Three mornings ago, my husband and I went with our youngest son for the last time to his school. Why? To collect his GCSE results.
The school car park was already buzzing when we arrived. Parents stood in clusters everywhere, their conversations tight with nerves. Meanwhile their children slipped inside to collect the envelopes that would define their future. Our son sauntered along without a flicker of concern — sunglasses on, jeans half-revealing his Calvins, every inch the picture of teenage nonchalance.
We waited. As we did, we bumped into an old friend — a mum we’ve known since nursery. She looked anxious, and confessed her son had dropped a grade in Food, from a 9 to an 8. Her disappointment made my stomach lurch. Nick excelled in Food, and I suddenly felt the weight of my own expectations.
Fifteen minutes later, he emerged — smiling, tentative, but with a spring in his step. He handed over the slip. The results were all better than predicted, solid passes across the board, enough to secure his college place. They weren’t the grades that make headlines, but they were his, and they were enough.
As I stood with him, reflecting on the purpose of GCSEs, I realised something striking. This was the first time that I had not been worried about GCSE results professionally. I was no longer concerned as a teacher. I was not concerned as a headteacher. I was not even concerned as a Director of Education. Wow such freedom. I did not care about how individual schools had done or about the local authority. I ignored the national picture. I just had interest in one young man – my son.
The truth is, the UK exam system has become a blunt instrument — used as a benchmark for all. It judges children and their supposed “ability,” it judges teachers and their competence, it judges schools and their worth. And yet, this is total nonsense. Some children will never thrive in a timed exam hall, no matter how bright, capable, or creative they are. That does not diminish their intelligence, their potential, or their future.
What absolute nonsense this is. An exam grade does not make you more or less able — it simply proves you can sit an exam. It is, nevertheless, a convenient way of categorizing young people: an alpha, a beta, or indeed a gamma. A system that should liberate instead reduces, labeling children in ways that stick with them for years.
And teachers — the good ones — they teach so much more than their subjects. They grow and nurture young minds; they help children develop empathy, resilience, compassion, and a sense of justice. They instill a righteousness that no textbook can. Yet they too are judged only by exam results. Schools, in turn, are reduced to little more than GCSE production lines. They churn out young people with “8 good passes.” So much of the real work of education goes unseen.
My son is one of those children. Clever, inquisitive, bright — but resistant to rote learning, weary of assessments, frustrated by the box-ticking. His results don’t show the depth of his thinking or the originality of his ideas. And he is not alone.
So yes, the results matter — they open doors, they create options. But they don’t define the child. They can’t capture the spark that makes them unique, or the talents that unfold outside the classroom. On that morning, I stood in the car park with his envelope in my hand. I realised the grades were good. But the boy behind them was far greater.
The Educator's Playground 