The most common sleep disorder in childhood is behavioral insomnia of childhood, affecting an estimated 10–30% of children. Decades of research consistently show that behavioral interventions—whether implemented by caregivers or directly with the child—are the most effective, evidence-based treatment for these sleep difficulties. That said, I’m frequently asked about faster, easier solutions. Parents and caregivers understandably want something that works now. Traditionally, those questions center around medications or supplements, but more recently, I’ve been hearing a new one: could dental or orthodontic treatment be the missing piece to better sleep? Is this an overlooked, insurance-covered solution, or just another “quick fix” that doesn’t live up to the hype?

Before we even answer that question, it’s important to note that when we work with children on sleep behaviorally, we always begin by screening for underlying medical concerns, including sleep-disordered breathing and obstructive sleep apnea. Some of the most common red flags we look for are snoring, pauses in breathing during sleep, and night sweats. If those symptoms are present, further medical evaluation is absolutely warranted.

So where do dental and orthodontic interventions fit in? The answer is that they can be very helpful, but only for the right group of children. There is solid evidence supporting the use of oral appliances—such as palate expanders, Twin Blocks, and mandibular advancement “mouthguards”—in reducing snoring and obstructive sleep apnea. However, research also tells us that sleep apnea and related breathing disorders affect only about 1–4% of children. When you step back and look at those numbers, it becomes clear that the vast majority of children presenting to me with sleep concerns are not experiencing apnea—they are experiencing behavioral insomnia.

So, will a retainer fix Bobby’s sleep? Probably not. But what will are consistency, predictability, clear routines, and thoughtful parental responses. These are the interventions that are most strongly supported by research and most likely to lead to meaningful, lasting change. And yes, those approaches take time, effort, and follow-through. I say this not just as a clinician, but as a parent: life is busy, and the appeal of a quick fix is very real. But when it comes to children’s sleep, the evidence is clear—lasting improvement comes from putting in the work, not bypassing it.

lol

That said, given what I know about Gaynor, I am fairly confident that what I read in The Free Press does not accurately represent why Dr. Levkoff lost her job there.

In the piece, Dr. Levkoff frames her departure as ideological persecution, arguing that she lost her job because she gave voice to perspectives outside progressive orthodoxy. Though it’s a compelling narrative, I don’t think it’s completely accurate; instead, I imagine Dr. Levkoff was let go after she reposted content on social media that denied the identity of nonbinary people, and families of nonbinary students at the school reasonably found it offensive.

Now, I think the more interesting question is whether what someone posts on their personal social media should factor into their professional employment at all. A reasonable person might argue that it shouldn’t, and employment shouldn’t limit free speech. I understand that argument, but I think it fails to consider the specific nature of Dr. Levkoff’s work.

Dr. Levkoff is a sex educator, not an accountant or a software developer. She claims to have built her career on the premise that young people deserve honest, affirming, expert guidance about sex and identity. Therefore, she should be aware of her position, her platform, and the effect of that platform on her students.

At Gaynor, she was working with children and adolescents who are, by definition, in the middle of one of the most vulnerable periods of identity development. That vulnerability is especially acute for young people who belong to sexual and gender minority groups. So, as a sex educator, she, of all people, should understand that a teenager who identifies as nonbinary might suffer real harm if they are forced to attend a class on gender and sexuality that is facilitated by someone who has publicly broadcast skepticism about whether their specific identity is real. When Dr. Levkoff’s personal speech started to materially undermine her ability to serve the families at Gaynor, it became a legitimate professional problem.

Truthfully, the main point I want to make here extends way beyond Logan Levkoff. I think anyone who works with kids takes on a responsibility that doesn’t simply end at close of business. We all have a duty to be thoughtful about how our public and private communications might affect the kids in our care.

Of course I need to acknowledge that there are real conversations to be had about the limits of employer reach into private life and about ideological conformity in schools. But this story is about a sex educator who denigrated students she was charged with supporting. The school made a call, and based on what I know about Gaynor—and what I know about the obligations that come with this kind of work—I think it was the right one.

speaking of sex ed…

But I want to be clear: what they did isn’t research, and it isn’t a substitute for expertise.

The main problem is confirmation bias. It’s remarkably easy to find a study that confirms what you already hope or believe is true. But science is an argument, not a chorus. For every study pointing in one direction, there is another pointing in the opposite. The truth accumulates slowly through consensus across a large body of work. That means you have to read broadly enough to encounter the full landscape of a topic, beyond what appeared in your first search. And breadth alone isn’t sufficient. You have to read critically, weighing things like study design, author credentials, sample size, recency, and risk of bias. So–setting aside the difficulty of doing research–evaluating it is a genuine skill that takes time to develop.

So what should a non-expert actually do? My recommendation is to seek out a systematic review. Unlike a conventional literature summary, a systematic review follows rigorous, transparent methodology. Authors document precisely how studies were identified, what criteria governed their inclusion, and how they evaluated the quality of the evidence. Much of what makes independent research so difficult for a non-specialist is handled for you. And a well-conducted systematic review tells you what the literature says overall, helping make sense of the contradictions within it.

So if you want a simple starting point: open Google Scholar, search “systematic review” alongside whatever topic you’re investigating, and find the most recent one available. It won’t make you an expert, but it will give you a much more solid foundation than a headline.

Leaving you this week with "Body Electric" from Fame. Enjoy!

Before we talk about it, though, I want to be clear about one common misconception: dyslexia is not a visual disorder. It is a language-based learning disorder typically rooted in phonological processing deficits. Reversing letters and seeing words “move on the page” are myths. Still, though, making text physically larger tends to help enormously. Here’s why.

Even though dyslexia isn’t primarily visual, the visual environment on a page still matters. Visual crowding—the way tightly packed letters interfere with our ability to identify individual characters—is a real challenge for many struggling readers. When letters are small and crammed together, we have to work to isolate each one before we can begin the work of decoding. When students have baseline difficulty matching letter symbols to sounds, this can be one more demand stacked on top of an already taxing process. Increasing font size and letter spacing reduces the crowding effect so the reader can spend less effort on visual parsing and more on the actual task of reading.

The benefits don’t stop at reading. Writing big is equally powerful as a math intervention.

Math requires students to manage spatial relationships on the page: columns that must stay aligned, digits that carry from one place to the next, fractions that need clearly separated numerators and denominators, etc. When a student writes small and cramped, the spatial relationships collapse. When students write larger, the work becomes more organized. The spatial structure of the problem is preserved on the page so they can see and keep track of what they wrote down.

The reasons for these benefits are twofold. First, writing big reduces fine motor demands. Many students with learning disorders also have co-occurring difficulties with fine motor control, so writing small symbols requires a level of control and precision that can be exhausting. Larger writing allows looser, more fluid movements. The physical act of writing becomes less taxing, leaving more cognitive bandwidth for the content itself.

