Visiting the Principal’s Office

I have visited the principal’s office more times than I can remember.

The welcoming fish tank. The glass paperweights with swirled colors of blue and red. The strange comfort of watching bubbles rise while your stomach dropped. All of it contrasted with the paddles hung neatly on the wall—one with holes drilled through it so it would whistle on its way to your bum. A sound you never actually heard, but somehow always imagined.

The bookcases were a distraction if you let them be. Rubik’s cubes half-solved. Snow globes from faraway places. Miniature landmarks. Polished rocks. A brass compass. Souvenirs from travels that felt worlds away from your current reality. Proof that this looming authority figure had a life beyond discipline.

And then there was the desk.

Large. Imposing. A barrier more than a workspace. Behind it, an even larger chair, holding the even larger presence of the head administrator. The space between you felt intentional. Designed.

Of course, corporal punishment has long been outlawed. But the dread? That hasn’t gone anywhere.

Because going to the principal’s office was never just about the office.

It was a message.

Bad.
Wrong.

And in a child’s mind, those messages don’t stay contained to behavior. They expand. Quietly. Powerfully.

Is this a binary message we internalize early on?

Good or bad.
Right or wrong.
In or out.

Our brains are designed for safety and efficiency. As children, we categorize quickly to make sense of the world. It helps us survive. It helps us belong. We don’t yet have the capacity for nuance, so we sort people and experiences into simple buckets.

Safe or unsafe.
Accepted or rejected.

As adults, we are capable of far more complex thinking. But capability doesn’t always translate into practice. Slowing down takes effort. And often, we don’t.

Instead, we default.

We make quick assumptions.
We place people into “us” and “them.”
We interpret situations through old frameworks that once kept us safe.

So why are we still afraid?

What do we think will happen?

That early experience of being “called to the office” carried more than just the possibility of punishment. It carried the threat of disconnection.

If I am wrong…
If I am bad…
I won’t be liked.

I’ll be isolated. (Detention.)
I’ll be humiliated. (Shame.)
I’ll be punished.

And beneath all of it is something deeper:

I won’t belong.

And belonging, to the human brain, is survival.

So we adapt.

As adults, this shows up in ways that feel productive on the surface, but costly underneath.

We strive for perfectionism.
We overthink every interaction.
We manage risk to the point of paralysis.
We hide our opinions to avoid conflict.
We struggle with criticism—even when it’s meant to help us grow.

Performance reviews don’t feel like feedback. They feel like judgment.

It becomes a constant hum of noise—hypervigilance, anxiety, second-guessing.

All rooted in a very old story.

So how do we begin to shift it?

How do we create space for a bigger narrative?

It starts with slowing down. Not to eliminate consequences, but to understand them more clearly.

Guilt says: I did something wrong.
Shame says: I am something wrong.

One invites repair.
The other demands hiding.

Creating new neural pathways requires intentional pause. A willingness to question the automatic story.

Here are a few places to begin:

• What story am I telling myself right now?

• Is this about the present moment, or something older?

• Who am I trying to please or avoid disappointing?

• What am I afraid will happen if I show up fully?

• Where does perfectionism enter this situation?

• What is my internal critic saying—and is it actually true?

• What would it look like to hold both accountability and self-compassion?

• Am I reacting to feedback, or interpreting it as rejection?

• What space am I not allowing myself to take up?

These questions don’t eliminate discomfort. But they expand the narrative.

They create room.

Room for complexity.
Room for growth.
Room for belonging that isn’t conditional.

And maybe that’s the shift.

From “I’m in trouble” to “I’m learning.”

From “I’m bad” to “I made a mistake.”

From fear of the office… to curiosity about what’s actually happening inside of us.

And for the record, my father was a principal.

I loved going to his office. I loved seeing where he worked. It felt important. Familiar. Even safe.

Now, I did get “called” to the principal’s office a few times in my educational career—and those were not fun visits.

Even if that paddle never grazed my backside.