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There is nothing more foreboding, nothing that I hate more than putting my feet down into deep water. How can I possibly fathom what lies beneath? A prehistoric shark? A stinging jellyfish? Something… worse. Perhaps a severed arm floating in the murk. Stretching down, it feels like the water will swallow your face. The vastness seems endless… until it doesn’t. When I put my feet down into deep water after the pummeling of a storm, I felt them scrape against a rough surface—a firm foundation, a place to stand and rest.  Whether the storm is literal or metaphorical, we all need a foundation—something other than ourselves—to stand on and rest. Victor Frankl wrote about this in Man’s Search for Meaning. He observed the suffering in concentration camps, and noticed that those who survived with their souls intact found something other than themselves to provide meaning and purpose. Not tidy answers. Not pat explanations for their suffering. Rather, an ineffable sense of Love - something beyond themselves - that sustained them through profound suffering (Frankl, 1946/2006) I am fortunate that my 2025 looked nothing like Frankl’s 1945.  Viktor E. Frankl Institute of America. (n.d.). The life of Viktor E. Frankl. ViktorFranklAmerica. https://viktorfranklamerica.com/viktor-frankl-bio/ Still, in 2025 I found myself in a place where my usual self-care routine—exercise, journaling, and boundaries—stopped working. Perhaps you find yourself there too. What kept me afloat was counterintuitive. I needed to stretch my feet down into deep water. Instead of my usual habits, I took my own advice around second-order change: “If what you are doing isn’t working, try something else” (Diaz, 2025, 104). For me, putting my feet down into deep water looked like this: I needed to stop:
I needed to stop allowing my mind to circle circle circle in reactivity, what ifs, and problem solving mode - I’m so good at problem solving mode. I needed to go deep:
Practically, putting my feet down into deep water looked like this:
 Now I can feel the sand beneath my toes. Grounded, not because I controlled the waves, but because I stopped resisting them. I inhale through my nose, and exhale slowly through pursed lips, ensuring the exhale is longer than my inhale. Then I open my eyes and look around. I remind myself to put on my “writer-lens” and notice my surroundings to describe them. This serves as a form of grounding that feels meaningful to me. The mundane became enchanted: navy velvet curtains, imperfectly hanging over my windows, dark academia aesthetic intact—imperfection embraced, perfection surrendered. Then I move my body—not as a self-care checkbox, but to inhabit my midlife self fully: discovering tight shoulders, upper back, hips. Stretching through the tension that forms from clinging to the illusion of control. All of this takes 15 minutes. Afterward, I am ready—not just superficially, but deeply—to step back into the water. To smile authentically at the people I carry with me, knowing my energy has been restored not by distraction or habit, but by facing the depth with my feet grounded on my firm foundation. What will you do in 2026 to put your feet down into deep water? Works citedFrankl, V. E. (2006). Man’s search for meaning (R. W. Lively, Trans.). Beacon Press. (Original work published 1946)
White Diaz, E. (2025). Discover, connect, respond: A practical approach to trauma-informed instruction. Seidlitz Education.here to edit. “Put your oxygen mask on first,” they say. “Sure. Sure. Of course. Of course.” Box checked. Exercise regime humming. Journaling practice in place. Boundaries—well-established. But…but…2025. On December 31st, I might resurrect the Honduran tradition of “burning the old year.” Crafting a mannequin—always a man, for some reason—and setting it aflame to usher in the new. It seemed violent at the time. But now it feels just right. I don’t know about your last year, but my 2025 deserves to be burned.  El Mundo. (2020). La quema del tradicional “Año Viejo” [Photograph]. STN Honduras. https://stnhn.com/la-quema-del-tradicional-ano-viejo/ Friends, witnessing my 2025, say: “Elise, it’s been a year. Take care of yourself.” Sure. Sure. Of course. Of course. But this morning, I realized I was tired. Deep-tired. Limbs heavy, brain fog thick. The kind of tiredness that comes after a day at the ocean—a day of drifting, rolling with waves under a brilliant blue sky. Then—without warning—a monster wave rises. Just enough for a quick moment of panic. You’re flung, twisted, sandy hair in your eyes, salt stinging your nose, swimsuit lodged in the wrong place. Out of breath. Then—another wave. And another. And another. The deluge finally slows. You take stock. The shore is too far. And besides, you’re carrying people with you. You are always carrying people with you.  So, what to do?
