While the end of the academic year brings its own specific pressures and ‘Auld Lang Syne’ farewells, it is also a reminder that our daily sessions are just as critical. I used to end my daily lessons the way that many teachers do. I would teach right until the last moment trying to squeeze in one more explanation, example, or helpful piece of advice. I believed I was helping students by giving them the most amount of instruction possible in the given time. But every class as the clock edged toward finishing time, I could see learners become tense in the room. Some would start to pack up early, looking at the door, then at the clock, then at me. It was like they were calculating how far they needed to walk, which staircase wouldn’t be too crowded, which bathroom would be free, and whether those ten minutes between each class would be enough to get to the next building on the other side of campus.

It took some time for me to realize that I was creating the stress I thought I was preventing.

One afternoon it hit me. A usually quiet student rushed out of class because we had gone two minutes over time. She looked distressed and anxious. Was she already late for a test in the next class? Maybe she just needed a moment to breathe. Something felt wrong. I spend much of my time teaching writing, reflection, and finesse, yet the way I finished my classes offered none of those qualities. I realized that I had been treating the end of class as a leftover scrap of time. It needed to change, needed to become its own meaningful space, and needed to be protected.

Nowadays the last ten minutes of class are decompression time. Students close their books, lean back, talk quietly with other students, and think aloud about what they’ve done, and what they might need to do for the next class. The class atmosphere visibly shifts to something softer. You can see the students’ shoulders drop, and laughter returns. The gap between “teacher time” and “student time” dissolves and instead of racing out the door, students transition out of the class in the same way a plane eases onto a runway, smoothly, predictably, and without turbulence.

 In Japanese universities, this is not a luxury; it is a necessity. Students with only ten minutes between classes, sometimes needing to relocate to another building, or navigate their way through crowded corridors need this time. For them, a late ending does not mean inconvenience, it means stress, social embarrassment, and potentially arriving at the next class already dysregulated. This is even truer for students with mobility issues, anxiety, or tight schedules, those ten minutes really matter.

Finishing on time has become my quiet form of care. It is the way I communicate to every student, even the ones who rarely speak, that their time and well-being matter. It has changed the atmosphere of my teaching. Students often hang around to ask a question they would never have had the time for if the clock was ticking into their break time. Students leave with a sense of completion rather than an interruption.

Teaching used to be about packing every minute with content. Now, I believe teaching well means knowing when to stop. Ending on time is not about efficiency, it is about humanity and giving students a predictable, respectful landing at the end of every flight we take together.