Also, writing big supports attention to detail. When numbers and letters are larger, a student can easily spot the difference between a plus sign and a multiplication sign and keep track of negatives. Errors that come from not quite seeing what you’ve written drop dramatically.

Ultimately, writing big may not be fancy, but it’s accessible. It costs nothing. It requires no special software or equipment. But the benefits touch nearly every academic challenge a student with a learning disorder faces.

So thankful that these are not my colleagues

As I wrap up writing, there is one major theme that I have been thinking a lot about which is: we’ve made a lot of progress reducing stigma around diagnoses, but we haven’t necessarily reduced stigma around the underlying struggles. As a result, diagnostic labels are often necessary to provide people cover, grace, and a framework for making sense of the things in life that are really hard. For example, it’s understandable to fail an English test if you’re dyslexic—it’s not your fault, and it doesn’t mean you’re a terrible student—but if you don’t have that diagnosis, then you don’t have an explanation when you struggle the same way. I don’t say this to sound patronizing or to cast doubt on the validity of the diagnoses; instead, I’m pointing this out as a meaningful aspect of diagnosis that many people find really helpful and that clinicians should take into account when using diagnostic labels (or not).

At the same time, I’ve been sitting with a worry that diagnosis can sometimes slip into something that forecloses growth. If dyslexia means something is wrong with your brain and you just can’t read, full stop, there’s a ceiling on what you can accomplish. If ADHD means something is wrong with your brain and you just can’t manage your time, same problem. I think we have to be really intentional, especially when we’re working with kids, about holding competing ideas at once: this is real, this is hard, this is not your fault AND you can learn to read, you can develop the executive function skills you need, you are not stuck. Even if we don’t frame this as assigning fault or personal responsibility, we should frame it as maintaining agency, and we should celebrate and validate the hard work inherent in treating these disorders.

Then I read this piece about Tourette’s Disorder. TLDR: At the BAFTAs, John Davidson, an activist with Tourette’s whose life inspired an award-winning film, involuntarily shouted a racial slur while two Black actors were on stage presenting an award. The audience had been warned in advance that this sort of thing might happen, but even so, Davidson left out of shame and embarrassment and later issued a public apology for what happened. The piece argues that shouting the slur wasn’t Davison’s fault, and he never should have been expected to apologize for something he didn’t choose to do and couldn’t control.

I’ll be upfront that I did not follow this story closely and I am not a TD expert. But I found myself agreeing with the author’s framing and feeling that an apology wasn’t owed. And then I caught myself because I don’t feel this way about other disorders. I think, for instance, a kid with dyslexia who avoided weeks of schoolwork should be required to make it up, and a kid with ADHD who impulsively punched someone on the playground should absolutely have to make amends. Of course I think both of these kids should be given grace, empathy, and support, but we should also maintain high expectations. All of it, together, simultaneously. Both/and, not either/or.

So why does this story about TD feel different to me? Why does this diagnosis specifically feel more like something external that happened to this person, something they’re not responsible for changing? It’s not that all these diagnoses are fundamentally different in kind. They are all neurodevelopmental disorders. They all have identifiable neural correlates. They all exist on a continuum from normal to abnormal (yes, even TD; transient tics, for instance, are common in the general population).

I’ve been turning this over and I think it might come down to treatment. With dyslexia and ADHD, we have solid, evidence-based interventions, and we routinely see kids with these diagnoses make real gains. With TD, maybe the general impression (even if that impression is not entirely accurate) is that the treatment picture is murkier, and maybe that’s quietly shaping my intuitions about agency and responsibility in ways I haven’t previously examined.

Maybe the difference is also familiarity. Dyslexia and ADHD are far more common than TD, so we encounter more people who have them, we have more personal experience with them, and that shapes our impressions of what these disorders look like and what people with them are capable of.

I don’t have answers here, just questions, and my mind is currently mush. But I think it’s worth examining the possibility that our intuitions about disability, agency, and responsibility are less principled than we’d like to believe, and more shaped by exposure, treatment optimism, and our own unexamined biases than anything else.

This is pure joy and worth the full 1:22.

“There’s going to be so much sugar,” she told me anxiously. “Cereal for breakfast, juice boxes everywhere, cookies after dinner. And when Eli eats too much sugar, he becomes a different kid.”

She explained that sugar made her nine-year-old son totally hyperactive. Sometimes, if he ate too much sugar, he even got agitated, snapping at other kids or complaining loudly. Even worse than the initial hyperactivity was the crash that followed, complete with intense moodiness, tears over minor frustrations, and exhaustion that somehow made him less likely to go to bed. How could she possibly get Eli to avoid sugar when every other child would be eating their bodyweight in it?

I didn’t doubt her observations. Rachel knew her son. But when I told her that these problems probably weren’t caused by sugar, she was surprised.

She’s not alone. At this point, it’s pretty much conventional wisdom that sugar causes behavior changes in kids. But science doesn’t support it.

To be clear, when it comes to sugar and behavior, we’re not lacking evidence. This isn’t some emerging area where scientists are still piecing together preliminary findings. On the contrary, we have decades of high-quality research, including meta-analyses that synthesize results across many studies, suggesting that sugar doesn’t cause behavior problems in children. So if the evidence is this compelling, why do so many of us remain convinced otherwise?

I think the issue dates back to 1975 when pediatric allergist Benjamin Feingold published the book Why Your Child Is Hyperactive. He proposed that certain things added to our food, including sugar, were responsible for hyperactivity and other developmental problems in children. Here was a doctor offering a villain and a solution, and his book resonated with parents struggling with their kids’ difficult behaviors.

Even after subsequent research failed to validate his claims, people remained attached to this idea. And now, decades later, the message is constantly amplified on social media where clickbaity misinformation spreads faster than peer-reviewed research ever can.

But the thing that really cements the sugar-behavior connection is that our own eyes seem to routinely confirm it. Think about where children typically consume a lot of sugar. Birthday parties. Holiday gatherings. School celebrations. Temple retreats! These environments are all stimulating and exciting. Kids are running around with their friends, staying up late, and energized by noise and activity. Of course they’re hyperactive! And many get agitated and crash afterward.

But we must remember that correlation is not causation! When we test sugar consumption in calm, controlled environments, the behavior effects disappear. It’s the party, not the cake, that’s causing them to act chaotic.

When we reconceptualize the problem as behavioral and environmental, there’s actually a lot we can do to help.

