Graduate proficiency exams are no small thing. In New Jersey, it is the most direct route to a diploma, and every student, with minimal exceptions, must participate. So, as an instructional coach, when I was invited to observe a lesson where the teacher had carved out time to help students prepare, I was excited.
Until I arrived. Her approach had good bones. Students had copies of the state’s released items, ensuring the practice materials aligned with the test. But the authentic work ended there. The teacher read a question aloud. She paused. A few seconds of silence filled the room. She answered the question herself. Rinse and repeat. Students were offered the questions but were never actually asked to tackle them.
“Were they just not engaged?” I considered. No, I learned. She didn’t want them to “stress” about the test.
On the surface, the classroom looked like one that invites challenge. Posters proclaimed that students are “stronger than they think,” and “hard things are doable things.” The decor was intentionally affirming. But in classrooms where teaching and learning prioritize comfort over critical thinking, all those words are merely aesthetic—a kind of emotional wallpaper.
Let’s be clear: That teacher is not a bad teacher. She was, in the most literal sense, trying to help. She didn’t want her students to feel anxious or discouraged. So, she made the work easier, removed the hard parts, and filled the space where there might have been discomfort.
If we want students to tolerate the discomfort of not knowing, to sit with questions, make attempts, be wrong, and try again, then we must trust them enough to let them experience those moments.
We frequently talk about the vital role of trust in our classrooms. It is a well-established, indisputable fact that students must trust their teacher for ambitious learning to happen. But there is another equally important direction in which trust must flow: As educators, we must trust our students’ ability to do the hard work of learning. If we want students to tolerate the discomfort of not knowing, to sit with questions, make attempts, be wrong, and try again, then we must trust them enough to let them experience those moments. Without teacher trust, the posters on the wall aren’t encouraging. They are a vote of no confidence.
A Well-Being Overcorrection
Education has made genuinely important strides in understanding student well-being, but somewhere in the process, an unintended message took root. It is the idea that students are fragile, and that to teach them, we have to soothe and protect them. A framework meant to build teacher empathy became a classroom operating system. The insight that learning requires vulnerability—intended to remind us how much we ask of students—became a reason to reduce the ask. We started sheltering students from discomfort, which is the state where powerful learning happens.
We added calm-down corners, baskets of fidgets, and brain breaks, and yes, we covered our walls in affirmations. These additions are necessary for some students and good for most when the demands of teaching and learning are also equivalent. Amy Edmondson’s research makes this clear: The optimal environment for learning combines high psychological safety with high expectations. One without the other is incomplete. More than that, it is a disservice.
Not All Discomfort Is Distress
A healthy amount of stress, specifically our need to respond to it, is motivating. This science isn’t new; in 1908, researchers Robert Yerkes and John Dodson mapped the relationship between stress and performance as an inverted U. Too little stress, and we are bored and unmotivated. Too much, and performance suffers. In the middle of that curve is a zone of productive tension where performance peaks. We are activated, alert, and ready to engage. This is where learning lives.
Most educators recognize Vygotsky’s Zone of Proximal Development (ZPD), the space between what a student can do independently vs. with support. On the low end of the continuum, the “comfort zone,” tasks are easy, and demand little. On the far end, tasks are out of reach, producing anxiety and frustration. The ZPD is in between—accessible, but requiring some stretch. Picture the ZPD mapped over the stress curve. It aligns with the optimal, if uncomfortable, center.
Discomfort is not a problem we need to solve. It is energy we need to capture.
Rigorous learning, the kind where students analyze, synthesize, question, and defend their thinking, is a pathway to building competence. Resilience is rooted in repeated opportunities to be authentically challenged. Every time we remove productive discomfort from a learning task, we are not just affecting what students learn in that moment. We are affecting who they become as learners and as people.
Discomfort is not a problem we need to solve. It is energy we need to capture.
Putting Productive Stress to Work
Shifting this paradigm is not about being less compassionate. It is about being more precise. Students need to learn how to distinguish the discomfort that signals growth from true distress that signals a genuine need for support. Teaching students to interpret moderate stress as productive is key to their self-regulation and self-efficacy.
Here are a few strategies for leaning into productive stress:
1. Audit for rigor.
Before a lesson, ask yourself: Where in this task is the authentic thinking? Find the places where students will have to make a decision, interpret something, or justify a choice, and decide how you will ensure the work stays with them.
2. Redefine what “helping” looks like.
When a student is stuck, focus on asking a question to promote more thinking. “What do you already know about this? What’s one thing you could do next? Is there a tool that could be helpful here?” These questions keep the student thinking and communicate something invaluable: “I believe you can figure this out.”
3. Embrace productive stress.
Talk explicitly with students about what the hard part feels like and why it matters. Teach them to say, “I’m in the hard part.” When you see it happening, name it: “Feeling some good stress? This is supposed to feel hard right now.” Normalize the sigh, the stare, the crumpled paper. Celebrate these as signs of good work.
4. Praise the process, not the person.
Carol Dweck’s research on growth mindset is unambiguous. Students need specific praise based on effort, strategy, and growth. “I noticed you tried a different approach when the first one didn’t work” communicates efficacy. And that message, repeated over time, is how students learn to trust themselves and persist.
Sometimes Waiting Is the Hardest Part
Imagine this moment: A student is visibly, uncomfortably stuck, and the teacher does (seemingly) nothing. Does not swoop in. Does not reread the question. Does not offer the first step. Just stays calm and holds the space.
That moment is harder than it sounds. It requires a teacher to tolerate their own discomfort while a student sits in theirs. It requires trust in the student and, better yet, conveys it. That kind of teaching isn’t communicated through a poster. It is built through our choice to believe students can handle hard things and then constructing opportunities for them. Our students are trusting us to make them ready. We can trust them to answer the question.
