiamaka’s future, and I want to assure you that I share that concern,” I said, feeling my voice soften. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to understand more about what you think might help her improve. What worked for her in the past? What kind of environment does she thrive in?”
His expression shifted slightly, and for the first time, I saw the tension in his face ease a little. He began to speak about Chiamaka’s earlier education, how she had always thrived under strict discipline, and how much she responded to structured routines at home.
As Mr. Osei spoke, I realized that I had been too focused on the classroom strategies I had learned in school. I had been so eager to apply all the progressive, student-centered methods I had picked up in my training that I had overlooked one crucial factor: Chiamaka’s individual needs. She thrived in environments where there was clear direction and a rigid structure, something I hadn’t fully incorporated into my lessons.
It was a difficult realization to come to, but it was also a valuable lesson. I had been so confident in my knowledge of educational theory that I had missed the opportunity to learn from the very person I was supposed to be helping—Chiamaka herself. Her father’s feedback gave me the clarity I needed.
I apologized for not recognizing her specific learning style earlier and promised that I would make adjustments. From that moment forward, I incorporated more structured routines into my classroom and focused on providing clearer guidance for Chiamaka.
Over the next few weeks, I worked closely with Chiamaka, adjusting my teaching methods and keeping Mr. Osei informed of her progress. The improvements were gradual but noticeable. Chiamaka began to engage more with the material, and her grades started to climb. More importantly, I noticed her confidence growing again.
I also made a point to meet with Mr. Osei regularly to update him on her progress. I found that maintaining open communication with him helped us both feel more connected in the educational process.
That experience taught me an invaluable lesson. As a teacher, it’s easy to become attached to your own methods and beliefs, but when a parent or student presents a different perspective, it’s essential to listen and adjust. Sometimes, the most humbling moments are the ones that force us to reflect, adapt, and grow.
Zainab Akinyele