For instance, I thought Eli would do better if he knew what to expect, so I suggested that Rachel spend some time reviewing the schedule and the activities with him in advance. I also figured that Eli would probably need some quiet time in the midst of a very busy schedule, so I suggested that Rachel build in breaks throughout the day. Finally, Rachel and I discussed Eli’s early signs of agitation. Rachel told me that, typically, he’d be silly and loud before he had a full meltdown. So we agreed, if she saw things moving in that direction, they should leave the activity early and avoid a problem altogether, rather than trying to power through and dealing with it afterward. None of these strategies were as simple as dietary modifications, but they directly addressed what was going on.

Rachel left our conversation reassured about the retreat, but I continued to wonder how we solve the larger problem of misinformation. Individual correction helps, but it doesn’t scale. The forces perpetuating common parenting myths are powerful and self-reinforcing.

Unfortunately, scientists bear some responsibility. Research papers sit behind paywalls, written in technical language inaccessible to most. Scientists rarely engage directly with parents, and when they do, they sometimes come across as dismissive or condescending toward people’s lived experiences. So when parents hear conflicting messages—a viral TikTok versus a study—they often trust the source that seems to understand their actual life, even if that source is technically wrong.

We need scientists who are also skilled communicators, who can meet parents with empathy and evidence. They must not dismiss parents’ observations—Rachel really does see Eli struggle when he’s amped up on junk food—but instead reframe what those observations mean.

Loved seeing this surprise guest at halftime yesterday!

For example, she needed to photograph some furniture she wanted to sell and post it on Facebook Marketplace. It seemed simple, but it had been sitting undone for weeks, and as her new furniture began to arrive, her apartment became cluttered with duplicate dressers and chairs. I suggested she invite a friend over after work that evening, treat her to dinner, and tackle it together.

She looked at me confused. “Why would I ask someone to help with something so easy?”

“You can do it alone,” I said. “But you don’t. Your friend won’t let you put this off for another week.”

This is advice I find myself giving often. Need to return shoes at Bloomingdales? Schedule lunch and shopping with a friend. Want to work out more? Find a workout buddy, sign up for a class, or, if you can swing it, hire a trainer.

The benefits are threefold. First, this approach clears mental clutter. Once you know exactly when you’ll handle something, you can focus on what’s in front of you right now without that nagging feeling of everything else you could or should be doing. And you’re no longer staring down an endless to-do list wondering where to even begin.

Second, there’s accountability. There’s social pressure in showing up for someone else. And, with something like an exercise class or a trainer, there’s financial pressure, too; you’re not just skipping a workout, you’re wasting money. These external forces tend to be more motivating than sheer willpower alone.

Third, and perhaps most importantly, doing tasks with others makes them more fun. You’re not just doing chores if you’re also spending time with a friend. And you’re less likely to avoid tasks when you have a reason to look forward to doing them.

It’s a real bummer to feel paralyzed when you want to feel productive. An appointment in your calendar, especially one involving another person, is a commitment. And commitments, unlike intentions, have a way of actually happening.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

I’m so jealous of people who haven’t watched Schitt’s Creek yet because I’m in a real TV drought and wish I could start over and see it for the first time now.

Contrast my response to autistic Barbie with my reaction to the bald American Girl Doll, which was entirely positive. Eleanor and I visited the store in midtown for a birthday party last weekend, and when Eleanor pointed out the doll to me in the long display case that housed all the Truly Me dolls, I found myself thinking how profound it must be for girls who have lost their hair to see themselves reflected there, and to have their experience acknowledged as simply one way of being in the world.

It wasn’t until days later, thinking about my contradictory reactions, that I realized the difference was in how the dolls were packaged and presented. Autistic Barbie (named as such by Mattel, not me) is precisely that: a conventionally beautiful woman in a mini dress who arrives in her box with noise-cancelling headphones, a fidget spinner, and an AAC device. The doll encourages play that centers her diagnosis and her functional support needs as her defining features. She is Autistic Barbie and virtually nothing else.

The bald American Girl, by contrast, is a blank slate. Like the other Truly Me dolls, she comes in a box wearing the standard American Girl uniform, and everything else is sold separately. She has no hair, but otherwise, who she is remains open to interpretation. The child is invited to build her story (yes, by purchasing other outfits and accessories, but that’s the American Girl business model!), and the play is open-ended in a way that autistic Barbie’s seems closed.

So while I applaud Mattel for representing autistic people with this new Barbie doll, I wish they had taken the American Girl approach: sell Barbies in generic outfits and offer the adaptive accessories separately. Imagine how a girl can own the American Girl Doll with no hair, and then she might purchase the gymnastics set and sleepover set, constructing a narrative about a girl with a medical condition who is athletic and devoted to her friendships. Likewise, imagine a girl assembling her Barbie’s identity, buying the noise-canceling headphones alongside the vet kit and a soccer ball to create a story of an autistic woman who is intellectually curious, professionally accomplished, and passionate about animals and sports.

People contain multitudes and contradictions, and it matters that our toys encourage storytelling about characters who contain multitudes and contradictions, too. But, somehow, we’ve become so committed to increasing representation and visibility that we’ve created an essentializing narrative that suggests people are defined by diagnoses and disabilities, rather than by the full complexity of who they are. The toys we give our children should invite them to imagine richer stories than that because their play informs how they come to understand themselves and those around them.

Let me know if you can find the full version of this gem!

Both thought the other’s approach was actively harmful. Sarah criticized Maya for disconnecting from the children, referring to Maya’s tendency to walk away from conflicts as passive-aggressive avoidance. Maya criticized Sarah for failing to notice when things were too heated to be productive, when Sarah’s own agitation was making things worse, and when the “talks” had devolved into screaming matches that left everyone feeling even worse than when they started.

I sided with Maya. I thought her instinct was right: that sometimes the most connecting thing you can do is give everyone space to calm down. She and her kids had a secure attachment. They could tolerate her brief absence. What they couldn’t tolerate was being trapped in an escalating fight with a parent who was also having a temper tantrum.

Later that week, I saw another mother, Jennifer, whose eight-year-old son, Isaac, would, like Sarah, Maya, and their kids, lose his cool. Isaac’s occupational therapist had taught Jennifer a thousand co-regulation strategies–deep breathing, sensory tools, muscle relaxation, calm voices, you name it–but every attempt to co-regulate seemed to agitate him further. He didn’t want Jennifer close; he wanted space.

Both stories illustrate that taking time out is part of healthy coping.

Most people think of time out as a punishment. They picture a child sitting miserably on a step or in a corner, banished for bad behavior. But that’s not what time out is supposed to be.

Time out should be reconceptualized as time out from positive reinforcement. In other words, when someone is engaging in undesired behavior, they’re often getting something out of it—attention, a reaction, engagement–even if it seems negative. Time out removes that payoff temporarily; it breaks whatever cycle is maintaining the behavior. So people who take time out need not suffer. Instead, they should take a brief, boring pause that helps everyone reset.

