In stories of old, our brave adventurers would find themselves stumbling across a hidden village in the deepest jungles, where the inhabitants held ancient mysteries and would reluctantly share their secrets. We know this story. We’ve read these tales.

And here’s the thing: this process is happening in classrooms across the world every single day. But the hidden village isn’t deep in some jungle, it’s hidden within ourselves. It’s the heartbeat of the classroom, our nervous system.

You ever had those moments where just the smallest thing would set you off, and after the explosion you’d come back and ask yourself, “What was going on?” That’s your nervous system talking. And it doesn’t always start with a shout, it begins with a whisper, a thought, a feeling. It’s the quiet hum of “not safe,” long before there’s any meltdown to see.

The truth is, children see it all. They pick up on the state of our nervous system long before we even realise it’s there. It’s in the way we walk, the way we stand, the way we breathe. It’s in the way we look at them, the tone we use, even when we think we’re holding it together. They feel it. And their behaviour responds to it, even if they don’t have the words to name it.

We like to think we’re setting the tone in the room with our lesson plans and our strategies. But honestly? Our bodies are doing the talking first. Our nervous system is the first teacher in the room, before we’ve said a single word. Children know if we’re safe. They know if we’re calm enough to really see them or if we’re already somewhere else, stuck in our own stories.

One of the most powerful moments of realisation for me was when I saw how much impact I could have on a dysregulated child. Not with my words, but with my presence. To watch a child melt into your regulation. To see them borrow the calm they need to move through the emotions. That’s the power of the hidden classroom. It’s not about the script you memorise or the perfect words you say. It’s about the safety you can offer with your breath, your body and your willingness to be there, steady and present.

This realisation changed the way I turn up for children, knowing that the power of my nervous system is more powerful than any words I can say.

And that’s the real work, seeing what’s going on inside us before we try to “manage” what’s going on around us. Noticing the tension in our shoulders, the shortness of our breath, the stories we’re carrying that tell us it’s not okay to just pause and feel. Because here’s the thing: when we show up regulated, children lean in. When we’re stuck in our own stress, they pull away, even if they can’t explain why.

It’s not about having it all figured out. It’s about being willing to pause when you feel that flicker of tension, to notice the voice in your head that says, “I’m not safe here.” Because that voice matters more than any behaviour plan you’ve ever made. That’s the real conversation. And it’s happening whether you’re tuned in or not.

For me, the more I paid attention, the more I saw how this shows up in the smallest ways. How a child’s meltdown wasn’t just about them, it was about me, too. About how I was showing up, how I was (or wasn’t) breathing. The nervous system is the hidden classroom. It’s always there, teaching. And it’s always telling the truth.

So, what do we do with that? When you feel your own nervous system starting to spiral, here are a few things that have helped me come back to centre:

• Breathe low and slow. Not the kind of deep breath you do when you’re already worked up, but the kind that says, “I’m safe right now.”

• Ground your feet. Feel them planted on the floor. Let them remind you that you’re here, in this moment, not lost in your head.

• Relax your jaw and shoulders. Those spots that carry everything you don’t even realise you’re holding.

• Yawn or sigh. Yep, sounds weird. But it’s the body’s way of saying, “We’re okay.” A natural reset.

• Look up and around. Take in the space around you. Let your eyes settle on something that’s not moving. That stillness can be your anchor.

None of these things are magic. They’re not going to make you a perfect educator. They’re just small reminders that the real work isn’t in the strategies, it’s in how you’re showing up. Because children don’t need perfect. They need real. They need adults who can say, “I’m here. I’m breathing. I can hold this with you.”

I’m not saying it’s easy. It’s not. It’s a practice. One that asks us to show up messy and human, willing to keep coming back to calm. Willing to keep coming back to ourselves, even when the day is a lot.

Because in the end, that’s what shapes everything. The nervous system is the hidden classroom. It’s where children learn what safety feels like. Where they learn if they’re seen. Where they learn if they can trust. And that starts with us. Our breath. Our presence. Our willingness to be real.

So here’s what I’d offer you: pay attention to the whispers. The ones in your chest and your shoulders. The ones that say, “I’m not okay here.” That’s the real conversation. And when you notice it, when you pause and come back to your breath, you’re already changing everything for the children watching you.

May your stories hold your power.

Jason