The cost of always being available

 The Cost of Always Being Available

by Nidhi Guglani

Many of us find ourselves in a role we never really chose, but slowly grew into—the one who’s always there, always giving, always adjusting. Whether it’s at home, with friends, or at work, we become the ones who manage everything quietly. We offer help, take care of others, spend when needed, plan the details, and rarely ask for anything in return.

And because we do it so often, people begin to expect it. It’s no longer seen as kindness—it’s just something we’re supposed to do.

But the moment we step back or say, “I can’t do this anymore,” others get uncomfortable. Not because they didn’t see how much we were doing, but because they had grown used to it. It’s hard to explain the tiredness that comes not just from physical work, but from always being the one who gives—emotionally, financially, or just by being available.

What makes it harder is the guilt. People who give easily often struggle to say no. The fear of disappointing others, the hesitation to appear selfish, the worry that love might be withdrawn if we stop being useful—it all sits quietly inside. So we keep going, even when we’re drained. Even when we know it’s not fair.

Over time, this imbalance begins to weigh on our mental and emotional well-being. We start to feel invisible in relationships where our presence is always felt but rarely acknowledged. We question our worth—not because we doubt our value, but because others rarely reflect it back to us.

Still, not everything is one-sided. There are always people who quietly notice. A parent who supports without making a show of it. A sibling who understands more than they say. A friend who reaches out when it matters. And sometimes, in the work we do—especially with young people—we receive warmth, respect, and love that makes a real difference.

But it’s okay to want more. It’s okay to say you’re tired.

It’s not selfish to ask for balance.

It’s not wrong to set limits.

Being kind doesn’t mean being available all the time.

Giving with love is a strength—but giving without rest is a slow burn.

The truth is, we teach people how to treat us by how we treat ourselves.

And when we begin to value our time, our effort, and our peace, others will eventually follow.

It’s time we reminded ourselves: we matter too.

Not just for what we give, but for who we are—even when we’re not giving anything at all.

Stories from the classroom

Stories from the Classroom

When Trouble Turns a Corner

by Nidhi Guglani 

“Every child has a story. Sometimes, all they need is someone willing to read between the lines.”

Two months ago, my classroom felt like a storm I couldn’t calm. Among the many energies and temperaments I work with every day, one child stood out—not because of brilliance or charm, but because of the sheer disruption he caused.

For over a year, this child had troubled not only his peers but several teachers. His behavior was erratic and unsettling—disrupting classes, using abusive language, forging teacher signatures in others’ notebooks, scribbling nonsense across desks and books, even tearing pages. The complaints would not stop. On one particular day, I remember being called out of the staff room five or six times, unable to sit down because yet another issue had surfaced. It wasn’t just exhausting—it was emotionally draining.

But what disturbed me more was something I realized during an interaction with his parents. They weren’t unaware. In fact, they knew. And yet, there was a quiet complicity in their words—a vague support of their child’s version of the truth, even when the facts were clear. That day, something shifted in me. I decided to try a different route.

I told him, plainly and without anger, “There’s nothing wrong with being wrong.”

I gave examples of other students—those who had made mistakes, come forward, and apologized. And how that honesty made the mistake disappear. But with him, it was always one lie after another. I could sense he didn’t want to be “wrong,” even if it meant being unfair, unkind, or dishonest.

I didn’t give up.

I kept at the counseling, not as a punishment, but as a conversation. I didn’t threaten him, didn’t brand him. I reminded him of his potential and made it clear that being better was possible—and respected.

Today, for the first time in a long while, something incredible happened.

Other teachers—those who used to bring me his complaints—walked up to me and said, “He behaved really well in your absence today.” No disturbances. No mischief. No noise. Just quiet, mindful behavior.

It wasn’t a celebration. There were no confetti or claps. But for me, it was a moment of triumph—because it was a sign. He was trying.

And that wasn’t all.

Another child—also seen as destructive, unreliable—has now been made the class monitor. A risky choice, many would say. But sometimes, giving a child a sense of responsibility does more than punishment ever could. So far, he’s being sincere. He’s reporting fairly. He’s taking it seriously.

Maybe this, too, will evolve.

These small changes, these flickers of hope, are the real stories of teaching. We don’t always see immediate transformation. But sometimes, if you listen closely, if you wait just a little longer, a troubled child will turn a corner.