Kids don’t really know how to use time outs effectively on their own, so sometimes parents need to enforce time outs to teach them. Here are some principles you need to follow when you’re implementing time out for your child:

• Don’t make it punishing. Speak calmly and matter-of-factly, and keep it brief. No lectures, no yelling, no lengthy conversations about feelings. Think of yourself as a referee calling a brief pause in a game rather than a judge handing down a sentence.

• Make it boring. Time out shouldn’t be stimulating or interesting. It’s not entertainment. It’s just a neutral pause.

• Make it brief. A good rule of thumb is one minute of time out per year of age. A five-year-old gets five minutes. Any longer and it becomes punishing.

• Reinforce the positive once it’s done. This is the part most people skip, and it’s the most important. When time out ends, reconnect positively. Return quickly to warmth and praise. Don’t dwell on the misbehavior or demand lengthy apologies or explanations. The point isn’t to make sure they’ve really learned their lesson; it’s simply to help everyone get back to baseline.

Taking time out for yourself as a parent requires a different approach, but the underlying principle is the same: you’re creating space to chill out so you can reconnect effectively.

• Name it clearly. Tell your child what you’re doing and why. “I’m feeling too upset to talk about this right now. I’m going to take a few minutes to calm down, and then we’ll figure this out together.” Model emotional awareness and healthy boundaries.

• Make it predictable. If you regularly take time to cool down, your kids learn that your absence is temporary and purposeful, not a rejection. Secure attachment can absolutely tolerate a parent stepping away briefly.

• Keep it proportionate. You don’t need an hour. Usually 10ish minutes is long enough to calm down, short enough that you’re not avoiding.

• Come back. This is non-negotiable. When you’ve calmed down, return and re-engage. Your child needs to learn that taking space means creating conditions to solve a problem rather than abandoning it.

Taking time out is a totally healthy thing to do when we’re overwhelmed. We step back, regulate, and return. It’s not weak, it’s not passive-aggressive, and it’s not abusive; instead, it’s wisdom worth passing on.

***

Happy Holidays!

Lili wasn’t the type of parent to ignore a problem. She was thoughtful and clinically minded. She kept up with the latest research and joined a local parenting group. So when Colin’s temper would start to flare, she knew what she needed to do: she encouraged him to go to his room and take out his frustration on his Nugget couch. She suggested a similar approach to his preschool teacher, who created a “feelings corner” where Colin could bang on a pillow when he got upset. The other moms in her parenting group thought this was exactly right. They agreed that Colin just needed a safe outlet for his anger. Once he got it all out, he’d be fine.

But he wasn’t fine. As the weeks went by, Colin seemed angrier and more aggressive than ever. Lili came to me frustrated and confused.

Lili isn’t alone. In my practice, I encounter versions of this story nearly every day. Fifteen-year-olds who insist they need to slam their bedroom doors and scream expletives. Parents who say that yelling helps to blow off steam. The underlying assumption is always the same: letting out aggression in a relatively harmless way is a healthy, productive way of handling our angry impulses.

It seems reasonable. But it’s wrong.

The roots of this misconception stretch back all the way to Aristotle, who wrote about “katharsis”—a form of emotional release through drama. Sigmund Freud extended this idea, theorizing that negative emotions build up within individuals like pressure in a vessel, and that discharging those emotions is the best way to reduce them. Today, we’ve fully bought into the therapeutic benefits of catharsis. We think we operate like pressure cookers: if we don’t vent the steam, we’ll explode. This idea has been popularized by everyone from pop culture figures to self-help writers to mental health professionals themselves.

But study after study demonstrates that venting anger does not, in fact, reduce it. Research shows no reduction in physiological arousal after venting. And venting doesn’t help us treat other people better afterward.

Some people argue, “What’s the harm? If beating up a Nugget couch or pillow isn’t hurting anyone, why not let people do it?”

The problem is that it can be harmful. Venting often increases hostility and aggression rather than reducing it. It makes the anger persist longer than it would otherwise and elevates both psychological and physiological arousal.

So why do we keep doing it?

First, there’s social learning. We see other people reacting to anger with expressions of aggression and hostility—screaming, cursing, stomping their feet. We’re told this is a safe and acceptable way to deal with anger, so we do the same. Over time, it becomes a habit.

Second, there’s a weird short-term payoff. It genuinely feels good to act angrily and aggressively in the moment. That pleasant feeling reinforces the behavior, making it more likely to occur in the future.

Finally, anger always dissipates on its own. Over time, we inevitably feel less angry and return to baseline. And then we mistakenly credit the venting for what was really just the passage of time.

So what should we do instead? If we’re going to stick with the pressure cooker metaphor, the best way to avoid an explosion isn’t to vent the steam; it’s to lower the heat. The evidence supports what we might call the “fake it til you make it” approach: act calm, and the calm feelings will follow.

Here are some strategies that actually work, many borrowed from cognitive behavioral therapy:

• Cognitive restructuring: Challenging and reframing angry thoughts

• Thought stopping: Interrupting angry ruminations

• Deep breathing and progressive muscle relaxation: Lowering physiological arousal

• Taking a time-out: Pausing to reset

• Turning attention to pleasant topics and activities: Redirecting focus

• Doing the opposite: Actively do something kind instead of hostile

Now, let me be clear: if a child is routinely acting physically aggressive toward other children, expecting them to eliminate all aggressive behavior immediately is unrealistic. In that context, redirecting them to hit a pillow instead of a person is a reasonable intermediate step. But it shouldn’t be the end goal, because hitting the pillow isn’t actually teaching them to cope with anger effectively.

So, when Lili came into my office saying that Colin just needed to let his anger out, I told her that her instinct to help was right. But the strategy was wrong, and it was bound to only make things harder.

The next time your child is angry—or you are—try something different. Take a breath. Lower the heat. The pressure will dissipate on its own.

***

He’s perfect!

I’ve come to believe this model is not just flawed; it’s harmful.

First, let’s acknowledge the simplest issue: the discrepancy model isn’t supported by research. But there’s a deeper issue that cuts to the heart of educational equity and disability rights. The discrepancy model operates on a dangerous assumption about human potential. When we say that a child with a low IQ score and low academic achievement doesn’t have a “real” learning disability—that they’re simply performing “as expected”—we’re essentially saying, We already know what this child is capable of, and it isn’t much.

This should trouble us deeply.

Yes, IQ correlates with academic achievement. But the correlation is far less strong than many of us assume, especially when we factor in the self-fulfilling nature of our expectations.

