August 15, 2026
I was sitting in a professor’s office discussing a failed math exam. I wanted to know what I could do to improve and pass. His response was “I’ve never seen anyone work their way back from this exam. I don’t want to get your hopes up.”
He was speaking from experience. From decades of teaching and hundreds of students. At that point, I was one more passing through. We were a blur to him.
But there was a difference. I worked my way back. I passed (and no, he never acknowledged it, another brick of trauma in the wall between me and mathematics).
Ask yourself, in your classroom who is the main character, you or your students? In a compassionate math class, it’s not you; it’s them. And that dynamic is established on day one.
You never get a second chance to make a first impression, even in math class.
Many students come in wondering if this class will be like so many others they’ve experienced: A space that’s confusing, boring, or downright scary. We set our expectations based on previous experiences and if previous math classes didn’t feel safe (as unfortunately so many do), students will walk in already feeling anxious, anticipating the emotional turmoil to come.
As student walks into your classroom they are looking for signs, wondering what to expect. They’re writing the story of the entire semester to come in these first few moments.
Don’t believe me? I’ve had students walk up to me and let me know immediately that they will fail my class because math isn’t for them. It’s up to you to either reinforce or undermine their impression.
During that first day of class, within the first five minutes, you have only ONE GOAL. You must get your students to come back.
Even if you’re a K-12 teacher and your students are forced to come back day after day, your job is to get them to want to come back and be present, not physically but mentally.
How do you do this? By letting students know that you see them as people first and as math-doers second. That’s it. That’s your goal for the first day.
Let your students know that your math class is different, that this is a welcome space to think and play with mathematics and that math trauma is acknowledged, recognized, and dismantled in this space.
This is your best chance to interrupt your student’s math trauma story (don’t worry, you’ll have other chances, but this one is the most important).
Your first five minutes
When someone enters your home for the first time, your first actions dictate the tone of the entire visit. Do you greet them with a smile, looking calm or are you haggard and flustered? Are they offered a refreshment right away? Do you take their coat or tell them to toss it on the bed?
What you do in these moments will carry throughout their visit. The same holds in your class. James Lang notes that“The opening five minutes offer us a rich opportunity to capture the attention of students and prepare them for learning.”
For my first day of class, I try to be there before students. I smile. I say hello. I look students in the eyes. I let them know that I’m happy that they are there.
A smile and greeting are meaningful and goes a long way and, in this world, they seem to be harder to find.
Let your class be that beautiful space where they know there’s a smile waiting for them. Ask them how they are. Break the ice. Let them know you’re happy they are there.
Math class is hard; it doesn’t matter if it’s topology or 7th grade algebra. Please don’t start off reminding students of that.
Avoid the “look to your left, look to your right” types of motivators. You’re more likely to have a room of people thinking they’re the one that will fail.
Rather, start off by welcoming students and encouraging them to embrace the challenges ahead. See the difference? The latter changes how students interpret the hard moments to come and lets them know that you are on their side rather than giving them the vibe that you relish the moment they fail.
Next, you should acknowledge their mathematical experiences. This is the part most instructors skip, and it’s the most important.
It sounds like: “Welcome to math class. This may not be your most favorite place in the world but I’m glad you’re here and I can’t wait for us to get to know one another.”
Then, and this is important, name math trauma out loud. “Many of you may have had experiences in math classrooms that were not okay; in fact, you could even call them traumatic. Maybe you were embarrassed at the board, or told you weren’t smart enough. Those experiences are real, and they leave marks. I take those experiences seriously because I know it shapes how you show up here.”
What you’re doing is acknowledging (maybe for the first time) their experiences learning math. Doing this normalizes their feelings and lets them know someone sees them for who they are.
This also let students know that even though you hold high expectations for them, you are willing to acknowledge the burdens they carry and how their previous experiences color how they engage in your class.
Tying expectations with the recognition of their math trauma (if it exists), lets them know that although they may not have been (or felt) successful in the past, they can still be successful in the future.
More than anything, consider how students are feeling and ensure that your actions are bringing them to a space where they are willing to engage in rigorous, interesting mathematics.
If you, yourself, suffer from math trauma, you can own and share your feelings without being inappropriate or undermining your authority. Again, authenticity is key.
Let students know that you’ve also struggled to learn math, but that with hard work you were able to persevere. You don’t have to lie and say things like “I was making sure you were paying attention.” when students notice your mistake.
Acknowledge your humanity and admit that making mistakes is normal and that you appreciate being corrected.