And in that quiet turn—without fanfare or recognition—you find your reward.

Beyond rote

 Beyond Rote: Listening to What Our Children Aren’t Saying

by Nidhi Guglani

I recently had a conversation with a parent who felt their child was suffocating under the pressure of rote learning. The curriculum didn’t seem logical or engaging, and the child had begun to withdraw, showing no willingness to take initiative or explore further. That made me pause and think — is the problem rooted in the system, the curriculum, or in us as teachers and parents?

There’s no single answer to this; it’s subjective and multi-layered. Personally, I feel that even the existing content — if delivered with purpose and creativity — can become interesting for most children. The issue may not always be what is being taught, but how it’s being taught.

At the same time, how will a child ever discover their interest in a subject if they aren’t first exposed to it properly? Take mathematics, for example. If a child says they dislike it, is it because they fear the subject itself, or are they scared of the teacher? Is it the complexity of numbers or the pressure to perform? Understanding the why behind a child’s discomfort is essential.

In chemistry, do we need to memorize reactions blindly, or can we help students see how these reactions connect with daily life? History, too, isn’t about remembering dates — it’s about understanding patterns of human behavior so we don’t repeat past mistakes. The “why” and “how” are often more important than the “what.”

Fortunately, with the New Education Policy in place, I’ve seen some welcome shifts. When I reviewed this year’s Class 10 papers, I noticed a meaningful connection being drawn between real-life situations and the curriculum. That, to me, is a step forward.

Still, the core remains — every subject must be introduced the right way. The goal should not be to create passive listeners, but active thinkers, observers, and analyzers. Every subject has the potential to spark curiosity, if taught with the right intent.

Of course, not every student in a class of 40 can be equally engaged at all times. But involving them in discussions, nudging them to reflect, is always possible. We, as teachers, are often overburdened — with administrative tasks, expectations, and large class sizes. The teacher-student ratio continues to be a major barrier. If classes were smaller, we could address individual needs more effectively, providing personal attention and tailored strategies.

The problem isn’t just about content or curriculum. It’s about a lack of innovative approaches, the overwhelming workload on teachers, and at times, a missing synergy between parents, teachers, and students. We often forget that education thrives when there is trust — what someone once beautifully called a mutual trust triangle.

This triangle breaks when:

• A parent blindly supports the child without assessing the situation.
• A teacher dismisses the child’s voice or behavior.
• The child stops trusting the intent of both adults.

And once broken, everything else becomes ineffective.

I also believe students need to be more vocal about their interests. At the same time, unlimited freedom isn’t the answer. Children need guidance, not control. They need choices, but also the maturity to understand consequences — and that’s where adults step in.

This conversation, of course, is endless. There’s no final word — just the hope that somewhere, somehow, we can reimagine learning, together.

Watch less, Live more

 Watch Less, Live More

by Nidhi Guglani 

We’re surrounded by content. We create it. We consume it. We share it. Whether it’s my own blog, a student’s reel, or a stranger’s travel vlog—I see an endless stream of posts, videos, stories, tips, and “how-to”s. Beauty, parenting, travel, teaching, fitness—name a category, and you’ll find hundreds of interpretations of the same thing. It’s an overwhelming ocean, constantly refreshing.

Let’s take a simple example: beauty tutorials. Suppose I want to learn how to apply eyeliner. I could watch ten different influencers showing ten slightly different styles. One uses brown liner for a soft look. Another goes bold with a wing. Some use filters and glossy edits; others go raw and real. But in the end, what matters? Not which video I watched, but whether I actually picked up the liner and tried it on myself.

Now take travel. I can binge-watch Switzerland through someone else’s lens—watch them walk through Lucerne’s old town, take scenic train rides, or sip hot chocolate in Zermatt. But I’ve come to realize that watching doesn’t substitute for experiencing. It can inform or tempt, but it doesn’t transform. The crisp mountain air, the smell of the streets, the exhaustion in your legs from walking uphill—that’s something no camera can transfer to me. Watching a five-minute reel doesn’t come close to being there.

And then there’s parenting. I have seen countless videos on how to manage screen time, how to help children develop empathy, how to talk to a teenager. Some of these videos are well-meaning and wise. But unless I sit beside my child, talk to them, fumble through awkward moments, and show up day after day, none of it matters. Real parenting cannot be outsourced to a reel. No content creator can take your place in that room, at that dinner table, or in that heart.

