One of the most important lessons I’ve learned as a teacher and a parent is this: every family wants the best for their child. That truth holds steady across cultures, languages, income levels, and life circumstances. But how parents show up for their children can look very different. As educators, it's our job to notice, honor, and adapt to those differences with empathy and humility.

We often talk about "family engagement" as if it has a universal form: showing up to school events, responding to emails, attending parent-teacher conferences, helping with homework, or volunteering in class. These are all meaningful ways for families to be involved, but they are also shaped by access to time, language, transportation, health, job flexibility, and more.

What about the parent who doesn’t speak English and feels uncomfortable or unwelcome at school events conducted entirely in English?

What about the single parent working two or three jobs whose schedule doesn’t align with conference slots or PTA meetings?

What about the caregiver managing a chronic illness who simply doesn’t have the energy to attend an evening showcase after a long day?

Too often, we interpret absence as apathy. But absence is not indifference. It is often exhaustion, fear, or survival.

Sometimes students come to school without the supplies they need, without clean clothes, or without having had breakfast. And it’s easy, in those moments, to feel frustrated. To think, Why aren’t the parents taking care of this? But before we rush to judgment, we must pause and ask: What else might be going on here?

Because the truth is, some parents are not failing their children. They are drowning. Drowning under the weight of poverty, unstable housing, food insecurity, health issues, systemic racism, or the sheer exhaustion of raising children in a world that offers little support. Many families are doing the best they can in circumstances that are unfairly stacked against them.

This doesn’t mean we lower our expectations for students. It means we raise our capacity for compassion. When we see a student in need, the answer isn’t to blame. It’s to ask, How can I help? What can our school community do to support this child and their family?

Maybe it’s keeping a stash of extra supplies in the classroom without making a big deal. Maybe it’s finding a way to discreetly connect a family to the school social worker. Maybe it’s just sending home a note that says, We’re here for you.

When we hold a narrow definition of what family engagement looks like, we risk misjudging families’ intentions and missing opportunities to build trust. But when we extend empathy instead of assumptions, we create space for authentic relationships and real support.

As a teacher, I’ve learned that meeting families where they are starts with listening, not just to what they say, but to what their lives tell us. It means asking, “What works for you?”  instead of assuming what support should look like. It means translating newsletters, offering flexible conference times or virtual tutoring, and honoring the forms of care that happen outside our sight.

This mindset shift is more than just good practice. It’s equity in action. When we assume positive intent and take time to understand each family’s unique context, we create space for genuine partnership. And we get better at supporting the whole child. Because at the end of the day, no matter how a parent shows up, they are still showing up. In the ways they can. And our job as educators is not to judge the form of that love, but to recognize it, work with it, and build from it.