“Just keep swimming,” Dori, the fish, once said. And so we do. Stroke. Breathe. Repeat. But we don’t realize how tired we are, how the joy of floating has slipped away. We are in danger of sinking - and we don’t ever realize it. And what about those we carry with us? Then a voice, distant, urgent: “Put your feet down!” “What? Are you crazy? It’s so deep!” “Just do it!” For some reason I trusted the stranger and put my feet down into deep water. And there it was. A sandbar, far from shore. Relief coursed through me. Limbs loosened. Chest expanded. Exhale long and full. Self-care alone was not enough after the pounding. I needed solid ground. A moment to rest. To breathe. To gather strength before the waves came again. (What does it mean to “Put Your Feet Down Into Deep Water”? To be continued…) Today in Texas the weather feels idyllic—eighty degrees, a soft breeze drifting through the air. But beneath that calm, I sense storms on the horizon. I see it in the hard stare of an adolescent passing in the hallway, unaware that her eyes project deep hurt. I feel it in the heaviness that settles over a high school classroom, in the way faces drop and eyes avoid contact. I notice it in a boy’s restless movement—or in his complete stillness. And yet, the pressure of the clock pushes me forward. Content to cover. Educators to support. Time, always ticking, ticking, ticking. Maybe you’ve felt this too: I thrive on structure and routine, the kind that keeps me from slipping back into my default mode--head down, just get the work done. It feels safer to ignore the emotions simmering in the room. After all, I don’t have the energy to coach anyone through their feelings. But that is precisely what’s needed. Because when a student is disengaged, when they aren’t working, the problem isn’t laziness—it’s the brain in survival mode.  Neuroscience reminds us that learning happens in the cortex—where memory, logic, and language live. But to get there, we must first help students quiet the flood of emotions in what Dr. Dan Siegel calls the “downstairs brain.”
That’s where the 4 S’s come in—a simple tool for moments when students are caught in a stress response (fight, flight, freeze, or fawn). Four moves, two sentence stems for teachers and two action prompts, to shift the climate in the room and help students re-engage. “I see that…” – Name the behavior without judgment. Your head is down on the desk. You’re moving around a lot and wringing your hands. You just threw that paper across the room. “What’s going on?” – Invite the student to share. “It sounds like…” – Reflect their words back verbatim. Then check for accuracy: “Is that right?” Suggest an emotion. – Suggest possible feelings to help them identify their own: “Are you feeling down? Nervous? Overwhelmed?” (Dr. Marc Brackett’s Mood Meter is a helpful guide here.) Support. – Place ownership with the student instead of fixing the problem for them. “How can I help?” The 4 S’s routine reminds us as educators to pause, set aside assumptions, and mirror a student’s emotional state with compassion. This small act helps students feel seen and heard, opening the door to co-regulation. Over time, they learn to sit with uncomfortable emotions, to name them, and to realize they are not alone in carrying them. That is resilience-building in action. And when we show up for students in this way, the impact is nothing short of transformative. Print a guide to this routine for your lanyard: https://bit.ly/DCRpadlet What does a trauma-informed classroom look like for culturally and linguistically diverse students?8/18/2025
1. A trauma-informed multilingual classroom feels calm, welcoming, and intentional. The environment avoids clutter and busy décor that can overwhelm students, instead favoring a minimalistic setup where every element has a purpose. Signage is plentiful, with simple visuals and clear icons—like airport wayfinding—so that students navigating a new language can find what they need with ease. A small “take a break” area is available for moments of stress, and some seating is arranged with backs to the wall to give students a sense of safety. Flexible seating options, soothing textures, natural light, and gentle sounds help create a sense of calm. The classroom warms up slowly, giving space for timid students to settle in, while artwork and posters reflect true diversity so that every learner feels represented. (Picture below designed by Anne Charlotte Patterson).  2. What’s on the walls (and slides). Include representation that is personal to you - artists that you value, music genres you’ve explored, connections points with students. This “hero wall” came from Gianni Fianacca.  3. When choosing clip art or images for your slides, pause to consider whether they reflect the diversity of your students. Even these small details matter. Each visual choice communicates who belongs in the learning space, and when students see themselves—or people who look and sound like them—represented, it helps build a powerful sense of belonging. Encourage the whole class to take part in welcoming students from other cultures and language groups. One simple way is to teach everyone how to say “hello” in different languages. (For example, educator Lacey Scalf creates visuals with the greetings written phonetically so students can easily pronounce them.) Practice the greetings yourself first, then invite the class to echo them—building both confidence and a culture of inclusion.  4. Welcome students with genuine gladness. Let your delight show through your facial expressions, body language, and tone of voice--it sets the tone for the whole classroom. Consider offering a small token or gift to make each student feel seen. For example, I like to scatter a variety of stickers on my middle school students’ desks, letting them choose one that resonates with them. I also leave a few desks without stickers for students who prefer not to pick one. These little tokens can become natural conversation starters—“Oh, you like The Office too?”