On the cycle of avoidance
How schools are inadvertently setting students up to fail
What are you afraid of? Is it spiders? Snakes? Tall buildings? For me, it was flying.
In my early twenties, I estimate that I flew about every six weeks. I lived in Melbourne and would regularly fly home to see family in Newcastle. I would fall asleep shortly before take-off and be woken by the cabin crew at the destination.
Then one day, something changed.
They say “the plane gets the blame” during acute stress, and I can link the beginning of my phobia to the sudden death of my grandfather. I began having panic attacks on board. Sometimes I would cry silently; other times I’d take Valium, but nothing worked. At my worst, I couldn’t even look at a plane on television or in the sky. I once drove my kids eleven hours to Byron Bay rather than board a flight. It was unsustainable, not to mention impractical.
I recently discovered that the course which got me back into the air with an outward appearance of calm has stopped running. It was run by female ex-pilots who wanted to make a difference. Imagine the most elaborate and detailed exposure therapy, and you’re halfway there.
The course exposed dysfunctional flyers like me to every aspect of commercial aeronautics. We were walked through the safety redundancies built into each aircraft, the meticulous maintenance cycles, and even had a guest lecture from the Bureau of Meteorology to explain weather impacts on flight. We visited the control tower, a flight simulator, and key areas of QANTAS’s safety training.
The course ended in a flight, and while I have no deep love of flying, I travel regularly and am building towards a trip to Europe. I even watch documentaries about plane crashes. The superstition that often accompanies this kind of phobia has completely dissolved. Practically speaking, I’m cured.
As is my meandering wont, I’ve been thinking about the blind spots schools (many, perhaps not all) have when it comes to student anxiety.
As adults, we know that avoidance is debilitating, limiting, and a difficult habit to break. But when a child experiences discomfort, schools often create elaborate accommodations that reinforce avoidance, feeding the very cycle that needs to be broken. The diagram below is from here, and there’s a good explainer if you want a deeper dive.
First, a distinction: feeling anxious in a given situation is not the same as having an anxiety disorder. But even if we make that distinction, the treatment is often the same. And it’s rarely exposure therapy that’s prescribed. Instead, it’s avoidance and exclusion, often written into learning plans and supported by psychologists, schools, and parents.
Have you noticed the growth in disability provisions for anxiety? Small group exam supervision is meant to relieve—what, exactly? The presence of other humans? Several years back, I noticed that “small group” exam rooms were becoming bigger than the main one. I’d be left supervising a handful of students with no provisions, raising comical but genuine questions about who exactly was being supported. And you’ll never guess what actually helps reduce test anxiety? That’s right: low-stakes testing.
I’ve been asked in the past—more than once— to never ask a particular student a question in class. Learning plans that essentially exempt students from participating are increasingly common, even though research tells us that cold calling increases voluntary participation. It’s difficult to see how students can learn by being silent observers, much less develop competence and a sense of belonging, two cornerstones of wellbeing.
And then there’s the mother of all accommodations: the “white card”. Your school might use a different colour, but it functions the same. A free pass to exit any class at any time. It’s hard to maintain routines, like managing toilet breaks, when one student has special permission to vanish at will.
I’ve even seen plans where a student is allowed to keep their phone in class because not having it causes anxiety. I’ve seen makeup, lash, and hair exemptions offered as a means of managing distress. And trigger warnings? We’ve known for years they don’t help—and may even increase anticipatory stress.
I know accommodations come from a place of care. But I can’t help wondering—are they more about making adults feel comfortable? Do psychologists understand the avoidance cycle, or are they simply not invested in what happens after the diagnosis is made?
I usually don’t rate the OECD’s vague statements derived from their crystal balls about what the future of work looks like. But if you’re that way inclined, you’ll notice our current practices set students up for failure. Of their three main “future skills” categories, we’re not supporting at least two.
We know that metacognitive skills and self-regulation will be highly desirable, including learning how to learn. Slipping out of class on a white card is the opposite of self-regulation. Similarly, social and emotional skills, self-efficacy and collaboration can’t be developed without participating in the full range of classroom activities and routines, including dealing with discomfort and challenge.
One in seven students apply for disability provisions in New South Wales. Many schools are overwhelmed by the logistics: too few rooms, not enough support staff. The problem is deep. I’d even say it’s out of control.
Until we start reframing anxiety—from psychologists to parents to the very way we handle avoidance in our classrooms—we will keep failing the students we’re trying to support.
Hear me speak about the links between explicit teaching and student wellbeing at researchED x A Matter of Translation at Churchie!