I belong to a generation that survived teachers who threw chalk pieces with sniper-level accuracy, locked classroom doors exactly one second after the bell, and predicted our future unemployment with terrifying confidence.
Today, as a teacher, I carefully frame every sentence like a UN peace negotiation so that no student feels emotionally attacked by words such as “deadline,” “effort,” or “poor preparation.”
Somewhere between “Stand outside the class!” and “Thank you so much for attending despite waking up at noon,” higher education has dramatically evolved.
A humorous — and slightly worried — reflection on teaching in the age of emotional fragility.
The Student-Friendly University and Its Silent Crisis
I often find myself wondering whether I have unknowingly time-travelled into an educational world radically different from the one in which I was raised.
I have a few doubts about the social expectations surrounding teachers in higher education today. Can a teacher scold a student for academic irresponsibility or misbehaviour on campus? If assignments are repeatedly submitted late, can a teacher refuse to accept them or deny internal marks? Can a teacher firmly tell a student that they are underperforming because they have not worked hard enough?
These questions may sound harsh to some. But to many from my generation, they would have sounded perfectly ordinary.
When I was a student, reprimands from teachers were rarely interpreted as emotional violence. We understood them as signs of disappointment, warnings about the future, or expressions of concern regarding our academic decline. If a teacher bluntly told me, “You will not reach anywhere if this is how you approach studies,” I never heard cruelty in that sentence. I heard fear. I heard urgency. I heard a teacher trying to prevent a student from drifting toward failure.
If I missed an assignment deadline and lost marks, I did not consider myself a victim of institutional insensitivity. I felt responsible for my own negligence. I felt embarrassed. I promised myself not to repeat the mistake.
There were teachers who locked classroom doors once the hour began. If we came late, we stayed outside. No negotiation. No emotional appeal. No “attendance adjustment.” We learnt punctuality not through motivational reels about productivity but through consequences.
And yet, strangely, I do not remember hating my teachers.
In fact, many of us respected them deeply because we knew they took our futures seriously enough to demand discipline from us.
But somewhere between 2007 and 2026, I slowly realised that the emotional rules governing higher education had fundamentally changed.
Over the years, I have carefully reconfigured my own understanding of what it means to be a “good teacher.” I have almost completely stopped scolding students — whether for underperformance, indifference, repeated lateness, or academic irresponsibility. Not because I suddenly became convinced that discipline is oppressive. But because I became aware that even mild criticism may now be interpreted as emotional injury.
Today, when I feel morally compelled to alert a student that their work is poor or that they are wasting their potential, I soften every sentence until it almost loses its urgency. I carefully monitor tone, facial expression, vocabulary, pauses — everything. Teachers increasingly speak as if every conversation is a psychological risk assessment.
If students regularly arrive late, I have learnt to graciously allow them in and feel grateful for their presence rather than question the behaviour. If assignments are not submitted, the responsibility subtly shifts toward me: remind them, persuade them, coax them, follow up again, somehow ensure submission, and eventually award marks.
Increasingly, higher education seems to expect teachers not merely to teach, but to endlessly cushion reality itself.
And perhaps that is what unsettles me the most.
Somewhere along the way, the teacher transformed from an intellectual authority into an emotional service provider. We are expected to be endlessly accommodating, permanently gentle, infinitely student-friendly — no sharp corrections, no hard warnings, no difficult truths. If possible, sing a lullaby or two while evaluating answer scripts.
Teachers today walk on eggshells, terrified that a strong word may become a complaint, a disciplinary issue, or evidence of emotional harm.
Of course, I understand that older educational cultures were not perfect. There might have been teachers who were humiliating, authoritarian, even abusive. There is no virtue in cruelty masquerading as discipline. The democratization of classrooms, the recognition of mental health, and the attempt to create safer learning environments are all important achievements.
But I also wonder whether, in trying to eliminate harshness from education, we are also eliminating resilience.
At what point did all discomfort become violence?
At what point did correction itself become suspect?
At what point did universities begin treating adults as fragile emotional entities who must be protected not only from failure, but even from hearing that failure may await them if they do not take responsibility for their own lives?
There is another irony I increasingly notice in myself.
To survive as a teacher within contemporary expectations, I have consciously stopped engaging with students’ academic lives in the way I engage with my own children. Because by current standards, I suspect I may qualify as a cruel mother.
I tell my children plainly that if they do not work hard, the world outside will not spare them. I do not romanticize irresponsibility. I do not celebrate mediocrity in the name of emotional comfort. If they underperform due to carelessness, I say so directly.
My father was like that with me. So was my research supervisor. For better or worse, I inherited from them a belief that education is not merely about comfort, but about excellence, discipline, rigour, and preparedness for a difficult world.
Perhaps that worldview is now outdated.
Or perhaps we are entering an age where institutions increasingly fear disappointing students more than failing them.
And that, I think, is a far more dangerous crisis than a strict teacher.
