Chennai has always been a city that lives comfortably with change.

We’ve watched our coastline redraw itself during every cyclone.

We’ve seen new flyovers rise where we once waited at level crossings.

We’ve seen old bookshops move, theatres reinvent themselves, and heritage buildings get new lives.

We adapt.

Sometimes reluctantly, sometimes gracefully — but always eventually.

Yet nothing prepared me for the very delicate, very emotional transition called: “Shifting My Child to Another School.”

The decision had been building quietly – like the slow restoration of a heritage structure – practical reasons, logical reasons, long-term reasons… all neatly arranged in my adult mind. Adults love order. We treat life like a well-labelled archive.

But children?

Children live differently.

For them, school is not an institution—it is an experience.

It is:

  • the familiar walkway they’ve run down a hundred times,
  • the teacher who knows their strengths better than they do,
  • the friend who has sat with them since LKG,
  • the tree under which they had their favourite chat,
  • the rituals, routines, and small comforts that make their day predictable

As a teacher, I’ve watched children deal with transitions in the classroom.

Some embrace newness boldly.

Some move cautiously.

Some revisit their memories again and again, like re-reading a favourite Amar Chitra Katha.

Some simply need time – ­unhurried, patient time.

 

But when it came to my own son, all my professional insights quietly vanished.

I approached the conversation with the misplaced confidence of a tour guide.

“Krishna… the new school has a huge playground da. The library is wonderful. You’ll enjoy it!”

He listened politely – the dignified, diplomatic patience children show when they know you’re overselling something.

Then he asked the one question that stripped away every prepared line:

“But Amma… why are we changing?”

That was it.

The turning point.

I explained – not perfectly, but honestly. Life was changing. We needed something steadier. The move was necessary, though not easy.

My husband, ever the optimist, insisted:

“He’ll adjust pa… children are adaptable.”

True.

But they also feel deeply.

They carry emotional maps we adults often forget to acknowledge.

Over the next few days, our conversations unfolded everywhere – during walks, while arranging schoolbooks, in the quiet before bedtime, when children become unexpectedly philosophical.

Somewhere during these small moments, a truth became crystal clear:

Shifting schools isn’t about transferring admission forms.

It’s about shifting a child’s emotional geography.

A new classroom can be shown on day one.

But a sense of belonging?

That takes time.

Interestingly, I realised something else – I had become loyal to his current school in ways I hadn’t noticed. Teachers in Chennai form strong bonds with educational spaces. Schools here often carry decades of culture, values, stories, and legacies. Letting go feels like stepping out of a familiar heritage lane into a new and uncertain one.

But I’m learning that transitions don’t need drama.

They need truth.

They need preparation.

And they need the same patient calm we practice during every power cut – trusting that eventually, the lights will come back on.

Krishna will settle in.

Slowly, gently, in his own rhythm.

And so will I.

Because parenting in Chennai teaches us resilience in subtle, everyday ways—through monsoon unpredictability, through city restructuring, through the quiet evolution of our neighbourhoods.

And if this journey taught me one thing, it is this:

“Changing a school is easy.

Changing a child’s world?

That is the real lesson plan.”