Systemic Grooming: Why More Teachers Don’t Speak Out

It starts early, and it starts slow.

Most don’t recognize it until they’re so deep in it that they’ll fiercely defend the very system that’s harming them. But that’s how grooming works. 

It’s gradual. 
Insidious. 
Disguised as care.
Duty.
Professionalism.

Comparing it to an abusive relationship might seem exaggerated, but for many educators, the parallels are painfully clear. When people in power use their authority to control and silence others, and when that silence becomes the foundation of the institution itself, we’re no longer talking about a healthy profession. We’re talking about systemic abuse.

Like any grooming process, it begins by identifying a vulnerable target. Perhaps someone new, eager, idealistic, or struggling. The system builds what appears to be a supportive relationship. It praises loyalty, offers mentorship, and makes the teacher feel chosen, valued, and even special. It frames compliance as collaboration and silence as professionalism. Teachers are told they’re “team players,” that they can be trusted, that they “understand how things really work.” It feels good, even safe, to be included. That’s how it begins.

As this cycle continues, teachers begin to take on more and more. They volunteer, cover classes, stay late, and work on weekends. They are praised for their dedication and selflessness. But beneath the surface, the ulterior motive is clear. Keep them busy enough that they don’t have time to notice what’s really happening around them. The more they do, the less they see. And exhaustion becomes another form of compliance.

Soon, the manipulation takes root. Subtle gaslighting replaces genuine support. When teachers struggle, they’re told to “reflect on their practice” or “try new strategies.” They’re made to believe that the problem is them. Their classroom management style. Their mindset. Their lack of resilience. The system uses guilt and self-doubt to maintain control. It convinces teachers that asking for help is a weakness, that questioning policy is insubordination, and that if they just worked harder, things would get better.

It involves loyalty to the district, to the “team,” to the chain of command. It’s reinforced through language about “fiduciary duty,” “professionalism,” and “confidentiality.” It’s made practical through a lack of support, forcing teachers to justify what they need, making them prove a student qualifies for help, or withholding resources until burnout sets in.

Then there are the smaller, quieter control. The scheduling of prep time. Teaching assignments. Privledges and opportunities. These small decisions send powerful messages about who is valued and who is not. At the same time, there is an unspoken layer of surveillance. Teachers know their emails can be monitored and their presence on social media observed, including what posts they like, comment on, or share. They learn quickly which opinions are safe to express and which are not.

Groupthink grows in this environment. It is not enforced through overt threats, but through silence, avoidance, and subtle rewards for compliance. Disagreement becomes uncomfortable, and those who question decisions are framed as difficult.. Over time, teachers stop challenging the narrative altogether.

 And slowly, silence becomes safety.

When teachers do speak, it is often in safer ways. They talk about rising violence in classrooms, about burnout, about the challenges of behaviour support or lack of respect for educators. These are real issues, but they are also the acceptable ones, the ones that don’t threaten the system itself. It’s how the institution maintains the illusion of openness while ensuring that the root causes of harm remain unspoke

Before long, that silence turns into participation. Teachers begin to go along with exclusionary practices they once questioned, such as shortened days, withdrawals, segregated programs, suspensions, and the quiet removal of students who don’t fit the mould. It’s easier to justify the harm than to risk the consequences of speaking out. And by then, the grooming has done its work. 

Compliance feels like survival.

When teachers question the system itself, when they name inequity, exclusion, or harm, the tone shifts. They’re threatened with disciplinary action, accused of insubordination, or quietly transferred to another school. Teachers fear retaliation in a variety of ways, especially those who are disabled themselves or who have children in the system. The stakes are higher for them, not just professionally, but personally. 

And it doesn’t stop there. Many principals engage in these same practices because they are trying to climb the ladder of promotion. Advancement often depends on appearing loyal, managing conflict quietly, and protecting the district’s image rather than confronting its flaws. They learn to balance budgets over people, to prioritize optics over honesty, and to maintain the illusion of harmony at all costs.

Principals answer to district management. District management answers to the superintendent. The superintendent answers to the board of trustees. And the board, while technically accountable to the public, is still bound by fiduciary duty, a duty that too often prioritizes institutional protection over human rights. It’s optics and camouflage all the way up. The system feeds itself, sustained by silence from the bottom and reinforced by loyalty at the top.

By the time teachers realize what’s happening, they’ve internalized the belief that they are the problem. They question their competence, their worth, and their right to speak. And when they finally do, they’re met with gaslighting and victim-blaming, told they’re “negative,” “burnt out,” or “not a team player.” It’s a system that demands silence and then punishes those who break it.

Many who do recognize what is happening often quietly leave. The realization is heavy because it means confronting not just what has been done to them, but what they have participated in. Many carry shame for the ways they upheld harmful practices or stayed silent through harm. That shame breeds more silence, and this cycle of shame keeps the system intact, protecting those in power and isolating those who see through it.

The most devastating part of grooming is that it makes people defend their abuser. Many teachers come to genuinely believe that protecting the system is protecting their students, their colleagues, or their own sense of belonging. They rationalize the harm, excuse the control, and tell themselves that things could be worse. They mistake fear for professionalism and silence for integrity. That’s the power of grooming: it convinces good people that compliance is care.

Workplaces that should be communities of care are no longer psychologically safe spaces. Fear, not trust, governs communication. Teachers are told to take another resilience workshop, practice more mindfulness, or “focus on what they can control.” But what they can control is shrinking by the day.

And that’s when the realization sets in. The loyalty, the self-blame, the constant second-guessing, the isolation, have all been part of something that was never really about care at all. It was about control.

If we want real change, we have to start naming what’s happening. We have to call it what it is. We have to stop normalizing a culture that grooms educators into compliance while claiming to care about well-being.

Speaking out is a risk, because silence is the system’s greatest weapon.