The history of Down syndrome offers a powerful illustration of what happens when we let our assumptions about ability limit our beliefs about what’s achievable.1

For most of the 20th century, people with Down syndrome were systematically underestimated. The prevailing wisdom was that they were incapable of meaningful learning, independence, or contribution to society. Based on these assumptions, children with Down syndrome were routinely institutionalized. They received poor care, minimal education, and virtually no opportunities for employment or independent living. And unsurprisingly, under those conditions, they accomplished little.

But, over time, families began advocating differently. Researchers began questioning old assumptions. Educators began trying new approaches. Expectations began to rise. And people with Down syndrome rose to meet them.

Today, with high expectations and appropriate support, people with Down syndrome are accomplishing things that would have been considered impossible just a few decades ago. They’re attaining high levels of education, holding competitive jobs, living independently, and contributing meaningfully to their communities. The capabilities were always there; what changed was our willingness to see and nurture them.

But the starting point is assuming that achievement is not only possible but likely. If we approach children with the assumption that their potential is already known and limited, we lower our expectations, reduce our instruction, and accept minimal progress as inevitable, and then we point to the minimal progress as proof that we were right all along. On the flip side, if we approach any child—regardless of test scores, diagnosis, or apparent limitations—with the assumption that meaningful growth is within reach, we create the conditions for that growth to occur.

***

As noted in the comments, this is proof that the last draft isn’t always the best!

Mrs. Ashford-Fox, eager to send Pembroke to the same private school she had attended as a child, delayed her child’s kindergarten entry by a year. “He needs the gift of time. It will be better for him if he’s more advanced than his classmates. He’ll feel more confident if he’s the oldest in the class rather than the youngest. I will give him an extra year to grow and develop.”

At the start of kindergarten, Pembroke towered over his classmates, both physically and cognitively. He read decodable books while others struggled to sound out simple CVC words. He traversed the monkey bars while others worked on climbing the playground’s ladder. Mrs. Ashford-Fox beamed with pride, pleased with her decision to redshirt her son. It was clear he benefitted from being the most developmentally advanced kit in the room.

Meanwhile, in the burrow next door, Mrs. Sterling-Fox prepared five-year-old Oliver to start kindergarten at exactly the same time as his six-year-old neighbor. He would be going to the neighborhood public school, which was strict about kindergarten entry dates and absolutely did not permit redshirting. When Oliver’s classroom placement was announced only two days before the first day of school, Mrs. Sterling-Fox was dismayed to see that Oliver had two teachers.

“ICT?!” she shrieked into her phone at her husband. “Oliver is a normal student! They just assigned him to ICT because they needed to fill the gen ed seats!”

“What’s ICT again?” Mr. Sterling-Fox asked, distracted.

“Integrated Co-Teaching! It’s where they mix special education students with general education students! He will be in a room with kids who have disabilities, so a regular teacher and a special ed teacher lead the class together!”

“That sounds... better? Two teachers? One with additional training?”

“It’s a special education classroom, Gerald! Our son doesn’t need special education! This is what happens when you insist on public school!”

She’d wanted private school. Begged for it. But her in-laws, who controlled the trust fund, had put their paws down.

Mrs. Sterling-Fox hung up the phone as she watched Mrs. Ashford-Fox return to the burrow. She felt her tail bristle with jealousy and resentment.

“You’ll never believe it,” Mrs. Sterling-Fox called to her neighbor. “Oliver got assigned to ICT!”

Mrs. Ashford-Fox looked up, her expression carefully calibrated between sympathy and condescension. “Oh no. That’s... unfortunate. Did you request to switch classes?”

“Of course I did! But they won’t budge. They said they thought I’d be happy with two teachers, better differentiation, and more small-group instruction. Can you imagine? As if that makes up for—” She lowered her voice, glancing around. “—the environment.”

“Well,” Mrs. Ashford-Fox said delicately, “I suppose they have to find typical children somewhere. Otherwise who would the special ed students model appropriate behavior from?”

Mrs. Sterling-Fox seized on this. “Exactly! Oliver is going to spend his kindergarten year being a peer model. He’s going to get bored. I want him in a room with kids who are more advanced than him so that he can be appropriately challenged!”

Mrs. Ashford-Fox nodded sympathetically as her smile turned pitying. “I totally get that. Nobody wants their kid being held back by peers who are less advanced. Well. I’m sure Oliver will be fine. They do say the ICT teachers are very... dedicated.”

By June, both Pembroke and Oliver wrapped up the year with academic skills that were at or above grade level. And they both continued to be strong students as they progressed through school, though any gap that existed between them and their classmates became less and less noticeable as time went by.

***

Devastating!!!!!

Fast forward a few weeks when my daughter’s class WhatsApp chat exploded as the kids started coming home talking about “WIN groups,” with some kids seemingly traveling to other classrooms for reading, others for math, and others for handwriting practice. It slowly dawned on everyone that the kids had been sorted into ability groups, but nobody knew why, how, or what came next, and many parents in the chat understandably expressed some anxiety about it.

Then, a few weeks after that, a kid walked into my office for a neuropsych evaluation. His mom was convinced he had a math learning disorder and wanted documentation to start the IEP process. When I asked about his grades and test scores and whether the school had tried any interventions, she said his report cards had 3’s, indicating grade-level skills, she wasn’t aware of any test scores, and no, the school hadn’t tried anything yet. I had to tell her not to waste her time and money on the neuropsych; the school wasn’t going to agree to special ed services right away, no matter what the results of the evaluation showed.

All three situations pointed to the same thing: Parents don’t understand MTSS. And honestly, why would they? Schools rarely explain it well. So let me try.

What Is MTSS?

MTSS stands for Multi-Tiered System of Supports. It’s not an intervention itself but instead a framework for organizing resources to provide prevention and intervention programs matched to student needs. Many schools are legally obligated to follow MTSS (New York State, for instance, mandates it in their public schools), and many more choose to do so even without such a requirement.

There are two main types:

• RTI (Response to Intervention) for academic concerns

• SWPBS/PBIS (Schoolwide Positive Behavioral Interventions and Supports) for social, emotional, and behavioral issues

The defining features are (1) interventions organized along a tiered continuum that increases in intensity, (2) regular, systematic screening to identify struggling students, and (3) data-based decision-making for tracking progress and adjusting interventions.

• Tier 1: Universal Prevention
  This is for everyone. About 85% of students thrive here with good, effective teaching. Think clear instruction, explicit classroom rules, and solid curriculum. The goal is to prevent problems before they start.

• Tier 2: Targeted Interventions
  A student starts showing difficulties with academic or behavioral expectations. They begin receiving informal interventions: small group instruction and in-class modifications. While they receive those interventions, their progress is monitored closely over several weeks. Most kids who dip into Tier 2 will catch back up and return to Tier 1.