—helping students connect with you and with each other. Purchase this 300 pack on Amazon (for $13.99).  5. Name tents with the correct pronunciation of their names Asking students to create name tents with their names written phonetically—how the name sounds—is about more than helping the teacher. It gives every student in the class the ability to say each other’s names correctly from day one. Pronouncing a student’s name correctly shows respect for their identity and culture. For culturally and linguistically diverse students, hearing their name said correctly can foster a sense of belonging and signal that their presence and background are valued. Conversely, mispronouncing a name—even unintentionally—can create feelings of exclusion or otherness. Taking the time to learn names correctly is a simple but powerful way to build an inclusive, welcoming classroom community.  6. First Activity (Collaborative Puzzle for Data Collection) I like to have a “slow start” on the first day. After students create their name tents, the main activity is a collaborative puzzle—especially if I have them for a single session block. This activity encourages students to connect with each other in a hands-on way, and it gives me a chance to observe how they interact: What kind of language do they use? Do they enjoy working together, or do they prefer to work independently? I let students sit where they like—often near the sticker they chose—then afterward, I fill out a seating chart and make notes about strengths, opportunities, and potential challenges for classroom success. During the puzzle activity, I also have opportunities to move around and make one-on-one connections: noticing details like a student’s sneakers or bracelet, and using those observations to spark conversation. These small personal connections help students feel seen and build trust from day one.  7. Ready for Re-Do’s
When I introduce myself, I often use a visual slideshow to share a bit about who I am and to connect with the diverse cultures represented in the classroom. I also bring an object from home that symbolizes something about me—a pencil. I explain that the pencil represents my belief in the power of starting over: I like to erase and try again because I don’t always get it right the first time. I ask for my students’ grace this year, acknowledging that I may make mistakes, but emphasizing that mistakes are welcomed as a natural part of learning. I then invite students to bring something meaningful from home that symbolizes who they are. This is optional, not required, and will be part of a “show and tell” on Friday. I make sure to check each item before it is shared with the class. This activity encourages students to express themselves, fosters connection, and celebrates the diversity and individuality in the classroom. Creating a classroom that is welcoming, inclusive, and trauma-informed takes intention, but the impact is profound. Small gestures—like honoring students’ names, providing a calm and visually clear environment, offering flexible seating, and inviting students to share a piece of themselves—communicate respect, belonging, and care. These first-day practices set the tone for a school year where every student feels seen, heard, and valued, and where learning becomes a shared, joyful experience.  As a new school year begins, we often find ourselves caught between excitement and overwhelm. The pressure to dive into content, meet benchmarks, and manage classroom behaviors can be intense — but if we don’t start by attending to students’ emotional safety, sense of belonging, and personal stories, everything else will be harder than it needs to be. This month, I’m launching a "Beginning of the Year" blog series designed to help you lay the groundwork for a trauma-informed, culturally responsive, and relationship-centered classroom. We’ll explore practical strategies for establishing routines and structures that support students holistically, and we’ll share simple, meaningful activities to get to know the young people in your care.  Here’s what’s coming:
Structures and Routines at the Start of the Year
 At the end of the school year, I was supporting a science teacher who had a newcomer in her classroom — a student, she explained, who “didn’t speak a lick of English.” She wanted to know the best way to support her. After a few questions, it turned out this student had actually been in the U.S. since the beginning of the year, had a well-developed L1 (Spanish — which, notably, shares many linguistic components with English), but still wasn’t vocalizing in the language of instruction. When I entered the room, I quickly spotted who she meant. The student sat at a lab table up front, alongside a boy who was happily translating every word for her. My task that day was to model how to engage students — including newcomers — in structured conversation. But as I got started, I noticed that everything I said was being auto-translated onto the screen via some app or extension, alongside the conversation frame I’d prepared. “Would you mind turning the translation off?” I asked the teacher. This isn’t an unusual request for me. I often find myself requesting a pause in translation from paraprofessionals or even other students in classrooms. “Before you translate, ask if they understand first.” Or: “Let’s give her a chance to listen and see what she can pick up.” I do this because I’m about to give students loads of comprehensible input — language paired with context, visuals, gestures, and clear scaffolds for low-stress output. That might sound like something as simple as a sentence stem: ‘One good thing is…’ and practicing it together. When I explain this to people outside the field, their faces can sometimes reflect horror. “How could you? Seventh grade science is overwhelming even for English speakers!” Paradoxically, I actually share their concern. At the same time that I ask for a pause in translation, my skin crawls when I hear an adult admonish students: “Speak English!” when they hear them using their heritage language to make meaning.  So where’s the line?
