Starting Again: A Re-Entry Story

This blog post was crafted in collaboration with OpenAI's GPT-4o model.

The small conference room smelled faintly of dry-erase markers and hand sanitizer. Ms. Anders, the principal, glanced at the clock—3:28 p.m. The re-entry meeting would begin in two minutes.

She looked at the table, where four nameplates stood: hers, Ms. Williams (the second-grade teacher), Mr. Blake (the special education teacher), and Ms. Dana (the school counselor). Two more chairs sat at the end of the table, one of them waiting for someone smaller.

“He’s coming,” Ms. Williams said, smoothing out a folder. Her voice was soft but tense. “I saw him and his mom outside. He looked… nervous.”

Principal Anders nodded. “We all are. But we’re here for him.”

When Aiden walked in, his small shoulders were hunched, his eyes fixed on the carpet. His mom, April, gave a polite nod, clutching her purse like a shield.

“Hi, Aiden. Ms. Carter. We’re really glad you’re here,” Ms. Anders said. “This is just a time for us to talk, figure out how to make things better, and welcome Aiden back into class.”

Aiden said nothing. He sat, arms crossed, head low.

There was a pause. Ms. Dana leaned forward. “Aiden, would it be okay if we shared some of the things we really like about you before we talk about the hard stuff?”

Aiden gave a one-shoulder shrug.

“I’ll go first,” said Mr. Blake. “You’re one of the quickest thinkers I’ve met in second grade. That brain of yours works faster than mine sometimes, and I’ve been teaching for twenty years.”

Aiden didn’t look up, but his shoulders loosened just a little.

Ms. Williams chimed in. “You make some of the funniest observations during read-alouds. Like when we read The Day the Crayons Quit and you said, ‘The blue crayon’s probably tired because it has to color all the skies and oceans!’ The class laughed for a whole minute.”

April smiled at her son. “He’s always been that way. Funny without even trying.”

Ms. Anders added, “And we’ve seen you help others—like when you stayed behind to help Jonah find all the number tiles during math stations. That was thoughtful.”

Aiden finally looked up for a moment. “He couldn’t find the eights.”

Ms. Dana smiled. “You noticed that. That’s what we mean—you’re a good friend when you want to be.”

Ms. Anders leaned in a bit. “Okay. Let’s talk about what happened, so we can figure out how to clean it up. Aiden, you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But if you're willing, we’d like to hear what it was like for you that day.”

The adults looked at both Aiden and April.

Aiden glanced at his mom, then mumbled, “Everyone was mad. Ms. Williams told me to stop kicking the chair, and I wasn’t even doing it hard. She kept telling me again and again in front of everyone.”

Ms. Williams looked down. “You’re right, Aiden. I didn’t handle that the best way. I could’ve asked you to step out and talk privately. I think I made things worse, and I’m sorry.”

The room went still. April looked surprised—but quietly appreciative.

Aiden blinked. “It just made me feel like everyone hated me. And I didn’t want to be there. So I threw the book.”

Ms. Dana leaned in. “What have you been thinking about since then?”

Aiden shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t want to be the kid who scares everybody.”

“You’re not,” April said gently, touching his arm. “We just need to figure out what to do instead when things get too big inside you.”

Ms. Anders nodded. “That’s what we’re here to do. We’re learning how to repair harm instead of just punishing it. That means we ask, ‘Who was hurt, and how can we fix it?’”

She looked at Aiden and April. “We want to help you come back in a way that feels good to both of you.”

There was a quiet moment. Then Aiden, still staring at the table, said, “Maybe I could write a note to the class. You know… say sorry. Tell them I didn’t mean to scare them.”

All eyes turned to him.

“That’s a really strong idea,” Ms. Dana said. “Would you like help writing it?”

Aiden nodded slowly. “But I want to pick the paper.”

Everyone chuckled, just a little.

Mr. Blake added, “We can make sure it goes next to your favorite book in the library corner.”

They went around the table.

Ms. Williams said, “I’m going to build in time for more breaks when I notice your energy getting high. And I’ll talk with you quietly, not in front of the whole class.”

Mr. Blake added, “I’ll help you come up with signals you can use when you feel like you might lose control, so we can catch it earlier.”

Ms. Dana said, “I’ll check in with you every morning—just a quick emotional check-in. And if you need a break, we can breathe together in the Calm Corner.”

April looked around and nodded. “I’ll start using some of these things at home. Like checking in on feelings, and giving him space when he needs it. He does better when he has time to cool off.”

Everyone turned to Aiden again. He shifted in his seat and said, “And I’ll try to say when I’m getting mad. And write the note.”

“That sounds like a good start,” Ms. Anders said, offering a small smile. “We’re all going to help each other.”

By mid-May, things weren’t perfect—but they were different.

Aiden had written a short card for his classmates: “I’m sorry for throwing a book. I was mad. I’m working on breathing instead. Thanks for being my friends.” It was tucked into the classroom library next to The Day the Crayons Quit.

He’d had a few more hard days, but also a lot of good ones. Jonah invited him to play soccer at recess. Ms. Williams started giving him small classroom jobs—delivering papers, checking off read-aloud books—and his sense of pride began to grow.

One morning during check-in, Aiden told Ms. Dana, “I think my mad gets smaller faster now.”

That same week, his mom shared at pick-up: “He’s talking to me more. Not just about school—but about feelings too. That’s new.”

The team met again for one final check-in before summer break. They were still learning. Still awkward at times. But they were building something different. Something better.

As they wrapped up, Aiden slipped a sticky note onto Ms. Williams’ desk before leaving.

It read:
“Thanks for still liking me after the book thing. I like being in your class.”