Swipe—Tap— Send: Why Students Write the Way They Live

Exhibit A:

did i miss anything yesturday i was absent n why did u give me a 0 for my hw fri

No greeting.
No punctuation.
No subject—or worse, the whole email crammed in the subject line.

And it hits your inbox at 7:03am.
On a Tuesday.
Before your coffee.

Not only are you decoding the spelling, you’re trying to remember if this kid was even in class.
You’re questioning your memory, your policies, your life choices—all before the bell rings.

You stare at the screen.

Not because you’re stunned—you’ve seen worse.
But because your brain has quietly curled up under your desk and is whispering, “Nooooo.”

You sigh.
You rub your temples.
You consider early retirement… or witness protection.

We’ve driven on this road before. But now it’s a highway at rush hour.
Language has always evolved.
We’ve always had slang, abbreviations, and generational “wait, what?” moments.
The difference now? Speed. Volume. And the complete absence of a pause before hitting send.

Students fire off messages in the middle of whatever else they’re doing—scrolling TikTok, walking to class, ordering snacks.
No filter. No context. No sense of audience.
Just reaction → thumbs → send.

And tone? Tone is totally lost on them.

To a student, the Exhibit A email reads neutral. Informational. Even polite.
To a teacher, it feels like they’re shouting demands our way: “Explain yourself. Also, why are you wrong?”

Lowercase, No Pauses—They Text Like They Live.
We had “brb,” “lol,” and AIM away messages.
They’ve got “wyd,” “idc,” and emojis that say more than words ever could. 🫠

We passed notes. They send texts.
We waited for after-school conversations with teachers. They drop messages into your inbox at 1:43 a.m. (and wonder why you didn’t reply by 7:30 a.m.).

Same instincts. New platform. Fewer punctuation marks.

This isn’t about being lazy. It’s about being wired.
Their attention spans are short, their dopamine cycles are fast, and their habits are built on apps that reward speed over thought.

The problem isn’t that they send these messages.
It’s that they don’t even realize there’s a problem.

The real problem is the pause that’s missing.
These messages? They’re not just sloppy.
They’re missing a moment of reflection. A beat to consider tone.
A second to think, “How does this sound to someone else?”

And it’s not just email. It’s how they move through the world.

So when we get frustrated—and yes, that’s an understatement—it helps to name what’s really going on:
They haven’t built the muscle of thinking before they hit send.
And if we don’t interrupt it, they won’t.

Here’s how to interrupt it (without losing your mind):

You don’t need a new lesson plan.
You don’t need a full-class intervention.

You just need to start small. Show them what they can’t see. Give it a name.
Then repeat.

• Name the Gap
  Hold up the message. Literally or figuratively:
  •  “Can you read this aloud?”
  • “Would you have said this if you were talking to me in person?”

             You’re not correcting. You’re coaching.

• Anchor It Visually
  Make a quick slide or print out:
  • “Writing to a teacher? Start here:”
  •  Add a greeting
  •  Say why you’re writing
  • Ask clearly
  • End politely

Think cheat sheet. Think anchor chart. Think “Please just look at the wall before you hit send.”

• Keep It Light + Consistent
  Warm-ups, bell ringers, Do Nows: use them.
  One sentence. One fix. One little moment at a time:
  • “Rewrite this message to sound like a human.”
  • “What’s missing from this email?”
  • “Which version sounds more respectful?”

No lectures. No extended sighs. Just small reps, over time.

The bottom line?
You’re not going to change the internet.
Or the dopamine cycles. Or the excessive use of screentime.

But you can help students remember that writing to someone is still human-to-human.
That their voice matters—and so does their tone.

That thinking before reacting isn’t just about school. It’s about life.
That a few more words in an email could make all the difference.

And maybe—just maybe—teaching them how to take a few pauses before hitting send
could keep you from rocking yourself in the corner, repeatedly mumbling, “It’s fine, commas are fine, I’m fine, everything’s fine.”

And that’s a start.

Lauren Ewe teaches high school English by day and writes about education, identity, and AI by night (or whenever life gives her a minute). She’s been in the classroom long enough to know what works, what doesn’t, and writes to make sense of the tangled truths of teaching—and life—one bell and breath at a time.