• Tier 3: Intensive Support
  Problems are more serious now. The kid didn’t progress with Tier 2 interventions, so it’s clear they need a more dramatic change to their educational program: one-on-one or very small group instruction, sometimes including wraparound services involving outside agencies. This is where IEP teams and formal special education interventions come into play.

Here’s what this might look like in real life:

At the start of the year, teachers give math and reading screeners to all students.1 Assuming kids have received adequate instruction, the vast majority will show grade-level skills.

Those who don’t get flagged for Tier 2. They join small groups, get targeted instruction, and their progress gets monitored regularly.

If all goes according to plan in Tier 2, most of these kids catch up. With good intervention, they remediate their skills and go back to Tier 1. Only a small minority continue to struggle despite high-quality intervention. Those are the students who move to Tier 3 and begin the IEP process for formal special education services.

So let’s go back to the three stories I told you earlier.

My friend’s son was referred for Tier 2 interventions based on an early reading screener. The way the school described their plan was textbook MTSS. I told her the school was doing exactly what they should do, and of course we all worry about our kids, but in this case, the school was catching something early and addressing it before it became a real problem. So, from my perspective, everything looked good. Assuming the intervention they provided was a good one, I gave the school 10/10, no notes.

The WIN groups in my daughter’s school represented time set aside to implement MTSS. Most of the kids were using the time for “Tier 1 enhancement;” in other words, extra time to practice grade-level skills. Some of the students were using the time to receive Tier 2 interventions, with appropriate progress monitoring.

Finally, the mom who came to my office wanted to bypass Tier 2 and move straight to Tier 3, but that’s not how it works—and for good reason. Schools need to see that a child doesn’t respond to high-quality interventions at Tiers 1 and 2 before referring to special education. This is critical for making sure the right kids receive the right types of support.

One might think that there’s no harm in opening up an IEP and moving to special ed the minute a kid shows signs of trouble. But, in reality, it’s more complicated than that. If interventions are more intensive than the problem needs, we risk overpathologizing the kid. Also, the IEP process takes a long time, so we risk delaying appropriate interventions for struggling students. Finally, we risk misallocating finite resources. Think about it like this: If everyone says they need a handicapped parking spot, who really gets to park next to the front entrance of the building?

I’m sure you can tell that I’m a big fan of MTSS. I just want to point out one caveat: MTSS is only as good as the interventions within it. It’s a framework, not magic. If the instruction is poor or the interventions aren’t evidence-based, kids won’t make progress. The system depends entirely on quality teaching and research-supported interventions at every tier.

What This Means for You

If your child’s teacher reaches out about extra support, that’s a good thing. Early intervention prevents small gaps from becoming big problems.

If your child mentions going to a different group or classroom for extra practice in reading or math, ask the teacher about it—but don’t panic. Chances are, even if it’s a Tier 2 intervention, it’s supportive and temporary.

And if you’re thinking about pursuing testing or an IEP, talk to the school first. Ask about screening results, what interventions have been tried, and how your child has responded. The data will tell you whether it’s time for more intensive evaluation or whether your child just needs a little extra time and support.

The system isn’t perfect, but when it works—when schools catch issues early, provide quality interventions, and communicate clearly with parents—it prevents a lot of kids from falling through the cracks. And that’s exactly what we want.

***

Let the countdown begin!

Traditionally, math has been taught through an “I do, we do, you do” approach: the teacher provides explicit instruction and modeling on a problem, then works through the problem with the class, and finally—once students have achieved mastery with teacher scaffolding—withdraws support so they can complete problems independently before starting the process again with a harder mathematical concept.

In theory, this should work. But clearly something has been going wrong. Fewer and fewer kids are achieving mastery of the foundational concepts they need to accumulate and build knowledge toward higher level concepts. As a result, students are unable to progress through the math curriculum as we would like.

One important factor that contributes to declining math achievement is low engagement and negative attitudes toward math. This may seem obvious, but if students hate math, think they are bad at it, and avoid it, then their achievement suffers. Attitudes, expectancy beliefs, and engagement are important across all subject areas, but research suggests they are particularly relevant in mathematics.

In response, many schools have turned away from direct, explicit instructional approaches and toward inquiry-based learning. In this model, students explore mathematical concepts and discover patterns and relationships through investigation rather than direct teaching. They work on open-ended problems and are encouraged to develop their own solution strategies. Proponents of inquiry-based learning seem to be correct that the approach increases engagement and improves attitudes about math.

The problem is inquiry-based approaches do not actually improve math skills. Most kids cannot actually “discover” new mathematical knowledge on their own, and explicit instruction is necessary to teach novice mathematicians.

So if inquiry-based approaches are ineffective at teaching new concepts, and direct instructional approaches are disengaging, what are we supposed to do? The answer is to use both approaches strategically at different points in the learning process.

First, teach new concepts with direct, explicit instruction. When students are encountering material for the first time, they need clear teacher-led guidance.

Second, use objective assessment data (i.e. tests!) to inform movement from one level to the next. Make sure that students achieve 90-95% mastery with scaffolding before moving to independent practice. Then ensure students achieve 90-95% mastery independently before moving to a higher level concept.1

Third, once students achieve mastery, provide inquiry-based learning and problem-solving opportunities for enrichment. These activities should involve integrating and thinking differently about previously mastered concepts. Here, teachers can get creative. These activities can involve group work and peer-to-peer learning, as well as connecting math to other academic subject areas. They should be fun and engaging and should reward creativity in problem solving.

The debate between traditional and progressive math instruction has been framed as if we must choose a side. But the real question isn’t which approach is better; it’s when each approach works best. Students need explicit instruction to learn new concepts and inquiry-based enrichment to deepen their understanding of what they’ve already mastered. Stop treating these as competing philosophies, and start treating them as complementary tools.

***

Not as good as the 2003 Northern Valley Demarest production.

The school is making such a backwards decision because the class size mandate was passed at the urging of the teachers’ union, and an alternative solution—repurposing specialty spaces as classrooms—would anger elementary school parents who outnumber the families of younger children. In other words, the loudest, most organized stakeholders are driving policy, not evidence or the community’s broader interests.

This is exactly why I believe that state and local governments must ensure that public schools work deliberately to benefit their surrounding communities. To that end, elected officials should implement educational policies that yield (or at least intend to yield) the greatest return on investment of taxpayer dollars.1 The decision makers in government should include people with experience and expertise in education, of course, but they should be serving as policymakers, not educators. They should be making decisions based on empirical research and doing so largely independent of teacher and parent organizations who will inevitably lobby for their own preferences.

