The Ministry of Bandaids
On learning to sit with pain, finding healing through movement and mindfulness, and what we can teach our children about staying grounded.
Earlier this week, I fell while running — a quick, awkward misstep on the sidewalk. Scraped my fingers, startled myself, and kept going. It wasn’t dramatic, just jarring — one of those moments where your body reacts faster than your brain, and your pride stings more than the wound. Later, at home, I reached for whatever we had in the cabinet and ended up bandaging myself with my daughter’s Disney princess Band-Aids — tiny symbols of comfort and glittery resilience.
A few days later, I walked through the halls of a preschool to observe a student. I wasn’t thinking about the Band-Aids anymore. They’d already blended into my routine, stuck to my fingers like quiet reminders of a moment I hadn’t fully paused to feel. The children noticed instantly. One by one, they came over to show me their own Band-Aids — on fingers, knees, elbows, cheeks. Some pointed. Some told elaborate stories. One simply lifted his pant leg without a word.
No one asked what had happened to me. They didn’t need to. They saw something familiar — a wound made visible — and answered it with their own.
Pain, in its smallest form, opened a door.
Even at three or four years old, we understand something essential: pain is something we can meet in each other. We recognize it. We respond. We offer our own not to compare, but to connect. It’s a kind of ministry, really — the sacred act of saying I see you, through a stickered knee or a bruised elbow or a sparkly pink Band-Aid.
That moment stayed with me. I had arrived at the school to support a student in need. Instead, it was the children who showed me something I needed to remember: healing doesn’t begin with fixing. It begins with noticing. With presence. With someone seeing what hurts and, without judgment or agenda, simply saying me too.
Even a small wound can become a bridge. Even a sparkly Band-Aid can be a kind of prayer.
I didn’t always know how to respond to pain with that kind of gentleness.
For a long time, my own healing was fragmented. A few therapy sessions gave me language. Sporadic exercise helped release what I didn’t yet know I was carrying. Dozens of notebooks held the truths I wasn’t ready to say out loud. Each of these tools offered something, but none brought me fully home. I was circling pain, analyzing it, trying to outthink the feelings I was too afraid to sit with.
What I hadn’t learned was how to stay.
To sit still in the ache.
To breathe through the noise.
To trust that pain wouldn’t consume me if I moved closer to it.
What began to shift things for me wasn’t a single breakthrough. It was a slow layering of practice. Someone taught me how to set an intention, sit with discomfort, and return to my breath again and again. At a city ashram where I volunteered, yoga classes became sacred pauses in the chaos. My boxing teacher — a woman exploring mindfulness alongside her students — would ask me to breathe through fatigue, to notice tension, to listen to my body instead of pushing past it. Over time, I began to map my own nervous system: what spun me out, what steadied me, what helped me land.
I began to add my own practices — the ones that helped me stay present in my body when the world felt like too much. Running became one of them. It gave me rhythm, space, and just enough momentum to process what I couldn’t yet name. Even when I fell — scraped, startled, interrupted — I kept going. The practice wasn’t about perfection. It was about staying with myself.
That same need to stay — to breathe instead of bolt — is what I now try to model in rooms full of children navigating storms of their own.
Each day, I sit with children — in hallways, at desks, on the floor — who are dysregulated in ways that shake the space around them. They’ve inherited a world of instability, rapid change, and constant overstimulation. Many of them came of age during the pandemic years, missing the small, invisible milestones that help children grow into themselves: waiting in line, sitting with frustration, learning to share space. Now they are ten, eleven, twelve — and when the world around them feels unsafe or unmanageable, they push back with intensity. Sometimes it’s rage. Sometimes it’s silence. Sometimes it’s a total unraveling.
Their pain doesn’t always look like pain. It often looks like defiance. Like refusal. Like attention-seeking. In truth, it’s a nervous system crying out: Am I safe here? Can I trust you? Do I belong?
Teachers are the ones standing in the center of that storm.
Most are trying to hold space for learning while navigating emotional meltdowns, peer conflict, and curriculum demands that don’t pause for mental health. The system isn’t built for this kind of work — yet it is being asked of teachers every day.
In an ideal world, we’d begin the school year by practicing regulation together. Students would learn what it means to pause, to breathe, to notice what’s happening inside. Not just once, but consistently. A daily grounding ritual before math or tefillah. A movement break after transitions. A shared vocabulary for what it means to return to your body. In classrooms where I’ve brought this in, I’ve seen small but steady change. Even the kids who roll their eyes at first eventually begin to participate — especially them.