It’s a question I am often asked in my consulting work: When should we use translation? Here’s my answer: Use translation as a tool — until it becomes a crutch. The challenge, of course, is recognizing the difference. When to Use Translation (and When Not To) So — when should we use translation? Here’s what I encourage teachers to keep in mind when working with newcomer students: 1️⃣ When You First Meet a Newcomer: If a student has been in the U.S. for less than three years and is still developing their language production, welcome them in their home language. Even if your accent is rough, the effort communicates something powerful: Your language and culture belong here. Use an app if you need to. This lets students breathe a sigh of relief that you’re not expecting them to perform in English before they’re ready. Keep translation going as you build connections: “What do you like to do? Do you have any brothers, sisters, or pets? I have two cats — see, here’s a picture of them.” It’s a simple, human gesture that lowers the affective filter and invites relationship. 2️⃣ To Build Background Knowledge: Use translation intentionally to prepare students for what’s coming, or to help them process it afterward. I once had a newcomer with strong literacy in Mandarin. Before her science class began a unit on body systems, I assigned her a YouTube video in Mandarin covering the topic (after previewing and vetting it myself). Then, she could re-watch the English version in class with translation turned on afterward to reinforce understanding. This can also look like a pre-read or post-read of a text in their home language. I love Dr. Salva’s example of a student named Uri who did this on his own — imagine if his teachers had helped make that possible. - Dr. Salva's Video on Rapid Literacy - 3️⃣ To Allow Students to Show What They Know: Another powerful strategy is reverse translation. Instead of always translating input for the student, invite them to express their understanding in their home language, and then you use a tool like Google Translate or Google Lens to check comprehension. For example:
In that same 7th grade science class I referenced in the beginning, when the teacher asked students to take out a pencil, the newcomer did it instantly. She understood far more than anyone assumed. General Guideline: These aren’t the only times translation is appropriate, and thankfully, tools like Dr. Merica Clinkenbeard’s translation flowchart offers helpful frameworks for decision-making. - Flow Chart on Padlet - It’s a Dance. Ultimately, using translation with multilingual learners isn’t a formula — it’s a dance. One where we read students’ cues, sometimes misstep, and adjust. The point is this: language learning isn’t something students experience in isolation, through AI and apps. It’s a collaborative, human process. We need to give students moments of productive struggle, balanced with support — and always with the message that bilingualism isn’t a barrier to overcome, but a superpower to celebrate. It is March. Your class is settled and you are either gearing up for (or in the midst of) State Testing. You have been working with your multilingual students all year, and they are ready. Just as you breathe a sigh of relief and find your footing, the announcements come: a new student from out of the country is waiting in the office for you. Then another, and another. Now the question becomes, how do we integrate these newcomers into the class and curriculum when they are so far behind the language levels of their peers (who have been here all year)? The answer is so simple and intuitive it almost feels too easy: allow beginning language learners to express themselves through pictorial representation, then leverage co-created text to engage them in all four language domains. In our middle school newcomer class, we followed the on-level language arts curriculum, with a lot of scaffolding for language level. The essential question for a unit in the sixth and eighth grade curriculum was, “What is a challenge that you have overcome?” We reworded this question to: “What has been hard?” And, “What ‘wins’ have you had?” One little girl from Korea (Jenna) wanted to tell the story of her new puppy. I wasn’t sure how a new puppy was a challenge, but Jenna insisted on her chosen topic (via Google Translate), so I let her write about it. She did, after all, know the word “puppy.” Other students had a different task. If multilingual students had been with us all year, they would have responded to the grade-level prompt in a narrative essay format. We asked newcomer students (like Jenna) to put the events of their story into panels, like a graphic novel, and then add dialogue bubbles. They knew exactly what we were talking about because Manga was a favorite genre during our silent, sustained reading time. Students’ first attempts at pictorial expression were rough drafts. They tried their best on the dialogue bubbles, and some included a few words from their heritage language if they did not know the word in English. We took the draft through the writing process, using peer editing on the dialogue bubbles to help it make sense.  After students published their graphic novels (in color with the edited dialogue bubbles), I conferenced with them individually while other students continued work on their narrative essays. I pointed to the pictures and asked students to use circumlocution (talking around the unknown word they wanted to describe) to try and explain what was happening in the panel. I used a whiteboard to write down my words so they could see them, and if we really got stuck, Google Translate (in a word-to-word fashion) was the last resort. For Jenna, I pointed to Panel 9 and asked, “What is happening here?”
