When Trauma Returns: Why Cultural Trust Matters More Than Ever
If trauma-informed practice is the floor, cultural trust is the foundation
It’s hard these days to keep up with the news, not just because of time, but because of what it reveals. Between phone alerts and social media, one show I still make time for is The Weekend with Jonathan Capehart, Eugene Daniels and Jackie Alemany. This weekend, I stopped mid-breakfast when I heard a replay of a Chicago first-grade teacher, Maria Heavener, testifying about the impact of immigration enforcement on her students. She described children who were afraid to come to school. Students who couldn’t focus, carrying a quiet but constant fear that someone in their family might not be there when they got home.
It was a familiar story, but also a different one.
Because we have been here before, and are not responding to it the same way.
Naming the Moment
Over the past few years, educators have worked tirelessly to understand the impact of the pandemic on students academically, socially, and emotionally. We talked about learning loss, but also about grief, isolation, and anxiety. We introduced trauma-informed practices. We emphasized care. What we don’t talk about enough is the toll on educators themselves navigating all of this alongside their students.
And yet, just as schools have begun to regain a sense of normalcy, we find ourselves in another significant trauma moment.
This one looks different.
It is more targeted. More uneven. More culturally specific.
And in many ways, harder for schools to see, grasp, and know how to respond.
What Students Are Carrying
For students across all education levels, ages, locations, socio-economic statuses, and mixed-status families, the current climate introduces a particular kind of stress. Students experience a persistent fear of family separation, coupled with anxiety about their visibility and overall safety. Many develop a deep distrust of institutions, which can shape how they engage with schools and authority figures. At the same time, they often carry a constant, low-grade sense of uncertainty that affects their ability to focus, feel secure, and fully participate in the classroom.
This is not abstract. It shows up in attendance, in concentration, in behavior, in silence.
It shows up in the body.
And it shows up in the classroom.
The Limits of “Trauma-Informed”
To be clear, trauma-informed practice matters.
But this moment exposes its limits.
Because trauma is not experienced the same way by all students. And it is not always visible, legible or even recognized by all educators.
Without cultural grounding, trauma-informed approaches can misinterpret students’ experiences by reading hypervigilance as defiance, withdrawal as disengagement, and silence as a lack of participation.
What is needed is not just awareness of trauma, but a deeper understanding of whose trauma, and why.
What Trauma Looks Like—If You Know How to See It
Cultural trust is most visible in how educators interpret and respond to student behavior in real time. It isn’t tested in theory, but in moments when something feels “off,” when actions don’t align with expectations, or when the full story isn’t clear. In those moments, educators make quick, often unconscious decisions about whether what they’re seeing reflects effort, attitude, or ability, or a response to something deeper. Cultural trust shapes that choice, determining whether we move toward judgment or curiosity, toward control or understanding. And nowhere is this more evident than in how trauma shows up, and how easily it can be misread when we are not prepared to see it.
In a kindergarten classroom, a child continues to cry at drop-off weeks into the school year. They cling, scan the room, and struggle to settle. To the untrained eye, it looks like overdependence. But underneath is something else: a child unsure that the people they love will be there when the day ends.
In an elementary classroom, a student stares at a blank page. The directions have been explained, but nothing gets written. They shrug, “I don’t know,” then push the paper aside. It can look like avoidance or lack of effort. But stress has narrowed their attention, disrupted their thinking, and made even simple tasks feel overwhelming.
By middle school, it shows up relationally. A student withdraws. Another pushes back. It’s easy to call it attitude or typical adolescence. But underneath are questions they may not yet have the language to ask: Am I safe here? Do I belong? Can I trust the people in this space?
What Trauma Looks Like in High School and Higher Education
In high school and college classrooms, trauma rarely announces itself. It doesn’t always disrupt the room. It doesn’t always demand attention. More often, it slips in quietly through absence, through fatigue, through a kind of presence that is there, but not fully there.
A student stops showing up.
At first, it’s marked as missing work, unexcused absences, disengagement. Emails may go unanswered. Deadlines pass. From the outside, it can look like a student making poor choices, or slacking off. It’s easy to move toward policy: attendance requirements, late penalties, zero tolerance for missed work.
But sometimes, the story is still unfolding.
Last week, one of my students returned to class after being gone for over a month following spring break. He had been trying to make his way back to Phoenix to finish the semester. When he walked in, what struck me first was not what he said, but how he looked, exhausted in a way that went beyond lack of sleep. There was a weight to him. The kind that comes from having to explain yourself over and over again. From having to endure systems that question your presence, your legitimacy, your right to move freely. From being treated as a threat, or as if you are guilty of something you did not do.
To an untrained eye, his absence might register as irresponsibility. Falling behind. Not taking school seriously.
But that is not what I saw.
Through a cultural trust lens, the response shifts. It’s not about lowering expectations, but about understanding context and responding with clarity and care. I walked him through the assignments and timeline, what still needed to be done and by when. And I asked a simple question: Are you okay? I told him to reach out if he needed anything.
Not pity. Not punishment.
Something else.
The work is still due. There are still weeks left in the semester. That responsibility remains his. But extending flexibility under circumstances neither of us could have anticipated is not weakness. It’s not lowering standards. It’s recognizing reality.
It is strength. It is humanity. It is the right thing to do.
In high school and higher education, trauma often shows up as distance, students pulling away, falling behind, disappearing and reappearing. Without a cultural lens, these moments are flattened into assumptions about motivation or character. But when we pause to ask what sits beneath the surface, new possibilities emerge.
Cultural trust lives in that pause, in the decision to see beyond what’s immediately visible, to hold students accountable while also holding space for what they carry. To recognize that fairness is not sameness, and that rigid responses can do more harm than good.
Because for some students, the question is not just whether they can complete the work.
It is whether we can see them clearly enough to make completion possible.
Why This Matters Now (AERA and Beyond)
As researchers and educators gather next week at AERA in Los Angeles and beyond, we have to ask harder questions, and recognize that if trauma-informed practice is the floor, cultural trust is the foundation. Without it, our efforts will continue to fall short for the students who need us most.
Students don’t just need strategies.
They need to feel safe.
They need to feel seen.
And in moments like this, safety is not just emotional, it is cultural. Without that recognition, even our best intentions can miss the mark. This moment calls not for less rigor, but for deeper awareness; not lowered expectations, but more human ones grounded in context, care, and clarity.
And in that moment, what we choose to do matters.
Because students are always asking a deeper question:
Do you understand me enough to teach me?