The Exhaustion Behind the Smile: Because Calm Is Not the Same as Safe

In the world of wellbeing and trauma-informed practice, calm is a word we hear often. It’s a destination in many classrooms and a goal for behaviour plans and emotional check-ins. Students are asked what they need to do to “get back to calm.” What coping strategies will they use? Their teachers have noticed signs of dysregulation and want to help. There’s a lot of good mahi happening in our classrooms.

Understanding Calm in a New Light

But I’ve been thinking differently about this word lately — thanks to a young woman I’ve been working with.

She’s 14 years old. I met her earlier this year. At one point, she was stood down for five days after a fight with another student. To support her reintegration, I visited her and her mum at home. She told me what happened, matter-of-factly. A girl had been talking sh about her — stirring up drama. She’d had enough and confronted her. The other girl walked away. And that — not being listened to — is one of my student’s biggest triggers.

She became overwhelmed and grabbed the girl. The girl hit back. A teacher intervened. My student swore at him and said some fairly inappropriate things. She has no memory of what happened after that.

She accepted it wasn’t her best moment. She said it had been a long time since she'd had such a blow-up. “It came out of nowhere,” people had said. “She was doing so well.”

Then she said this: “I try so hard to be calm. But it gets really difficult — and it's exhausting.”

That sentence stopped me. If she’s trying hard to be calm, is she actually calm?

The Complexity of Calm

I asked her if she ever felt calm. Peaceful. “No,” she said.

I know about masking. I know what we see on the outside isn’t always what’s happening underneath. I’ve presented to teachers on this very point. But this young woman — articulate, chatty, polite, smiley — didn’t present as someone who was constantly managing inner chaos. Her voice has this beautiful sing-song lilt. She speaks with clarity and humour. I told her I was surprised by what she’d said.

“Well,” she replied, “I have to be polite. I don’t want people to think, ‘What’s wrong with her?’”

I suggested she share some of this at her meeting — her emotional labour, the daily energy it takes to hold things in. She did. She spoke with the same familiar eloquence. It was powerful. Expectations shifted. Her reality was acknowledged.

Among trauma experts, calm is often described as a state of “felt safety.” And that’s the thing — this young woman rarely feels safe. Not in the way that counts.

Building Connections

Every Monday, we catch up. We’ve built a ritual: hot chocolate, brownie, and a long walk-and-talk. She’s passionate about social justice and women’s rights. She was furious about the pay equity story. She told me about being body-shamed by “an old lady” and how she told her off. She wants to be a positive role model for younger girls. Her hero is Billie Eilish. She’s a gifted singer. She’s joining a band.

I marvel at her confidence, her assertiveness, her sense of purpose.

Then I ask how school’s going. “I hate it,” she says. “I can’t do it. If I had somewhere else to go, I would.”

The Performance of Calm

I’ve come to understand that for many of the young people we work with, “being calm” isn’t a default state — it’s a performance, and sometimes a painful one. This young woman has reinforced in me the importance of checking in even when everything seems fine. When we praise their apparent composure or reward their "return to calm," we may be overlooking the toll it takes to get there.

What this young woman needs isn't just a de-escalation strategy — she needs people to understand what it costs her to hold it together and cut her some slack. It’s not that she won’t; she can’t. That’s what so many of our rangatahi need.

The Role of RTLB

As an RTLB, I sometimes feel discouraged — by systems that move slowly, by the weight of unmet needs, by the reality that I can’t “fix” things. But this young woman reminds me that our work isn’t about fixing. It’s about showing up, advocating, building trust, and holding space — one conversation, one walk, one brownie at a time.

In conclusion, the journey towards understanding calm is complex. It requires us to delve deeper into the emotional landscapes of our students. By acknowledging their struggles and providing the necessary support, we can help them navigate their challenges more effectively.

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