“Puppy…bite.” Jenna responded after a long pause, pointing to herself “Good job finding the words!” On the whiteboard, I wrote: “The puppy bit me,” and explained to Jenna that we were going to put the verb “bite” in the past tense because the puppy was not biting her at that moment. I did not explain why “bite” became “bit” (this would come later). I just wanted to give her as many reps as possible speaking, reading, and writing the language. Jenna copied these words onto an index card and practiced re-reading these words fluently. We developed three to four sentences this way so that Jenna could speak enough to describe her graphic novel to a partner. Having enough English to do so felt like a necessity in this newcomer class, in which English was the only common language. Jenna made fast progress in her English through engagement with all four language domains: listening (with comprehensible input), speaking with circumlocution, and reading and rewriting co-created texts. Pictorial representation is also very effective with science labs, history document-based questions, and explanations of math processes. How can you use this activity in your own classroom? See my padlet for more examples: https://bit.ly/DCRpadlet  Since beginning my career in education, I have been using the “jigsaw method” without truly understanding its purpose and origins. In practice, my version looked like this: one student would read a section of the text, another would read a different piece, and each would teach their section to the other. While this approach involved solid teaching strategies, it wasn’t a true “jigsaw classroom.” It missed the essence of the original intent and left out a crucial component of the method. The Origins of the Jigsaw Classroom Psychologist Elliot Aronson developed the jigsaw classroom in the 1970s to foster collaboration and unity among students from diverse cultural backgrounds following school desegregation in Texas. Aronson discovered that the jigsaw method transformed classroom culture from competitive to cooperative. When students had to rely on each other for success, they began to view their peers as allies and supporters. To explore more about the history and impact of the jigsaw method, especially for students learning English, visit this resource. Key Steps in the Jigsaw Method Dr. Aronson’s method is structured into 10 essential steps. While I had implemented some of these (e.g., organizing students into groups of 5-6 and assigning leaders), I realized I was missing several key elements. Here are the steps I overlooked: Step Three: Divide the Entire Lesson into Segments Each part of the lesson should be broken down into distinct segments, not just the text and the reading portion. Then, assign each segment to individual students within a group. This ensures that each student has a unique piece of information to contribute beyond just reading. Step Six: Form Expert Groups Create temporary “expert” groups where students who have the same segment meet to discuss and deepen their understanding of their part. This step helps students become confident in their knowledge before teaching it to their original group. Step Ten: Graded Assessment Conclude the process with a graded assessment on the material. This element makes the collaboration high stakes, and motivates students to depend on one another for success, reinforcing the importance of teamwork. Why the Graded Component Matters Including a graded assessment emphasizes the value of each student's role and makes collaboration essential. When students know that their understanding and contributions directly impact their performance, they are more invested in the process and their peers' success. By incorporating these missing elements, educators can ensure they are using the jigsaw method as intended—building a classroom culture rooted in cooperation and mutual support. I can think of no better time to support collaboration across divergent perspectives in the classroom than today.  Many teachers have successfully provided a space for students to open up through Google Forms, which sometimes feels anonymous for students. The information gathered on these forms helps the teacher understand what may be behind certain student behaviors (such as laying their heads down on the desk and not engaging in conversation), or alert the teacher to the pressures a student may be experiencing within their peer group. Discovering the backstory helps teachers feel more compassion for their students and get to the heart of the issue when students do not perform academically as hoped.  Here is a sample google form that you may adapt to your grade level and student population. Use it at the beginning of the year (perhaps a month in), and then provide a similar survey near the end of the year to see if any improvements have been made. Strengthen engagement by providing pictures for each question, keep wording simple, and offer a variety of responses (rather than requiring students to type out complete sentences). The purpose of this form is quick social emotional feedback for teachers, not an opportunity to grade students’ writing. Perhaps often one or two questions per google form. Here are some basic questions:
In an eighth-grade poetry unit, students truly opened up about themselves when supported through the following activity, which I learned about from a fellow teacher, Gianni Fiannaca. While this was used in an eight grade ELAR class. It can be adapted for a variety of grade levels or content areas. Here is the assignment:  |
AuthorElise White Diaz is an Educational Consultant with Seidlitz Education, specializing in trauma-informed multilingual education. 
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