I know this isn’t a viewpoint that’s always warmly (or at least publicly) embraced by either political party who seem to be focused on increasing either union strength or “parental rights” (or both), and thus, it isn’t bound to win me many friends. But it’s one that I hold strongly nonetheless. Let me explain why.

People tend to have strong opinions and lots of skin in the game when it comes to public education. Everyone has firsthand experience with education that shapes how they believe schools should operate. School staff, understandably, have strong convictions about how things should run—both because they possess expertise in education and because their work environment affects them directly. Parents hold equally strong views because there is nothing more emotionally charged than their children’s wellbeing, and schools play an outsized role in that.

But public schools are not intended to serve individual children or families; they are meant to serve the community as a whole. Teachers and administrators are public servants, employed by the government and paid with taxpayer money, and thus are obligated to serve the public interest, not the preferences of any particular group.

Therefore, state and local governments need to cut through a whole lot of noise and make objective decisions on behalf of the entire community—not on behalf of these individual (often vocal, often passionate) stakeholders with competing agendas.

Example 1: When Teacher Unions Drive Policy

The class size mandate was passed at the urging of the United Federation of Teachers. Of course teachers want smaller classes—reduced class sizes make their jobs considerably easier and more pleasant. There is some research suggesting benefits to smaller classes, but the findings are generally mixed and modest at best. The UFT appears to have cherry-picked and exaggerated findings that support their position while ignoring contradictory evidence.

More importantly, the UFT certainly didn’t conduct a rigorous cost-benefit analysis of what program cuts would be necessary to accommodate class size reductions. For example, our school, like many others, is now proposing to eliminate early childhood programs—specifically 3K and Pre-K classes—which have far stronger empirical support than class size reductions do. It makes no sense whatsoever to cut these early childhood programs simply to satisfy the UFT’s preference for this mandate. If we sacrifice early childhood education to make room for slightly smaller elementary classes, it will represent a net loss to our community and a poor use of taxpayer dollars.

Example 2: When Parent Preferences Drive Policy

Now let’s suppose, for the sake of argument, that the class size mandate wasn’t passed in response to UFT lobbying and that class size reductions would be unambiguously beneficial to the community. There’s another way to accommodate reduced class sizes: repurpose specialty spaces in the school to create additional classrooms.2

Our school is fortunate to have dedicated spaces like a music room, art room, and therapy offices that could be converted into classrooms. The music and art teachers and related professionals could float from classroom to classroom to see students. This approach wouldn’t eliminate any programming—it would simply mean these programs wouldn’t have their own designated facilities.

I cannot point to research on the benefits of having a designated music room versus teaching music in a regular classroom because such research simply doesn’t exist. But, regardless, I can say with confidence that a complete program cut is far more damaging than a change of venue.

Yet what’s being proposed is cutting early childhood programs entirely, not repurposing specialty rooms. Why? Because parents of elementary students (who far outnumber parents of 3K and Pre-K students) will be upset about losing the music and art spaces. They will complain. They’ll show up at meetings and make their displeasure known. Again, this is decision-making designed to appease vocal stakeholders, not to benefit the broader community.

What makes this conversation so fraught is that parents love their children fiercely, and teachers care deeply about their students and their working conditions. These are not villains. They have legitimate concerns and powerful emotional investments. Their passion is understandable and, in many ways, admirable.

But emotional investment does not equal sound policy. The loudest voices are not always the wisest ones. When we allow whoever can organize most effectively, lobby most persistently, or complain most loudly to drive education policy, we don’t necessarily get better schools, but we do certainly get schools that cater to special interest groups, often at the expense of evidence, equity, and the community’s long-term interests.

Government officials need to examine data dispassionately, weigh tradeoffs honestly, and make unpopular calls. They should be insulated enough from immediate political pressure to base decisions on the most rigorous analyses and strongest empirical research that’s available.

We elect representatives to make difficult choices on behalf of everyone, including the people who aren’t in the room, and we deserve policies grounded in evidence rather than in the preferences of whomever can make the most noise.

***

The whole album is awesome, but this one is my favorite!

Honestly, I wasn’t surprised. RFK Jr. has never been especially friendly toward the mental health field (or to the health sciences more generally). He’s made plenty of sweeping statements about psychiatry before. What caught my attention this time, though, wasn’t the claim itself, but instead how quickly it started to blend in with language I’ve been seeing everywhere, including from people within my own echo chamber who don’t share his politics at all.

Broad skepticism toward health science is coming from all directions. It’s showing up on podcasts, in Instagram reels, in Substack newsletters with scientific-sounding names. There’s a version of this that looks pretty benign. Maybe it’s someone encouraging you to eat less processed food or to cut back on caffeine. Fair enough. But increasingly, the advice gets more dramatic. Sugar causes ADHD. Food dyes rewire your child’s brain. Anxiety is your vagus nerve misfiring. Your depression is gut-related.

Some of these claims borrow a tiny piece of emerging research and stretch it far beyond what the data supports. Others are completely unsubstantiated. It’s the appearance of science without rigor.

And the result is confusion and distrust. People are led simultaneously to feel sicker than they are and to believe that professional support is suspect. They are told to focus on things like food dye and cortisol levels, rather than things like chronic stress, family systems, social isolation, or access to actual health services.

As both a clinician and a researcher, this really bothers me. Truthfully, people are right to feel let down by parts of the system. Some were misdiagnosed. Some were ignored. Some were handed medication without a real conversation. These are valid complaints. But instead of moving toward better care, a growing number of people are abandoning the idea of care altogether—at least the kind grounded in research, community, and some version of shared accountability.

So while I’m not suggesting everyone should blindly “follow the science,” I do think we need to tone down this reflexive skepticism and move past the illusion that a few hours of “doing our own research” can substitute for actual expertise. We need to rebuild some basic trust in professional organizations and institutions, not because they’re infallible, but because they represent our best effort to separate signal from noise. And we need to remember that rejecting imperfect care doesn’t mean we’ve found better care. It’s quite possible to demand that the system work better without walking away from it entirely.

***

Her name was Kitty, made her money being pretty and witty

Before I share the rest of my thoughts about these checklists, though, I want to be crystal clear: I’m not here to trash the CDC. They’ve been under a ton of unnecessary pressure these days, and they do important, thankless work. Their milestone checklists were created thoughtfully and deliberately in collaboration with the American Academy of Pediatrics, based on a thorough review of the literature on child development.

That said, I think we need to be careful about how we use these checklists, and we need to be honest about their limitations.

The first problem is that the milestones are presented without any indication of range or variability. There’s no measure of central tendency, no standard deviation, no percentile ranks. Each item is framed as a binary: “By 15 months, your child should…” But a milestone isn’t a deadline. And without more information, it’s hard to tell what’s truly concerning and what’s just slightly late.

