This story was published by a Voices of Change fellow. Learn more about the fellowship here.
One of my students has ADHD. In a traditional classroom, his restless energy might be seen as a constant disruption. But in my microschool in Atlanta, where short, active lessons and recess are built into the curriculum for grades four through 12, he thrives. He can barely sit still for 10 minutes, but he doesn’t need to. We’re always doing something that allows movement, and he belongs here.
Another student needs something different. He longs for a soft, nurturing presence, the kind that soothes with warmth. I’ll be honest: I was raised by my father, so my version of love is structure, humor and high expectations, not hugs and gentle tones. For him, I come across as harsh. While one child tells everyone how much he loves me, this child quietly believes I don’t like him. Same teacher. Two very different fits.
That’s when I began to see what I hadn’t been allowed to say in a public school: one child belonged here — the other did not. Those of us who teach and believe in education for all would like to believe that every classroom can meet the needs of every child. It sounds noble, even fair. But schools were never truly built that way.
Maybe real equity begins when we accept that belonging looks different for each child, and that true fairness means giving every student the chance to find the place where they actually fit.
A Shift in Perspective
When I worked in public schools, I had no choice in who entered my classroom. I was expected to reach every child, regardless of fit, and I carried guilt when my approach didn’t work for someone.
Later, when I started my own school, I thought I would serve everyone equally well. But reality set in quickly. For the first three years, I was the only teacher who attempted to teach every subject, planning every lesson and holding everything together. Soon, my capacity became clear: I could not teach science. I hated it, and every science teacher I hired struggled in the same way. My school was not built for the science enthusiast. Then came students with exceptionalities I wanted to support but couldn’t. Deep in debt, I couldn’t afford more training or certifications. Through trial and error, I learned that creating a thriving space sometimes means being selective — not in the discriminatory way I once criticized, but in a way that honors who we are as educators and who our school is built to serve.
I think about one student in particular, a bright boy with an exceptionality whose attendance was inconsistent. Though he was capable, his parent often excused him from the very work that would have helped him grow. I tried every strategy I knew, but his progress stalled. Eventually, I realized that without a parent’s commitment to time and a belief in their child’s ability, even the best intentions can’t create change.
Saying no to continuing his enrollment was one of the hardest choices I’ve ever made, but it wasn’t rooted in rejection; it was rooted in honesty. That moment taught me that being selective isn’t about exclusion; it’s about capacity, alignment and care.
My school is wonderful for the right family and for the children who need short lessons, movement, flexibility and structure wrapped in humor. For others, another school might be the better fit. That doesn’t make my school less. It makes it intentional.
What This Means for Schools
What if schools admitted this truth out loud? Not every child belongs in every school, and not every teacher’s style works for every child. What if we stopped shaming teachers for not reaching every child in the same way, and instead built ecosystems where families and educators could find the right match?
“School choice” is not just about privilege. It’s about belonging. It’s about giving children spaces where their needs and personalities are met, and giving teachers the freedom to serve in the ways they serve best.
Because at the end of the day, my realization always returns to the two students who first taught me this lesson: the one who thrived and the one who didn’t. One blossomed because my school was built for him. The other needed something I could not give. Both deserved to be in spaces that fit. That is the heart of school choice — not separation, not exclusion, but the belief that every child and every teacher should be able to say: This place was made for me.