In classrooms across Nigeria and around the world, children sit with invisible tags quietly clinging to them, tags not pinned by choice, but placed by teachers, peers, caregivers, and systems. “Slow.” “Stubborn.” “Hyperactive.” “Lazy.” “Special needs.” “Disruptive.” These labels, often carelessly applied, quickly begin to define how a child is seen, taught, treated, and ultimately, how that child sees themselves. And once internalised, they become self-fulfilling prophecies.
The tragedy is that these labels are not always the result of malice. Often, they emerge from a place of frustration or fear where educators are trying to make sense of what they cannot immediately explain; parents searching for answers to challenges they were never prepared to handle. But the effect is the same: the child, in all their complexity and potential, becomes reduced to a diagnosis, a deficit, or a behaviour.
To see the child and not the label is not to deny learning difficulties, behavioural issues, or developmental delays. Rather, it is a radical commitment to human dignity. It is a deliberate refusal to let one aspect of a child’s experience obscure everything else about who they are and what they could become. In educational settings, this shift in perspective is not only ethical; it is essential. Without it, we do not teach we merely sort, contain, and control.
At the core of this issue lies a fundamental misunderstanding of what it means to be a child in difficulty. When a learner underperforms, acts out, or withdraws, the instinct is to define the problem and find a quick fix. In doing so, labels become shorthand for complex situations. A child who doesn’t speak in class is “shy.” One who struggles to read is “slow.” The boy who won’t sit still is “hyperactive.” These descriptors feel efficient, but they collapse a living, breathing learner into a single story.
The danger with labels is not only that they may be wrong. It’s that even when they are partly accurate, they limit possibility. A student labelled as a “slow learner” might, in reality, be battling processing delays, poor nutrition, trauma, or gaps in foundational teaching. But once branded, interventions often focus narrowly on remediation without curiosity about context. Over time, expectations drop, encouragement fades, and opportunities for challenge disappear. The label becomes the ceiling of what the child is allowed to be.
For children with identified disabilities or learning differences, the risk is even more pronounced. While formal diagnoses can unlock access to support and funding, they can also lead to isolation, tokenism, and lowered academic ambition. Many educators, lacking training or time, unconsciously limit their instruction, not because they are cruel, but because they have been conditioned to view these students as incapable. This is how ableism quietly operates in everyday classrooms, not through overt exclusion, but through softened expectations, subtle dismissals, and assumptions about what is “appropriate” or “realistic.”
Seeing the child means refusing to look away from potential. It means noticing not only the problems but the strengths the curiosity, the resilience, the creativity, the humour, the determination. It requires educators to ask: Who is this learner beyond their academic performance? What lights them up? What frustrates them? How do they express themselves? What patterns are emerging in their behaviour, and what might those patterns be telling us?
The truth is that many children who carry labels are acting in response to systems that have failed them. A child who is constantly distracted may be bored by an unstimulating curriculum. One who lashes out might be navigating trauma with no language to express it. Another who avoids tasks could be silently overwhelmed by undiagnosed dyslexia. When we focus only on labelling the symptom, we miss the story behind it and more importantly, we miss the opportunity to intervene meaningfully.
This is why teacher training is so crucial. Many educators enter classrooms with minimal exposure to inclusive education principles, child psychology, or trauma-informed teaching. They are told to “manage behaviour,” meet targets, and move through the curriculum. Without the tools to understand diverse learning profiles, frustration mounts and so do labels. Equipping teachers to interpret behaviour as communication, not defiance, is one of the most powerful shifts any school can make. It transforms the classroom from a place of judgment into a space of inquiry.
Equally important is the structure of the classroom itself. Inclusive education cannot be reduced to a special unit or a monthly awareness event. It must be embedded in pedagogy, curriculum design, assessment, and school culture. Children must see themselves reflected in the books they read, the examples used in lessons, the language of feedback, and the recognition of different kinds of excellence, not just academic brilliance, but kindness, imagination, persistence, and collaboration.
This also means abandoning one-size-fits-all approaches to learning. Uniform testing, rigid lesson plans, and punitive discipline practices disproportionately harm those who learn or behave differently. Educators must embrace differentiated instruction, not as a burdensome accommodation, but as a normal expectation in any learner-centred environment. This might include offering multiple ways to demonstrate understanding, flexible groupings, or allowing more time for certain tasks. In doing so, teachers create space for all children not just those who fit the standard mould.
But beyond practice and policy, seeing the child is a matter of disposition. It demands that teachers believe in their students even when the data looks discouraging. It asks for patience when progress is slow, and compassion when behaviour challenges arise. It involves holding high expectations not only for academic output but for growth, self-awareness, and agency. It is the work of relationship, not control.
Parents, too, play a vital role in shifting away from labels. The language used at home shapes how a child interprets their own capacity. When children hear themselves described as “difficult,” “naughty,” or “not academic,” they begin to internalise these views and act accordingly. Parents must advocate, not apologise for their child’s right to learn, to be understood, and to be challenged appropriately. Open communication with teachers, a willingness to explore interventions, and an affirming home environment can make the difference between resilience and resignation.
Of course, none of this is easy. Teachers are overworked, classrooms overcrowded, resources scarce, and support systems thin. But even in these constraints, perspective matters. A teacher may not be able to change a child’s home life or fix a structural barrier, but they can choose to see that child as more than a problem to be solved. They can offer dignity in the way they speak, teach, and respond. And in many cases, that alone is transformative.
Children remember how they are treated. Long after they forget the topics taught, they recall who made them feel capable, who believed in their ideas, who didn’t give up on them when things got hard. They carry those memories into adulthood, into relationships, into careers. When educators choose to see the child and not the label, they are not only changing outcomes. They are changing identities.
In the end, education is not merely about delivering knowledge. It is about awakening potential. And that potential will never be seen if we are looking only through the lens of limitations. It’s time to stop sorting children into boxes they never chose, and start building classrooms where every child is visible, valued, and understood not in spite of their differences, but because of them.
The call to “see the child, not the label” is not idealism. It is a practical, professional, and moral imperative. Every child deserves to be taught by someone who sees who they are, not just what they lack.