I belong to a generation that survived teachers who threw chalk pieces with sniper-level accuracy, locked classroom doors exactly one second after the bell, and predicted our future unemployment with terrifying confidence.
Today, as a teacher, I carefully frame every sentence like a UN peace negotiation so that no student feels emotionally attacked by words such as “deadline,” “effort,” or “poor preparation.”
Somewhere between “Stand outside the class!” and “Thank you so much for attending despite waking up at noon,” higher education has dramatically evolved.
A humorous — and slightly worried — reflection on teaching in the age of emotional fragility.
The Student-Friendly University and Its Silent Crisis
I often find myself wondering whether I have unknowingly time-travelled into an educational world radically different from the one in which I was raised.
I have a few doubts about the social expectations surrounding teachers in higher education today. Can a teacher scold a student for academic irresponsibility or misbehaviour on campus? If assignments are repeatedly submitted late, can a teacher refuse to accept them or deny internal marks? Can a teacher firmly tell a student that they are underperforming because they have not worked hard enough?
These questions may sound harsh to some. But to many from my generation, they would have sounded perfectly ordinary.
When I was a student, reprimands from teachers were rarely interpreted as emotional violence. We understood them as signs of disappointment, warnings about the future, or expressions of concern regarding our academic decline. If a teacher bluntly told me, “You will not reach anywhere if this is how you approach studies,” I never heard cruelty in that sentence. I heard fear. I heard urgency. I heard a teacher trying to prevent a student from drifting toward failure.
If I missed an assignment deadline and lost marks, I did not consider myself a victim of institutional insensitivity. I felt responsible for my own negligence. I felt embarrassed. I promised myself not to repeat the mistake.
There were teachers who locked classroom doors once the hour began. If we came late, we stayed outside. No negotiation. No emotional appeal. No “attendance adjustment.” We learnt punctuality not through motivational reels about productivity but through consequences.
And yet, strangely, I do not remember hating my teachers.
In fact, many of us respected them deeply because we knew they took our futures seriously enough to demand discipline from us.
But somewhere between 2007 and 2026, I slowly realised that the emotional rules governing higher education had fundamentally changed.
Over the years, I have carefully reconfigured my own understanding of what it means to be a “good teacher.” I have almost completely stopped scolding students — whether for underperformance, indifference, repeated lateness, or academic irresponsibility. Not because I suddenly became convinced that discipline is oppressive. But because I became aware that even mild criticism may now be interpreted as emotional injury.
Today, when I feel morally compelled to alert a student that their work is poor or that they are wasting their potential, I soften every sentence until it almost loses its urgency. I carefully monitor tone, facial expression, vocabulary, pauses — everything. Teachers increasingly speak as if every conversation is a psychological risk assessment.
If students regularly arrive late, I have learnt to graciously allow them in and feel grateful for their presence rather than question the behaviour. If assignments are not submitted, the responsibility subtly shifts toward me: remind them, persuade them, coax them, follow up again, somehow ensure submission, and eventually award marks.
Increasingly, higher education seems to expect teachers not merely to teach, but to endlessly cushion reality itself.
And perhaps that is what unsettles me the most.
Somewhere along the way, the teacher transformed from an intellectual authority into an emotional service provider. We are expected to be endlessly accommodating, permanently gentle, infinitely student-friendly — no sharp corrections, no hard warnings, no difficult truths. If possible, sing a lullaby or two while evaluating answer scripts.
Teachers today walk on eggshells, terrified that a strong word may become a complaint, a disciplinary issue, or evidence of emotional harm.
Of course, I understand that older educational cultures were not perfect. There might have been teachers who were humiliating, authoritarian, even abusive. There is no virtue in cruelty masquerading as discipline. The democratization of classrooms, the recognition of mental health, and the attempt to create safer learning environments are all important achievements.
But I also wonder whether, in trying to eliminate harshness from education, we are also eliminating resilience.
At what point did all discomfort become violence?
At what point did correction itself become suspect?
At what point did universities begin treating adults as fragile emotional entities who must be protected not only from failure, but even from hearing that failure may await them if they do not take responsibility for their own lives?
There is another irony I increasingly notice in myself.
To survive as a teacher within contemporary expectations, I have consciously stopped engaging with students’ academic lives in the way I engage with my own children. Because by current standards, I suspect I may qualify as a cruel mother.
I tell my children plainly that if they do not work hard, the world outside will not spare them. I do not romanticize irresponsibility. I do not celebrate mediocrity in the name of emotional comfort. If they underperform due to carelessness, I say so directly.
My father was like that with me. So was my research supervisor. For better or worse, I inherited from them a belief that education is not merely about comfort, but about excellence, discipline, rigour, and preparedness for a difficult world.
Perhaps that worldview is now outdated.
Or perhaps we are entering an age where institutions increasingly fear disappointing students more than failing them.
And that, I think, is a far more dangerous crisis than a strict teacher.
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