Second, some of the research behind these checklists is old. Roughly a quarter of studies included in the lit review were published before 2000, which means that a good chunk of the data predates shifts in population norms. There’s something called the Flynn Effect, which basically means that average scores on cognitive tests rise over time. It’s not unreasonable to assume other developmental benchmarks shift over time, too. So it can be misleading to use data from the 1990s (or earlier!) to define what’s “typical” today.

Third, some of the studies included in the lit review weren’t conducted in the United States, which raises questions about cultural relevance. Development is context-specific. What’s encouraged and expected can vary a lot from place to place. A skill that’s common at age three in one country might show up closer to age five in another. So if we’re building tools to guide American caregivers, we should use American norms as reference points.

Finally, the guidelines stop at age five. I get that screening and intervention efforts are intense in early childhood, but some of the most uneven developmental shifts happen later: during school years, during adolescence, and even during adulthood. By stopping at age five, we miss a huge part of the picture.

So while I appreciate the important work coming out of the CDC, I discuss developmental milestones with context and caveats. Because development is complicated, and no checklist—no matter how well-sourced or well-meaning—can capture the full story.

***

<3

The truth is bad homework is everywhere. Assignments feel completely disconnected from what’s taught in class. Tasks require a tutor to reteach the lesson. Projects have elaborate material lists that assume you’ve got a working printer, a free evening, and no other obligations.

But the idea that homework is inherently harmful is wrong. When it’s done well, homework plays a real and meaningful role in enhancing learning.

The best homework is clear and targeted. It reviews content students have already been taught and gives them a chance to practice while the material is still active in their minds. After all, repetition and rehearsal is what helps move skills from short-term understanding into long-term memory.

Homework also gives students a chance to try things on their own. Not while the teacher is walking them through every step, or while they’re sitting in a group where someone else figures it out first, but alone, when it’s just them and the task. It helps metacognition (i.e., thinking about their thinking) to develop: Can I do this without help? What did I get wrong? What should I go back and review? Students begin to turn into self-aware learners.

In order for this to happen, though, homework has to truly be done independently. If an assignment depends on an adult to explain the instructions, clarify the lesson, or supervise every step of the process, it’s not assessing what the student can do; it’s assessing who’s available to help.

It also has to be transparent. Students must have access to answer keys and be taught how to use them: not to copy, but to compare, reflect, and self-correct.

This doesn’t mean kids need to have homework every night in every subject. But the answer to bad homework isn’t no homework; it’s thoughtful homework, assigned with purpose.

***

Only Broadway-adjacent but posting this because it feels like we’re overdue for some good piano rock.

That said, while this worry is understandable, it is often misplaced.

I don’t want to sound blasé here. I care deeply about literacy. I just think we need to stop framing recreational reading as an essential predictor of success in life.

Most people don’t unwind by doing a gentler version of their job. No matter how much we enjoy our careers, we get home and we want to do something—anything—other than what we do for work. I imagine Michael Phelps probably enjoys swimming, but I doubt he ends his training days by jumping back in the pool just because he feels like it.

Likewise, for students, reading is work. Kids spend hours decoding unfamiliar words, writing responses, underlining evidence, figuring out what the author really means in their figurative language on page 37. By the end of the day, their tank is empty. After reading all day long, they just don’t always want to read for pleasure. Sometimes they want a terrible reality show and a blank stare at the wall.

It’s important to remember that reading well and reading voluntarily are not always the same thing. Now, of course there are times when a kid’s resistance to reading is something to pay attention to. If they actively avoid reading because it’s difficult—if they’re falling behind or showing signs of real struggle—that’s worth investigating.

The same goes for kids who don’t want to do anything except passive screen time. If all their unstructured time is spent watching TV or scrolling, and they resist any form of active or imaginative engagement, that’s not just about books; that’s a broader withdrawal, and it deserves care.

But let’s not jump to worst-case scenarios every time a kid reaches for their phone instead of a novel.

Instead, we can try creating low-pressure, low-demand opportunities to read. The slow moments—weekends, long car rides, summer mornings before the day ramps up—are perfect for this. And let kids pick what they read. Graphic novels, comic strips, audiobooks, even re-reading the same book over and over all counts. Reading doesn’t have to look a certain way to be valuable.

And when reading is required for school, make sure it’s actually happening. Some kids need more support than others to get through assigned texts. That’s okay—it’s just a sign they might need scaffolding, structure, or a different pace.

But if your kid doesn’t read for fun every afternoon, don’t panic. Of course you should keep offering books. Keep modeling curiosity and engagement. But know that recreational reading isn’t the only sign of a healthy reader. And, some nights, zoning out in front of a screen instead of curling up with a novel might just mean that, like you, they’re tired.

***

Sort of funny that they left this whole thing out of the documentary!

It’s an appealing idea. But, when it comes to public education, it fails to help us negotiate trade offs or figure out which costs are worth it. The reality is that most school systems are working within very real limits: budgets, buildings, staffing, time. So when we try to add something new, it usually means something else has to give. Of course we want more of everything. But the problem is that we can’t actually do everything at once.

Here’s what that looks like up close.

When Bill de Blasio launched universal pre-K in New York City, it was a major win. My daughter went to pre-K at our zoned public school, and it was a fantastic experience. I couldn’t wait for my son to have access to the same thing, especially when the city expanded access to 3-K.

But, right around the same time, Governor Hochul signed legislation mandating reduced class sizes in New York City public schools. In theory, this is also a great idea. No one’s arguing against smaller class sizes. But those smaller classes require more classrooms and more teachers. And our school, like many others, doesn’t have extra space lying around. So to make room for smaller class sizes in the upper grades, our zoned school is likely eliminating 3-K and pre-K. Though my daughter got free early childhood education, my son might not.

To be clear: both early childhood education and reduced class sizes are policy wins. Both are grounded in research and good intentions. But together they don’t work, and one has to go.

This is the part of policymaking that abundance rhetoric tends to gloss over. Public education is a system with walls: physical ones, financial ones, scheduling ones. It’s full of competing priorities, all of which matter. And the idea that we can just add more of everything without having to give anything up isn’t optimism; it’s avoidance.

It also raises bigger questions. If trade-offs are inevitable, how do we decide what matters most? Should we prioritize smaller classes for older kids, or broader access for the youngest learners?1 Should we invest in enrichment programs, or in mental health staff? Should we spread our resources thin, or go all-in on fewer things?

These aren’t easy calls, and we need to be thoughtful and deliberate in our choices.

I’m not against abundance. I just think we need to be honest about where the limits are. Because when every policy sounds like a win, it’s easy to forget that something is getting left behind.

***

How have I not posted this one yet?