Even in professional life—it’s the same. As a teacher, I constantly look for ways to improve. I want to make my lessons more engaging. I follow pages, attend webinars, and read blog posts on teaching strategies or content writing. And yes, sometimes these resources are helpful. They spark a thought. They offer structure. But unless I try those ideas in my classroom, unless I see how my students react, unless I adapt them to my context, it’s all just another saved link. Unused. Forgotten. Consumed, but not lived.

In fact, I’ve often saved workout videos too. “10-minute full body stretch.” “Beginner yoga flow.” “Dance your way to fitness.” But most of the time, I just watch. Sometimes I even watch them while lying down. It’s funny—how something meant to energize ends up making me feel worse because I didn’t act on it.

The truth is, experience is what gives life its weight. Watching is just a glimpse. Doing is where the meaning lies.

I’ve come to terms with the fact that yes, I too am contributing to this endless stream of content. By writing this, I’m adding another drop to the flood. But if you’re reading this and then putting the book away, and nothing changes—then it’s just another piece of content.

The problem isn’t the content. It’s what we’re doing with it.

If it pushes us to act, it’s useful. If it inspires us to create, connect, or challenge ourselves, it has value. But if it becomes another distraction in our day, another reason to delay action, it’s just noise.

So today, this thought settled inside me:

Instead of spending time watching someone else live their life, I want to return to living mine.

I want to write more than I read about writing.

I want to dance more than I watch dance clips.

I want to teach more than I plan my teaching.

I want to be a participant in the stories I tell—not just an observer, not just a critic, and definitely not just a scroller.

So here’s the question I’m leaving myself with—and perhaps you too:

Are we spectators of life, or are we living it?

“You can’t cross the sea merely by standing and staring at the water.”

— Rabindranath Tagore

Balancing discipline and discovery

 Balancing Discipline and Discovery

by Nidhi Guglani 

Every once in a while, something simple—a short video, a passing conversation, a sudden memory—nudges us into reflection. Recently, I found myself watching a few school videos shared online by students. In them, children were laughing, scribbling messages on walls and uniforms, visiting rooftops and corners of the school that are usually off-limits. These weren’t acts of rebellion. They were farewells, quiet moments of gratitude, full of nostalgia and warmth.

And as I watched, I found myself smiling—then thinking.

As a teacher, discipline has always been a part of how I understand learning. It creates structure. It offers direction. It helps a child grow into a responsible adult. Over the years, I’ve believed in setting limits, upholding boundaries, and reminding students that freedom must come with accountability.

And yet, there’s another side.

Watching those students enjoy their last days with innocent joy reminded me of something equally important: discovery. The joy of doing something spontaneous. The beauty of small rule-bending when it’s harmless and heartfelt. The kind of experiences that don’t just teach you lessons but leave you with lasting memories.

In those brief clips, I saw something that perhaps many of us overlook—we focus so much on shaping our students that we sometimes forget how much they shape us too. Their sense of wonder. Their ability to turn ordinary spaces into places of meaning. Their effortless blend of fun and reflection.

I’ll admit, I was never the kind of student to push boundaries. I followed rules diligently. Never bunked a class. Never tested the lines. And perhaps that’s why today, in retrospect, I can appreciate how others did so—within limits, without harm, and often with great insight.

Of course, not all acts of exploration come from the right place. There are moments where freedom, especially when amplified through social media, is misused—when the line between creativity and carelessness blurs. As educators, we’ve all come across instances where online content from school life crosses boundaries, compromises dignity, or becomes a tool for mockery. And it’s in these moments that discipline isn’t just necessary—it becomes protective. Because freedom without awareness can turn reckless.

This isn’t to say that rules should be broken or that discipline has no place. Quite the opposite. But maybe, just maybe, there’s space within those rules for joy. For creativity. For students to feel a little more themselves in the spaces we’ve long tried to keep formal.

As teachers, we constantly navigate that fine line between discipline and discovery. And I’m beginning to understand—it’s not about choosing one over the other. It’s about holding space for both.

Perhaps the real goal is not to produce perfect students, but to guide children who can reflect, explore, and eventually shape the world with both responsibility and freedom.