It’s easy to wax romantic about the transformative wonders of teaching if you don’t teach (or if you don’t teach difficult groups). I know this because I teach a variety of cohorts over a range of provisions. The learners I teach at one place are such a joy that I would almost do it for free. With that group, I can easily spin pedagogy into a form of spiritual nourishment. At another place the learners are so…let’s say, “challenging” that I feel like a wrung-out dishcloth by the end of the day, amazed at how the full-time teachers manage to keep their marbles.

Some days it’s hard to remember that trickier students - the pain-in-the-arse, paperwork-causing stress inducers - are not much older than my own son. Though many could physically pass for grown-ups, and some have responsibilities way beyond their years, they are still just children.

I recently helped out for an exam. As I sat there looking at the teenagers scribbling away, a flood of affection for them took me by surprise. Even for the ones who usually drive me up the wall. To be fair, I think it was the first time they’d ever been in the same space without causing untold havoc.

With them compliant in silence, the sharp edges were shaved off and it allowed me to glimpse their each of their vulnerabilities. The stark, battery farm arrangement of desks revealed their individuality, and I considered their behaviour in more depth. Why does she always do 20 minutes of bullshit before settling down to some excellent work? Why does he turn up a full hour before class yet resist involvement? Looking at those temporarily sweet children took me back to when my own almost-teen son was a toddling danger magnet. The days when my job as a mother was a never-ending quest to calm his bursts of fury, to stop him destroying his surroundings and to prevent him injuring himself. Even then, when motherhood was extreme exhaustion and frazzled patience, I would still find myself gazing adoringly at him the moment he fell asleep. Wondering what kind of person he would grow up to be. Looking at those students made me ask the same question.

I like all my students, even when they try their hardest to be unlikable. They know I care about them doing well, but some make an extraordinary effort to project apathy towards their own success, or even worse, resignation to failure. But they’ve been rumbled. As I watched them hurriedly write, then pause to gaze upward in thought, I knew I’d got something on them. By simply turning up to that exam room, by sitting in silence and getting on with the paper, they showed that they care, too.

Sarah Simons works in colleges and adult community education in the East Midlands, and is the director of UKFEchat. She tweets @MrsSarahSimons