By sharing, you set the stage for vulnerability, a critical element for making big change. Name your math trauma, at a developmentally appropriate level. “I’m going to work hard on this with you” is a legitimate stance.
Students can tell when a teacher is performing confidence they don’t have; they respond much better to honest partnership than to a mask.
Acknowledge our collective humanity
Usually, before I discuss a syllabus, course objectives, or rules, I give a moment to recognize our collective humanity. I introduce myself. Not as a professor or a teacher, but as a person. I tell a little about myself, both personally and professionally.
In a college class, I’ve often opened with an “AMA: Ask me anything” and will truly encourage students to ask me whatever they would like. This really breaks the ice. The questions usually start off with something like “how much does the final count to my grade?”. My response will be “I just gave you permission to ask me anything, is this what you really want to know?”. The ice will crack and students will laugh. Then the questions get interesting (and they’ve never been inappropriate).
My most interesting question was “What are you afraid of?” and without missing a beat I answered, “Getting caught.” They wanted to know more, and the conversation went from there, but still in an appropriate way.
Authenticity. That’s what matters most. If you do an ice breaker, don’t do something boring. Get people laughing.
Although I’ll warn you that sometimes you can inadvertently have an awkward moment like when I asked students what they had for dinner.
Have students tell their favorite joke or share what they’re currently listening to. Get students talking to you and to one another. Release the tension in the room and make the space comfortable.
Class size may change the delivery, not the substance. A two-minute acknowledgment in a lecture hall of two hundred students still lands; what matter is that you let your class know that you see them as individuals not an amorphous class where students have no individual identities.
One of the best examples of this is from my college days. One of my English professors, Richard Pindell, leveraged his charisma well enough that he could enrapture a 150-person lecture hall. Even if he didn’t talk to you directly, you knew he saw you as an individual. One way he did this was to pretty quickly learn the names of anyone who raised their hand. (Godspeed, Pindell)
On that note, I always had difficulty learning students’ names. I tried so many methods and “tricks,” but it always took me about 2-3 weeks to learn names. I envied colleagues who could learn a roster of names on the first day.
If there’s one way to acknowledge an individual, it’s to learn their name. Even in my classes, I would be open about my desire to learn names and inability to do so that it would sometimes be the way we’d break the ice.
Syllabus, norms, and rules of engagement
The vibe in class on the first day could carry more weight than what you have written in your syllabus. For math specifically, the stakes are higher. Math anxiety is well documented as a distinct construct that impairs working memory during quantitative tasks.
If a student walks into class already anxious, and the first thing they encounter is a cold recitation of policies and a warning about how many people fail, you’ve just confirmed every fear they brought with them.
Although your class policies are a contract between you and the students, it shouldn’t have a “me vs you” tone. Rather, establish that policies are there to support the student and help them be the best they can be.
Compassion doesn’t mean avoiding what’s hard or uncomfortable; it means leaning into and engaging with that discomfort to get to a resolution.
When it comes to the syllabus and compassion, this work should be done well before students enter the class; when you’re writing the syllabus.
Don’t skip the syllabus, but don’t go through it using the tone of a lawyer or drill sergeant. In fact, I’ve highlighted polices that I added or modified based on experiences where a change in policy would better support the students.
Explaining that your syllabus or policies evolves brings some humanity to the process and removes that feeling that students are being fed into a machine.
For example, if you have an attendance policy, outline that it is because there is more than enough research that shows that attendance leads to improved grades, and therefore your policy is a way to help students be held accountable for an important component that will support their learning.
On the flip side, when attendance didn’t count in my class, I’d say “Whether you’re in class or not is your business but drop me a line because I want to know that you’re safe and you’re ok.”
Believe it or not plenty students wrote to me to let me know they wouldn’t be in class and would often say why (car trouble, exhaustion, hangover… ). Once or twice, it was because they were in real distress and I was able to lend some support. On one occasion, the student told me that I was the only adult they had ever met who told them they cared about them!
I used to go through the syllabus line by line. Even then I would have students reach out to me and ask me questions that were in it!
Now, I suggest have students do a read aloud. Give them 5 minutes to read silently, then they can read out loud any interesting or important points.
This method was more effective in getting students to understand class policies and told me what parts of my syllabus caught their eye.
I don’t do norms on day 1, that’s better for day 2. I think norms are critically important to establish in class. However, I think of norms as being VERY different than rules, and at some point, may outline my method of co-creating norms with a class.
I’ve shared this method in some of the professional development that I’ve done, so if you’re interested in learning more please reach out.
