Ethics in Real Classrooms: What Ethical Practice Actually Looks Like

The moment ethics quietly walks into the room

If you work with children, you already know this moment, even if you have never called it ethical. I certainly do. A child becomes dysregulated and the atmosphere in the room changes almost instantly. You feel it before you fully think it. Your attention sharpens. Your body reacts. Suddenly you are holding a lot at once: the child in front of you, the other children watching, the unspoken expectations of colleagues, the pressure of time, and the quiet but heavy sense that whatever you do next will matter.

This is the moment I want you to notice more carefully.

It is very easy here to slip into problem solving mode. To label what is happening as a behaviour incident and reach for a strategy. To think about how to de escalate, how to regain control, how to move the situation on. I have done that myself more times than I can count. But when I have forced myself to pause, even briefly, I have realised that I am not just responding to behaviour. I am making an ethical decision in real time.

In that moment, you are deciding how much control to exert and how much uncertainty you are willing to tolerate. You are deciding what level of risk feels acceptable and whose comfort is being prioritised. You are deciding how much of the child’s dignity you are prepared to protect while the situation is still unfolding. None of those decisions are neutral, even if they feel instinctive.

That internal hesitation you feel, the split second where you are unsure which way to go, is not something to get rid of. I see it as information. It tells you that more than one thing matters right now and that the situation deserves more than an automatic response. Ethical practice does not begin after the incident has been written up or reflected on later. It begins here, in the seconds before you act, when you choose whether to slow down your thinking or rush past that discomfort.

That is the moment ethics walks into the room, whether we acknowledge it or not.

Why ethics does not live in policies

You already know the policies. You know the codes of conduct, the ethical standards, the safeguarding frameworks. As a behaviour analyst, I know how much emphasis is placed on learning them, referencing them, and being able to justify practice through them. And that matters. These documents exist for a reason. They protect children, they protect professionals, and they provide an essential shared foundation.

But I also know, if I am honest with myself, that none of those documents tell you exactly what to do when a real child is distressed in front of you.

They do not tell you how to respond when a child is crying and refusing while a class waits. They do not tell you what to prioritise when safety, dignity, learning, and time pressure all collide at once. They do not account for the fact that you are human, tired, and carrying your own emotional load into the room. Policies can guide us, but they cannot think for us. And ethical practice cannot be reduced to compliance with a document.

This is where I think ethics often gets misunderstood. It is sometimes treated as something fixed and external, something we follow rather than something we actively engage with. In reality, ethical practice lives in interpretation. It lives in judgement. It lives in the moment where you have to decide what matters most right now, knowing that there is rarely a perfect option.

Ethical practice does not happen in ideal conditions. It happens when the environment is loud, when support is limited, when colleagues are watching, and when there is pressure to act quickly and decisively. In those moments, ethics is not about recalling the correct wording of a standard. It is about actively analysing what is happening in front of you. It is about assessing which information is most relevant, which risks are real, and which responses are likely to reduce harm rather than simply end the situation.

What this asks of us is uncomfortable. It asks us to acknowledge that we cannot outsource ethical thinking to policy. We have to do the work ourselves. We have to weigh potential benefit against potential harm. We have to recognise our own biases and assumptions, including the temptation to prioritise adult comfort or efficiency when things feel hard. And we have to notice how our own regulation is influencing our judgement, because a dysregulated adult does not make clearer ethical decisions.

I have come to believe that uncertainty in these moments is not a sign of weakness. In fact, it is often the opposite. If you ever find yourself hesitating, questioning, or feeling unsure about what to do next, that does not mean you are failing. It often means you are actually engaging ethically rather than acting automatically. You are thinking, reflecting, and taking responsibility for the impact of your actions, not just their outcome.

And that, in my experience, is where ethical practice really lives.

Ethical tension is something you should expect

If you are doing this work well, you will feel conflicted sometimes. I do, and I have been doing this long enough to know that the discomfort never fully disappears. You will feel the pull between wanting to support regulation and needing to hold a boundary. Between respecting a child’s autonomy and managing safety. Between slowing the situation down and responding quickly because other people are watching and the pressure is rising.

I want to be very clear here, because this is something I see people misinterpret far too often. That tension is not a sign that you do not know what you are doing. It is a sign that you do. It tells me that you are holding more than one priority in mind at the same time, rather than collapsing the situation into a single goal like compliance or calm.

When ethical decisions feel simple, it is often because something important has been reduced, ignored, or pushed out of view. Sometimes it is the child’s emotional experience. Sometimes it is their dignity. Sometimes it is the long-term impact of how we handle this moment, not just whether the behaviour stops. Ethical practice asks you to tolerate that discomfort long enough to think properly, rather than reaching for the quickest or most familiar response just to relieve the pressure.

This is where I think critical thinking really matters in behaviour support. You have to be willing to question why a particular response feels appealing in that moment. Is it because it genuinely meets the child’s needs, or because it will make the situation quieter faster. Is it because it preserves safety, or because it reduces your own discomfort. Those are not comfortable questions, but they are necessary ones.

