Watching new teachers step into the classroom is always a reminder of how steep the learning curve is. One moment they’re planning lessons with all the time in the world, the next they’re facing thirty Year 7s, juggling laptops, worksheets, behaviour, and the sheer unpredictability of school life. It’s hard, and it’s supposed to be.

The early stories are telling. One trainee ends up live-coding in Python, making every mistake you could imagine—forgetting colons, mixing up quotes—but the pupils are learning anyway because they can see how debugging works in real time. Another gets caught out focusing on one child while missing something going on across the room. That sense of having to grow eyes in the back of your head comes quickly. And then there’s the moment you realise the Year 7 stare is far more terrifying than presenting at any conference.

These moments aren’t failures. They’re the crucible. Classroom presence, authority, flexibility—none of it comes overnight. It’s practice, yes, but not just endless repetition. What matters is deliberate practice: spotting what didn’t go right, making a plan, and trying again. Mentors are crucial here. You help narrow the focus, give feedback that’s specific rather than crushing, and model the small adjustments that turn survival into craft.

But teaching isn’t only about the craft. Alongside this is the other demand of the course: reading, thinking, writing. It’s tempting for trainees to see essays as a hoop to jump through while the “real work” is happening in schools. Yet the two are bound together. Reading research widens perspective, showing that their struggles are not unique. Writing forces them to sharpen their own thinking. Evidence and experience feed each other.

The assignment on programming is a good example. Why should all pupils learn to programme? How should it be taught so everyone succeeds? The title assumes the answer is yes, though a strong essay could push back and argue otherwise. What matters is not the conclusion but the argument, and whether the trainee has drawn on the literature and their own classroom experience to build it.

Four things are being marked: did they answer the brief, do they grasp the concepts and literature, have they applied the evidence to practice, and is it written clearly? Strip it down and it’s much the same as a lesson: meet the objectives, know your stuff, make it relevant, and communicate it well.

The stumbling block is often the literature. It’s easy to summarise what a paper claims; harder to engage critically. Was the sample too small? Was it only undergraduates in the US? Does it apply to a Year 9 class in London? That questioning is the sign of genuine engagement. And the more you read, the easier this becomes. There’s a world of difference between an essay that has eleven references and one with thirty. Reading more changes the way you think, and the way you write.

Finding good material isn’t always straightforward. Books written for school teachers can be excellent starting points, but critical essays need peer-reviewed papers. Google Scholar is better than most library catalogues for this. Look at how often a paper is cited, see who else has referenced it, and follow the trail. Reading in this way is not about gathering quotes to back up what you already believe, but letting the research shape your ideas.

Then comes referencing. Not glamorous, but it matters. Harvard style is what we use. Word and citation tools can help, AI can reformat, but responsibility still sits with the writer. A messy reference list signals carelessness. A tidy one shows respect for the work you’re drawing on. Mentors can support by checking whether trainees are taking that responsibility seriously, not by nit-picking commas.

And the style of writing itself: clear, precise prose beats inflated jargon every time. Too many trainees think they have to imitate the tone of academic journals, which often seem designed to put ordinary readers off. In truth, the best essays read like good teaching—straightforward, engaging, and clear about their argument.

For mentors, the challenge is keeping these strands connected. It’s easy for trainees to pour their energy into lesson planning and leave the reading until the last minute. It’s also easy for them to bury themselves in journals and forget what it felt like to stand in front of Year 7 that morning. The best growth happens when classroom experience and academic study feed each other. You can help keep that dialogue alive.

Because in the end, becoming a teacher is not only about learning how to survive the lesson. It’s about being able to explain why you teach as you do. It’s about standing on evidence as well as instinct. Trainees who practise deliberately, read widely, and write clearly are not just passing assignments. They’re becoming the thoughtful colleagues who will one day guide the next generation of new teachers.

Notes for mentors, based on the the fifth Roehampton PGCE Computing lecture