This story was published by a Voices of Change fellow. Learn more about the fellowship here.
I unlock my classroom door each morning, and before I ever reach the board, I reach for a screen. I check messages that came in overnight, scan platform updates and read alerts that did not exist when I was a student. Families reach out late because school no longer ends when the building closes. Before a single child walks through the door, I have already entered multiple digital spaces.
Teaching now begins inside systems that never pause, and that reality shapes everything that follows.
Growing Up With Limits and Time
Growing up, school felt contained. Textbooks sat on desks and shelves. We carried them home and brought them back, day after day. I did not have a school email address. My parents did not have access to grades in real time. When the bell rang, learning paused, and childhood picked back up.
Information moved differently then, and so did time. We heard about parties through word of mouth. We learned about trends from magazines. We waited for dismissal, rushed home and turned on MTV or BET — because shows came on at a set time. If you missed it, you missed it. You sat through commercials because that was part of watching television.
There was no rewind or fast-forward. Waiting was built into life, and patience developed without anyone naming it.
My students do not experience time the way I did. Streaming platforms removed schedules and waiting altogether. Shows start instantly. Entire seasons appear at once. Information moves at the same speed. Answers arrive immediately. Feedback is constant.
Access is broader than anything I could have imagined as a student, and opportunity feels more accessible for children who were once locked out of spaces like this. When I stop and truly take that in, I feel awe and gratitude; truly, what a time to be alive.
At the same time, that speed has reshaped attention, patience and focus inside schools that were never designed for instant access.
Living Inside the Shift
Childhood and technology are developing concurrently, and the responsibility for guiding both is substantial.
I lived through the moment when technology stopped being something you visited and became something you lived inside. I remember adults talking about 1999 like it was a warning. Not only did I witness this shift, but I worked inside it. I spent years in corporate America watching technology be built and scaled long before classrooms ever saw it. I watched artificial intelligence step onto a national stage when it was called Watson and compete on Jeopardy, and I realized technology was no longer only responding to people. It was beginning to anticipate them. That understanding soon followed me into my classroom.
These days, school doesn’t really close anymore. Learning management systems keep assignments, grades, feedback and announcements live 24 hours a day. Students do not wait until the next school day to know how they are doing. Families do not wait for report cards to be folded inside backpacks. Progress and struggle surface immediately, sometimes before a child has had time to understand what they are feeling or why they did something wrong.
Students carry digital identities alongside their backpacks. Daily, I help elementary-age children manage school email accounts, usernames and passwords. I teach digital citizenship and online safety while also teaching how to line up quietly, share materials and work through problems face-to-face. Childhood and technology are developing concurrently, and the responsibility for guiding both is substantial.
Artificial intelligence is already woven into my classroom. I watch text read aloud to students who need access. I see translation tools help families understand learning in real time. I see sentence starters help hesitant writers begin. I also see how easily students begin trusting systems they do not fully understand. Suggestions appear. Patterns are flagged. Learning is shaped by tools most children were never invited to question. Technology no longer just supports learning, it structures it.
Technology also shapes school safety and control. Digital visitor sign-in systems, cameras, alert buttons, metal detectors, and vape detectors are now part of daily life in elementary, middle and high schools. Tools once associated with court systems and airports are now a regular feature inside learning spaces. At the same time, students are told when and how they can use the very devices required for learning. Technology becomes both the solution and the restriction, and students are expected to adapt without being invited into the reasoning.
Assessment has changed as well. Many tests are now online and adaptive. Questions shift based on responses. Dashboards replace stacks of paper and red pens. I gain insight into how students think, but learning is also constantly measured, stored, and reviewed. There is little room for pause, reflection, or quiet growth.
Communication with families now lives on my phone and my computer. Messages arrive instantly. Classroom moments are shared in real time. Families feel closer to learning, and teachers feel more visible than ever before. School follows all of us home, whether we accept it or not.
What This Means for Students
In many respects, technology has fulfilled its promise. Access has expanded. Barriers have fallen. Students who were once excluded can now participate, create and imagine futures I never saw at their age.
However, as teachers and educational leaders, we did not slow down enough to protect the human experience of learning. Students are asked to process constant feedback, comparison and visibility while they are still learning how to name their emotions. When learning never pauses, neither does pressure, and children are asked to manage emotions they have not yet had time to understand. Mental health did not become fragile because students changed; it became fragile because the environment did.
Teachers are living inside this shift, too. As platforms multiplied, educators became implementers before they were supported as professionals. Innovation proceeded faster than preparation, and responsibility was placed on individuals rather than systems.
I feel that gap every day. I spend evenings teaching myself platforms, tools and policies so I can support my students the next morning. I troubleshoot systems, interpret data, manage expectations and still hold space for children who need safety, trust and belief. This model relies on personal sacrifice and is unsustainable. Teachers want to do right by students and families. What many lack is access to learning that respects time and humanity.
Mental health did not become fragile because students changed; it became fragile because the environment did.
What I Have Learned and Where We Go Next
What I have learned from living through this technological shift is both simple and difficult. Technology is powerful, but people are essential. Speed is impressive, but relationships are foundational.
I believe deeply in what technology can become. I believe in access, opportunity and innovation. But if we do not slow down, recenter the people doing the work and protect the emotional space required for learning, we risk building systems that function perfectly while the humans inside them quietly struggle.
Technology should expand possibilities, not anxiety. Education should grow minds, not exhaust them. If we remember that, this moment does not have to unravel learning. It can reshape it into something healthier, more humane and more worthy of the students and teachers who live inside it.