In moments like this, I often find myself mentally asking questions that slow me down just enough to stay thoughtful. What am I prioritising right now, and why. Whose discomfort am I most motivated to reduce. What message will this response send to the child about safety, trust, and power. Will this action help them feel more regulated, or simply more controlled.

These questions are not abstract or philosophical. They shape what you do next. They influence your tone, your proximity, your language, and the choices you offer. They help you connect your actions to their impact, rather than acting on habit or urgency alone.

Ethical tension is part of the job. If you are not feeling it at all, it is worth gently asking yourself what might be being overlooked. Not as a criticism, but as a prompt to re-engage with the complexity of the work. Because ethical practice is not about finding the one right answer. It is about staying present, reflective, and accountable in situations where there are several imperfect options, and choosing with care anyway.

Least restriction is something you must reason through

Least restriction is often talked about as though it is a simple rule you apply once you have identified a behaviour. In practice, I have never experienced it that way. Least restriction is not a checkbox. It is a reasoning process, and one you have to actively engage in every single time a situation unfolds.

What makes this difficult is that least restrictive does not mean doing nothing, and it does not mean avoiding boundaries. It means choosing a response that limits a child’s freedom only as much as is genuinely necessary to maintain safety, while still preserving their dignity, their relationships, and their access to learning. That balance is rarely obvious in the moment. It requires you to think, not just react.

To do this well, you have to assess the child’s current capacity rather than relying on shortcuts. Not their diagnosis. Not what they managed yesterday. Not what you hoped they would cope with today. Capacity fluctuates constantly, influenced by stress, sensory load, emotional experiences, and context. Ethical practice requires you to respond to the child as they are in that moment, not as you wish they were or expect them to be.

This is where I see people get stuck. It can feel safer to fall back on rules or past patterns rather than tolerate the uncertainty of responding to what is actually happening now. But least restriction demands that you stay present and responsive. It asks you to notice when a verbal prompt is enough and when it is not. When waiting will support regulation and when it will increase distress. When stepping in protects safety and when it removes agency unnecessarily.

It also requires you to broaden how you think about safety. Physical safety is essential, but it is not the only form of safety that matters. Emotional and psychological safety are just as important, even though they are harder to measure and easier to overlook. A response that stops behaviour quickly but leaves a child feeling shamed, frightened, or powerless may look effective on the surface, while quietly undermining trust and regulation in the longer term.

This is why I find it helpful to ask myself not only whether a response will keep everyone safe right now, but also what it will cost the child. What will it cost them emotionally. What will it cost the relationship. What will it teach them about power, safety, and their own worth. And then the harder question, is that cost truly necessary in this moment.

Least restrictive practice is not about being permissive or hesitant. It is about being thoughtful. It is about using your judgement deliberately, informed by evidence, reflection, and an honest awareness of your own comfort levels. It asks you to tolerate uncertainty long enough to choose the response that protects safety without sacrificing dignity.

That is not easy work. But it is ethical work.

What ethical practice actually looks like when you are doing it

Ethical practice rarely looks impressive when it is happening. It does not announce itself and it is almost never neat. In my experience, it tends to look quiet, deliberate, and slightly unremarkable from the outside, even though a great deal of thinking is happening internally. It is made up of small decisions layered on top of one another, often taken under pressure, while you are still trying to stay attuned to the child in front of you.

It might look like lowering your voice instead of raising it, not because you are trying to be calm for appearance’s sake, but because you understand that escalation increases threat and reduces access to reasoning. It might look like reducing language rather than adding more instructions, because you can see that the child’s cognitive load is already stretched and more words will not help. It might look like offering a choice that still holds the boundary, because you know that restoring even a small sense of control can be regulating when everything else feels overwhelming. It might look like where you stand, how close you are, how quickly you move, and whether your body language communicates safety or urgency.

None of these choices are accidental. They require knowledge of behaviour, an understanding of nervous systems, and the ability to regulate yourself while someone else is struggling. They also require judgement. You are constantly evaluating what the child needs in that moment, what the environment demands, and what the likely impact of your response will be, not just immediately but over time. Even when no one names these moments as ethical decisions, that is exactly what they are.

What I find important to say here is that ethical practice is rarely about doing something dramatic or visibly kind. It is about consistency. It is about choosing the response that protects dignity while maintaining safety, even when another response might stop the behaviour faster or make the situation easier for the adults involved. Often, ethical practice is choosing the harder, quieter option and trusting that it matters, even if no one applauds it.

When your response does not align with your values

No one does this work ethically all of the time. I certainly do not. There will be moments where urgency takes over and your response comes out sharper than you intended. Moments where fatigue narrows your thinking and you default to control rather than curiosity. Moments where you walk away afterwards and think, that was not how I wanted to handle that.

Ethical practice does not mean pretending those moments do not exist or explaining them away. It means being honest about them. It means recognising the impact of your actions, not just your intentions, and being willing to sit with the discomfort of that realisation rather than becoming defensive. I think this is one of the most important and least discussed parts of ethical work.