The diagnostic quiz
Math is hard enough and wrought with enough negativity that a quiz on the first day would be extremely jarring. Don’t give a diagnostic quiz on the first day.
An assessment day one tells students you want to know what they can’t do before you know even know their names (even if you see it differently). Whatever information you’d gain is not worth the message it sends.
If you can, try to give it on the second day of class. If you are required to give some sort of diagnostic, be sure to frame it so students are assured that you are using their work for feedback rather than to assess them. Say something like “This is only a way to for me to understand where you are. It doesn’t count for anything.” Even better, don’t use the word “quiz” use “diagnostic” or just “worksheet”.
More importantly, use the data. Don’t look at the results and file them away. And this is critical: Let your students know you’re using these data. Make a point to reference them later, “your diagnostic told me that integers give some of you trouble, so be sure to review or do these optional problems to get ready for the next section which will require you to understand integers.” This lets students know that the diagnostic really was an evaluative, and not punitive tool. It’s small moves like this that build trust.
Rather than giving an evaluation, and no matter what happens, you should be sure to do some math or talk about math. Perhaps you can frame your diagnostic as an activity.
Personally, I like having a discussion around what math is and asking students why they think studying math is important (aside from learning to make change or basic accounting). That conversation is often the basis and framing for a lot more over the course of the semester.
Expect the unexpected
There was one semester when I handed students a survey about their previous math experiences and their confidence (based on the research on math autobiographies). It was in that class where the students came to me afterwards and prepared me for the fact that they will fail my class.
I did not expect that students’ negative experiences towards math carried so strongly. This was relatively early in my career, and I was naively trying to do right by my students. I had no idea what lay in that Pandora’s box.
When I went home, I spent time turning this problem around in my head because after giving out that survey, I knew I couldn’t just ignore what I heard. In fact, I didn’t.
That day was the trigger for one of my first publications, a study on using math affirmations. The second day, I came in with my math affirmations activity and the effect it had on my class was amazing. Math affirmations turned into a tool I leveraged several times in my career.
There was no way to predict that a simple activity could turn into a semester-long endeavor and contribution to research.
In any event, what mattered was that I didn’t ignore what I heard that first day. I responded to the students’ anxiety and needs and together we moved towards something positive and beautiful.
When you engage with your students, be sure to follow up. Don’t be another disappointment in their lives.
End how you started
As the class ends, be sure to once again thank the students for coming in and let them know you look forward to seeing them in the next class.
In the college class specifically, this is critical since college students have the choice whether to attend your class. Telling them you’re looking forward to seeing them again soon sets an expectation for them to meet.
For all students, including younger students, this reminder reinforces a personal connection that you created and lets them know you’re looking forward to building a relationship with them.
Math class is hard for almost everyone. Your goal is not to sugar coat it or promise an easy ride; your goal is to let them know that you’re on their side and that you believe in them. That’s it.
On your first day of class, you’ve made a small connection with them, as small as a thread. Next class, you’ll add another thread to your connection. Eventually, aim to spin enough thread to form a strong rope.
What a compassionate first day does is buy you permission. Permission to ask hard questions, to push students into productive struggle, to give feedback that’s honest without being cruel.
You can’t do authentic, rigorous mathematics and in a classroom where students are bracing for the next humiliation. The opening minutes are where you tell them, credibly, that the bracing can stop. The rest of the semester is where you prove it.
The long-term payoff
The payoff from a compassionate opening isn’t visible on day one. It shows up in week six, when a student who would have quietly disappeared, instead sends an email or slips into your office hours and that says they’re struggling.
It shows up when someone raises a hand to say they don’t understand, in front of forty other people, because the room has been established as a space of vulnerability and one where that’s a normal thing to do.
Research on classroom belonging shows that small, early signals about whether students belong in a space have outsized effects on persistence, particularly for students from groups that have been historically told they don’t belong in mathematics.
The first day is where those signals are loudest. This is also where equity, rigor, and compassion meet.
Students who carry the heaviest math trauma are disproportionately students who have been marginalized in other ways, and the opening minutes of a class either compound that feeling or interrupt it. There’s no neutral option.
If you do interrupt it, the students are more open to intellectually engage, allowing rigor to take center-stage in class.
Besides, what’s the downside of being compassionate? Students who don’t carry math trauma will hear it as context for their classmates and move on. Students who do carry it will hear, often for the first time, that an instructor knows they exist.
The downside risk is close to zero; the upside is significant.
©2026 Compassionate Math, LLC. All rights reserved.
This material is original content. However, the topic and some citations were recommended by AI. Standard spelling and grammar checkers were also used.