**The Gift of Professional Development**
Have you ever been given a gift you didn't want, something you'd never use, and felt guilty for not appreciating it? That's what professional development (PD) feels like for many teachers. You’re expected to be grateful, but really, you'd rather just politely decline. This is my experience with PD in education.
Now, I don’t claim to be an expert in education, nor in any particular subject for that matter. I’ve always believed in learning new things, and I embrace growth. But what I can’t seem to wrap my head around is why no one asks teachers what we actually *need* to learn before locking us in a room for three hours, teaching us the latest educational buzzwords. If we’re supposed to be learning, why does it feel so irrelevant?
Take “whole reading” for instance. In my district, this was *the* thing for years. We were told not to bother with phonics—kids would magically learn spelling through reading alone. This was parroted for so long that many brilliant, experienced teachers were driven into early retirement or straight out the door by administrators who had adopted a “my way or the highway” mentality. They’d shut you down if you dared to question the approach. After all, who were we to question experts?
But then, picture this: An administrator embarrasses you about your classroom management skills, criticizes you in private, and then expects you to be engaged in a PD on inclusion or the latest teaching method. I remember one of the books we were trained on was called *There’s Room for Me Here.* Ironically, there wasn’t much room for dissent or new ideas in that training.
Honestly, I’ve never met a teacher who didn’t believe their students could succeed. Teachers pour their lives into their classrooms—dedicating weekends, nights, and, let’s be real, even their mental health sometimes—to make sure every kid has a chance. But here’s the problem with PD: there are two things that doom it from the start.
The first is a non-supportive administrator. You know the type. They have their mental list of who the "good" and "bad" teachers are, and that bias colors everything. In PD sessions, they’ll gush over one teacher’s idea—“Oh, Helen, that’s a fantastic suggestion! We should implement that right away!” Meanwhile, another teacher (one they’ve already labeled as “bad”) could suggest the exact same thing and get nothing more than a curt, “Thank you for sharing.” The dismissal is palpable, and the divide grows deeper.
The second is irrelevant PD topics. Too often, these sessions are designed by district specialists or principals who haven’t been in the classroom in years. If it’s not useful or doesn’t apply to what teachers are doing, it becomes a waste of time. Imagine this: a math teacher sitting through hours of training on assessing student reading levels. Or a first-year teacher, drowning in the complexities of classroom management, being taught about a new administrative form they’ve never seen before.
And then, of course, there are the meetings themselves. In every PD, you have three types of teachers. First, there’s the highly attentive, eager-to-learn teacher. This is typically a new teacher, who’s desperate to soak up any nugget of wisdom to survive their first year. They’re engaged, taking notes, asking questions—bless their hopeful hearts.
Next, there’s the teacher who loves to hear themselves talk. They’ll chime in on every question, offering long-winded answers in the hope that the principal notices. The truth is, these teachers often know the least but think that talking makes them look like experts. I remember one teacher who asked if we could extend a meeting—extend it!—to cover more material. The collective glares of the exhausted teachers around the room could have burned a hole through the wall.
And then, finally, there are the timers. Their eyes flick to the clock every five minutes, counting down until the torture is over. These teachers have learned the survival skill of silence—they don’t ask questions, they don’t answer questions. Why? Because they know the danger of a drawn-out discussion that could add another hour to the session.
So, how can we make PD more bearable? It’s simple, really. First, ask teachers what they actually *need.* Stop feeding us broccoli when no one asks for it. If something can be explained in an email, please—save us all the time and just send the email.
Next, if an administrator has already criticized a teacher, don’t expect them to walk into a PD ready to be vulnerable or open-minded. I remember a teacher who got written up because they didn’t realize one of their students needed glasses. Can you imagine that? You think that teacher is going to be chipper in the next PD? No, they’re just going to sit in the back with a crocodile smile, biding their time.
Lastly, please—make it relevant. Don’t pull in an expert who hasn’t set foot in a classroom for years without having them work with the staff beforehand. Make sure what we’re learning actually applies to us. And if it’s possible, make it fun. Teachers are perpetually tired—end-of-the-rope kind of tired. We plan, we grade, we problem-solve, and then we’re expected to sit through hours of PD. Make us laugh, or at least keep us awake.
Well, that’s all I’ve got on PD. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got 60 papers to grade before tomorrow. Can someone say “triple-shot caramel chocolate frappuccino”?