In today’s education system, the biggest irony — and perhaps the deepest institutional apathy — lies in schools boasting about hiring mental health professionals, while simultaneously silencing and sidelining them. Beneath the polished brochures and formal disclosures lies a system that routinely undermines the very purpose of mental health support.
Mental health professionals are meant to be the protectors of emotional well-being, the anchors of safe spaces where children can process their fears, anxieties, and traumas. But in reality, many find themselves powerless, gagged by institutional expectations that prioritize reputation over care. They are expected to document everything for optics, not impact. They’re often instructed to report everything to parents — the very source of distress for some children — defeating the core purpose of trust and confidentiality.
Meanwhile, children battling separation anxiety, selective mutism, or emotional neglect are told — directly or indirectly — to toughen up. Their legitimate distress is misread as indiscipline. Their silence is mocked. Their rebellion is not just discouraged — it is criminalized. And what should have been the most beautiful, transformative years of their schooling become riddled with labels, guilt, and emotional abandonment.
Their silence — especially in the presence of others — is seen not as a cry for help, but as disrespect. A threat. A challenge to the inflated egos of those who demand obedience over understanding. That silence bruises authority, so the system responds with shame — labeling, isolating, and punishing. But what they fail to see is that this silence isn’t arrogance. It’s survival. And when it is met with punishment instead of compassion, it slowly drains the child’s self-esteem, chokes their voice, and kills their dreams of the future. A hug that could heal the scars, often ends up widening them. The system’s insistence on “discipline” and “obedience” often turns tenderness into control.
A student suffering from mental health struggles is rarely nurtured. Instead, they are mocked for being “too sensitive,” “poorly brought up,” or “spoiled.” And if they develop a rapport with the school counselor, the relationship itself is questioned — as though seeking support is something shameful.
Even the professionals are not spared. A counselor who dares to show empathy may be cast as “too soft” or “unprofessional,” and worst of all, they may be blamed for corrupting the school’s “discipline culture.” Laughing with students, noticing the tears hidden behind smiles, trying to create space for emotion — all these are seen as acts of defiance rather than care.
This isn’t just apathy.
This is institutional betrayal.
A betrayal so deep, it writes failure into the very structure that claims to build success.
The system doesn’t just fail to understand students — it trains them to believe they are unworthy of being understood.
Some students are made scapegoats for everything wrong in the institution. After spending 12 to 14 years in the same school, they are not celebrated for their resilience but mocked for their emotional needs. How can an institution that watched a child grow for over a decade fail to understand the battles behind their rebellion? The same child develops into an adult filled with insecurities, self- doubt and what not and yet shows up smiling and cheering for everyone. The biggest question remains who cheered for them?
It is time to question not just the system, but the values it promotes. Apathy is being taught. It is being conditioned. Conditioned unconsciously, yet knowingly. Emotional repression is being normalized. Children are taught, not gently but forcefully, that to feel is to fail. Emotional expression — when it finally emerges — isn’t welcomed as a sign of trust or healing. Instead, it’s treated as a disruption. A surprise. And not the kind of surprise that invites care, but one that provokes punishment.
A tear becomes a threat.
A raised voice becomes misconduct.
A breakdown is seen as a weakness.
And so, children learn to suppress instead of share. To mask instead of mend. Seeking help is equated with weakness. And schools, the very places meant to nurture, have become the breeding grounds for emotional neglect.
And we wonder why the adolescent years arrive like storms — chaotic, rebellious, and misunderstood.
So, what’s the solution? If schools are not ready to create safe emotional spaces, they should stop pretending. Hiring a mental health professional only to restrict their function is not support — it’s suppression. But they won’t stop, because compliance with regulatory boards like CBSE demands it. So, the charade continues.
The real question is: when will empathy replace this performative care?
When will institutions realize that nurturing emotional health is not a checkbox for compliance, but a cornerstone for true education?
Until then, we continue to raise our voices — for the professionals who care, and more importantly, for the students who deserve to be heard.
These pieces are being published as they have been received – they have not been edited/fact-checked by ThePrint.
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