MY CASE Against Constructivism - How It Impacted My Early Teaching Career, How I Dealt With It,  And How I eventually Became a Good Teacher

I did my five-year degree in physics and chemistry education in the late nineties. Everything I learned about education during that time was taught through a constructivist lens. And it made sense: if children are the main actors in their own learning, and if young brains are naturally eager to absorb information, then the teacher should act as a mediator between the learner and the world. A facilitator of tools and experiences. A guide.

Constructivism promised a future where classrooms would be student-centered, where curiosity would fuel engagement, and where the traditional image of a teacher lecturing from the front of the room would finally be left in the past.

Then the early 2000s came and I started teaching.

And it was chaos.

Why weren’t they interested in atoms and molecules? Why weren’t they fascinated by the Big Bang? Why was in-class networking more compelling than net force?

I was completely unprepared for what I faced. If students are naturally motivated to learn, and my lessons were failing so miserably, I must have been doing something terribly wrong. They weren’t moving toward knowledge as the theory promised, they were moving away from it. I began to believe I was a terrible teacher. That I had wasted five years of my life.

To be fair, I probably wasn’t very good in those early days. Few people are. But what I lacked most was the maturity to step back and reflect on what was happening. Instead, I spiraled into self-doubt and frustration. Without the key ingredient I had been told would be there - student curiosity - I had no backup plan. I felt deceived by what I had read in books and learned in university. Nothing had prepared me for a classroom full of students staring blankly, distracted, or simply disinterested.

Let me be clear: this is not a manifesto against constructivism. It’s simply a reflection on my journey and the realities I encountered.

Constructivism isn’t a flawed framework. On the contrary, it offers a powerful vision for education. It puts students at the center, promotes ownership of learning, and cultivates a sense of accountability and accomplishment that can open doors to lifelong growth.

But to live up to its promise, constructivism requires more than good intentions. It demands a systemic shift in how educational systems function - and I’ve worked in several, across different countries. It requires significantly greater investment in teacher training, more teaching assistants to support diverse classrooms, and a wide range of materials and resources available to students in every lesson.

It also requires a cultural shift: one where schools are seen not just as places of instruction, but as engines of societal transformation; where teachers are regarded as experts who model behaviour and drive change.

That shift never came.

What did come were large groups of 30 (or more) students, crammed into a classroom for an hour or more, often with wildly differing needs, motivations, and backgrounds. I quickly learned that if I planned group activities for students to explore concepts on their own, they would do everything but those activities. And in science classes, there were additional safety concerns that made freeform exploration even more challenging.

So I defaulted to the only model I had ever experienced as a student: Direct Instruction (interestingly, in university, we learned about constructivism, but never actually saw it in action. It was always taught through lectures).

If it worked for me, maybe it would work for them, right?

Wrong.

They wouldn’t hurt themselves anymore, but after five minutes of me speaking, their attention would drift. Their bodies were in the room, but their minds were elsewhere. And assessment results confirmed what I already knew: it wasn’t working.

But for the first time, I had a tiny win: those first five minutes. They looked at me. They listened.

What if I could make those minutes count?

What if, in those five to ten minutes, I could deliver the key concept clearly and compellingly? And then give them structured exercises that would help them own that knowledge?

That could work.

And it did.

For the first time, I saw real results. Students were engaged. Assessments reflected understanding. I began to believe, tentatively, then with confidence, that I was becoming a teacher.

More than twenty years have passed. Since then, I’ve refined those strategies, built better materials for those first few minutes, and curated sets of exercises that build conceptually from simple to complex. I named the first part the Grab Phase - when we seize attention and introduce the concept. The second is the Hold Phase - when students strengthen their grasp through structured practice.

Together, they are the start of what I call the GHOST BUST Framework, which I’ve explored in other posts. You’re welcome to visit them if this interests you.

In an age where attention spans seem to be shrinking, this approach has become my anchor. Through it, I’ve watched students conquer their fears of math and physics, build confidence, pass exams, and earn places at top universities around the world. As I move from a traditional classroom to my online platform, I’ve realized that this method is future-proof. It takes advantage of the digital world’s strengths while compensating for its weaknesses.

Again, this is not a critique of constructivism. I’m not qualified, nor inclined, to make such a claim. It’s simply a reflection, from a regular teacher who struggled, adapted, and found a way up. A steep way up. One where my students’ success fuels my own. And one that helps me face, with purpose, each new lesson, each new school year, and the uncertain future of a profession that remains both vital and profoundly rewarding.

So, if you're a teacher at the beginning of this wonderful profession and struggling with its many challenges, I hope this account brings you some encouragement. A better future will come. If you're a seasoned teacher, you've probably already found your own way, and some of this may echo your earlier struggles. In any case, we are all part of a remarkable profession. We hold the responsibility to shape the future of hundreds, sometimes thousands, of human beings.

Every one of our stories is a testament to our strength, our tenacity, and our humanity.