When a response does not align with your values, the ethical task is not self punishment. It is reflection. It is asking yourself what influenced your response in that moment. Were you tired. Were you overwhelmed. Were you responding to the child’s behaviour or to your own internal state. What assumptions were you making and were they accurate. What might you do differently next time if you had more regulation or more support.

As a behaviour analyst, reflection and self regulation are not optional extras or things you fit in when you have time. They are ethical responsibilities. If our nervous system state shapes our judgement, and it does, then understanding our own patterns becomes part of protecting the children we work with. That includes repairing relationships when needed.

Acknowledging when something was hard. Modelling accountability rather than perfection.

Ethical practice is not about always getting it right. It is about staying engaged with your own thinking, being willing to adjust, and recognising that learning does not stop once you are qualified. In my experience, it is often these moments of misalignment, handled honestly and thoughtfully, that strengthen practice the most.

Consent, explanation, and protecting dignity

Consent is one of the most misunderstood ideas in behaviour support, and I think that misunderstanding causes real harm. Consent does not mean that children agree with every boundary or feel happy about every decision an adult makes. It means that they are informed, respected, and included wherever possible, even when they are struggling.

What ethical practice asks of you here is not permission seeking, but explanation. It asks you to explain what is happening in ways the child can process, even during dysregulation. Especially during dysregulation. Too often, explanation is withheld until a child is calm, as though understanding is something they have to earn. In reality, unpredictability is one of the fastest ways to increase threat. When children do not know what is happening to them, their nervous system fills in the gaps, and it rarely does so kindly.

A child does not lose their right to dignity because they are distressed. They do not lose it because they are shouting, refusing, or overwhelmed. Ethical practice asks you to hold that line, even when it would be easier to move quickly, give minimal information, or rely on authority alone. You should be thinking carefully about how much information you give, how you give it, and whether what you are doing makes sense from the child’s perspective, not just from yours.

This is where I often ask myself a simple but uncomfortable question. If I were on the receiving end of this response, would it feel containing or confusing. Would it feel respectful or abrupt. Would it feel like someone was working with me or doing something to me. Explanation is not a reward for calm behaviour. It is a foundation for safety, and without it, even well intentioned interventions can feel frightening or shaming.

Your nervous system is part of the ethical decision

One of the most important things you need to recognise is that your ethical judgement is shaped by your own nervous system, whether you acknowledge it or not. When you are dysregulated, your thinking narrows. You become more rigid, more reactive, and more focused on stopping behaviour than understanding it. This is not a moral failing. It is biology. But it has ethical consequences.

I have had to learn, sometimes the hard way, that when my own stress is high, my capacity for ethical reasoning is reduced. I am more likely to default to control, to prioritise speed over reflection, and to interpret behaviour through a narrower lens. That is not because I suddenly stop caring. It is because my nervous system is under strain.

Ethical practice therefore requires you to take responsibility for your own regulation. Not in a perfectionistic way, and not by pretending you are always calm, but through awareness. You need to notice when your body is tense, when your tone is tightening, when your urgency is rising. You need to slow yourself down where possible, even if that feels counterintuitive in the moment.

The most ethically grounded practitioners I know are not the ones who can quote every policy word for word. They are the ones who can regulate themselves enough to think clearly when things feel urgent. They are the ones who recognise when they need to pause, step back, or ask for support. They understand that self regulation is not separate from ethical practice. It is a prerequisite for it.

What changes when ethics becomes part of everyday practice

When ethical thinking becomes part of how you approach behaviour support day to day, something shifts, and not just for the children. The environment becomes more predictable and less reactive. Children experience adults as steadier, clearer, and more respectful. They learn that boundaries exist, but they are held with care rather than force.

You also begin to feel more confident in your decisions, not because they are always easy, but because they are grounded in reasoning rather than fear. You know why you responded the way you did. You can explain it to colleagues and families without defensiveness. You can reflect on it honestly afterwards, adjusting where needed rather than replaying it in your head at two in the morning.

Families notice this too. They sense when dignity is being prioritised rather than behaviour simply being managed. They feel included rather than shut out. Trust grows not because everything goes smoothly, but because the approach is consistent and thoughtful even when things are hard.

When ethics becomes embedded in everyday practice, it stops being something you worry about getting wrong and starts being something you practise deliberately. It becomes less about avoiding mistakes and more about staying engaged with your own thinking.

The moments you need to start noticing and why this matters

As you move through your work, I want you to start noticing the moments where ethics quietly appears. Not the dramatic incidents, but the ordinary ones. The times when you choose to wait rather than escalate because you recognise the child needs time. The times when you adjust an expectation because capacity has dropped. The times when you prioritise dignity even when it would be quicker or easier not to.

These moments rarely draw attention. They are not the ones written up or discussed at length. But they are the foundation of ethical practice in real classrooms, not idealised ones.

Ethics does not live primarily in policies or training sessions, although those matter deeply. It lives in the daily decisions you make as a behaviour analyst when you slow down your thinking, question your assumptions, recognise your biases, and act with intention rather than habit.

That is what ethical practice actually looks like. It is not tidy. It is not perfect. And it asks something of you every single day.