Now, as someone working from inside the system, I see both the limitations and the longing. I hear teachers whispering versions of the same question: What do I do with the student who’s unraveling my classroom? How do I keep teaching when everything feels like it might come apart?
In busy school classrooms, there’s rarely time to pull a child aside. One outburst can ripple through the entire room. Still, I’ve seen the smallest shifts make a difference. Lowering your voice when things get loud. Softening your shoulders. Naming the feeling instead of only the behavior: “That looked frustrating,” or “It didn’t feel fair, did it?” These moments aren’t magic. They’re reminders. The student hears something they weren’t expecting — empathy. Recognition. It doesn’t excuse what happened, but it tells them they are still seen.
Regulation doesn’t replace accountability. It’s what helps accountability feel possible. When a student is in a dysregulated state, consequences alone don’t teach. Safety does. Steadiness does. We lead them back into their capacity — and from there, we teach what needs to be learned.
Repair doesn’t usually happen during the disruption. It happens later — in the hallway, the cafeteria, a quiet moment between classes. A small line can land hard: “That was a rough class. I’m still here.” Or “I know this isn’t how you want to show up. Let’s try again tomorrow.” When teachers offer dignity after a breakdown, it teaches something more important than any lesson plan. It teaches that relationship is still possible.
By April, many educators feel like the window for that kind of connection has already closed. The year feels long. Everyone’s worn down. The behavior hasn’t changed, so it must be too late. I’ve heard that fear, and I’ve felt it too.
Still, I believe this: it’s never too late to offer presence.
One quiet moment of acknowledgment. One softened response. One honest, compassionate line. These things reach students — even the ones who pretend not to care.
There’s also so much we don’t see. Some students come from homes where structure is harsh or inconsistent. Others live in emotional environments that are completely different from what school expects. Then there are students whose learning challenges remain unrecognized or unsupported. They can’t access the material. They don’t know how to keep up. Their behavior isn’t about disobedience — it’s about protection. Shame is powerful. And acting out often feels safer than being exposed.
These children aren’t trying to destroy the classroom. They’re trying to survive it.
Teachers aren’t meant to do this alone. Just as students need co-regulation, teachers deserve spaces where their own nervous systems are met with care. Where their presence is honored, not only as a skill but as a practice of humanity.
So what do we do?
We ground ourselves, first. We choose one tool, one moment, one breath. We remember that regulation is not about perfection. It’s about anchoring — for ourselves and for the kids who haven’t yet learned how.
Some of the tools we can offer are simple — so simple they’re often overlooked. Name five things around you that are the same color. Press your fingers together, one by one, and breathe out slowly. Tap a steady rhythm on your palm — like your heartbeat. Breathe in while tensing your fists, and breathe out as you release. These are small tools, but they are pathways back to the body. They can be taught at any age. With my own baby, when I notice her beginning to dysregulate, I use what we call “lion breath”: a long, throaty HAAA sound. It’s silly, and it’s sacred. It helps bring her back toward baseline, gives her space to point or sign for what she needs. These moments matter — because they teach safety from the inside out.
We won’t fix the system overnight. We won’t meet every need. Still, we can create islands of calm. We can make space where space has been denied.
With spring break approaching, we have a moment. A window. A breath.
What if this break could become more than a pause? What if it became a reset — not just for us, but for our classrooms?
This doesn’t require reinvention. It asks for re-grounding.
What would it look like to return with one new rhythm — one small practice you try every day? A breath at the start of class. A shared grounding moment after transitions. A hallway check-in that becomes routine. These aren’t system-wide overhauls. They are human interventions. They begin with a quiet, deliberate choice:
I am staying grounded in this work.
I am choosing presence, even when it’s hard.
I am holding space for regulation — for them, and for me.
If something in you is saying, Yes. Help me do this, then I hear you. I’m with you. Let’s build this together — classrooms where students feel safe enough to learn and teachers feel supported enough to lead with heart. There’s no need to wait for perfect conditions. We begin with what we already carry: our breath, our presence, our willingness to try again.
Spring break offers a moment. A reset. A chance to come back not only rested, but re-rooted.
Let’s return to our classrooms with steadiness and softness. Let’s create space — even a little — for peace to take root amid the swirl. Let’s do it not just for our students, but for ourselves, too.
We begin again not by being perfect, but by being present.
We do this by returning to ourselves.
We do this by showing up — with breath, with honesty, with Band-Aids and all.
Even when we’ve fallen. Especially then.
Looking for a place to start?
If you're heading into break wondering how to reset — or coming back wondering if it's even possible — I’ve gathered five simple, realistic practices to help you begin again. No overhauls. No extras. Just a few small tools to help you return to the classroom with breath, steadiness, and presence.