Some Parents Are Just Going to Be Mad

“We had no idea about this concert!”

The email from a parent came two days before the concert. Subject line: Frustrated.

The body? A full scroll of passive-aggressive paragraphs. How they were “disappointed,” how they “heard from other parents” but got “no official information.” How this “wasn’t the first time.”

I scrolled up. There it was — my original concert email that I’d sent a week ago. Same email thread. Same timestamp. I had bolded the date, and included details on call time, attire, pickup — everything.

No sarcasm, no snark. Just clear, factual info. I stared at the screen for a second. I wasn’t mad. I wasn’t even surprised. I just shook my head.

This wasn’t the first time I received an angry parent email. It won’t be the last.

Clarity ≠ Consensus

I used to think if I was really clear — with bullet points, bolded headers and reminders stapled to foreheads — I could avoid this stuff.

Wrong.

Last fall, I made little calendar stickers with concert info and told my students to stick them directly on their instrument cases. I told them they couldn’t leave rehearsal until they showed me their sticker-laden cases.

One kid tried to peel his off and pretend he didn’t get one. Another looked me dead in the eye and said, “My mom doesn’t believe in stickers.” (What does that even mean?)

Even with all that, I still received two “we-never-heard-anything” emails from parents. One was from the mom who helped make the stickers. So … how do I respond to her?

Here’s the trap: You start believing that parent confusion is your failure. That if a parent is mad, you must have messed something up.

But “clear” doesn’t mean “agreed.” It doesn’t mean “read.” It doesn’t mean “received in a calm mental state after three nights of decent sleep.”

Sometimes people just miss stuff. Or they’re overwhelmed. Or they’re used to blaming teachers because that’s what worked last time. (Side note: I once heard that middle schoolers blame their parents, and high schoolers blame their teachers. Let me know if that rings true for you.)

Communicate clearly. Always. But don’t expect that to guarantee peace.

Take a Beat Before You Hit Send

There’s a very specific kind of adrenaline that comes from a parent email accusing you of something you didn’t do. Especially when you can literally prove them wrong by scrolling up.

My brain goes full courtroom mode. I start drafting a perfectly framed, airtight rebuttal — bolded dates, bullet points, screenshots. I even imagine how a jury would nod in my favor. Plus, it would be pretty cool to yell “Objection!,” even if it was during my own opening statement.

But I’ve learned that firing off that kind of reply never actually feels good — even if you technically kept it “polite.”

Now, I wait to respond. Ten minutes, minimum. Usually longer. I get up. I refill my water. Sometimes I write the snarky reply in a Google Doc just to get it out of my system.

Then I reply like a calm adult. Something like:

“Thanks for reaching out. Totally understand how frustrating that must feel. We sent the details out on [date], but I know how fast things move this time of year. Happy to re-send and help however I can.”

If it sounds like customer service, that’s kind of the point. Not because we’re a business. But because reactive energy almost never solves anything.

One time I didn’t pause — I fired off a two-paragraph explanation with screenshots. The parent never responded. But they did forward it to the principal and said that I “seemed defensive.” (Well, I do commend them for their spot-on diagnosis.)

Take the pause every time. It’s the difference between escalating a situation and actually moving on.

You’re Not in Charge of Their Tone

This one took me longer to understand than I want to admit.

I used to read parent emails like Yelp reviews. I obsessed over every single word. “They said I wasn’t very responsive. What does very mean here? Am I losing them?”

I’d go digging through my sent folder, trying to see if I missed something. I’d rewrite handouts five times trying to make them “un-misunderstandable.”

But here’s the truth: You can’t control someone else’s stress level. Or their guilt. Or how many school emails they skimmed while on a conference call.

I once received a full caps-lock email because I assigned a concert reflection during the same week as a swim meet. The subject line was: “HOW IS HE GOING TO GET THIS DONE?”

For a second, I spiraled. I questioned everything. I almost deleted the assignment entirely. Then I remembered: I didn’t cause her stress. I just happened to be in the inbox when it spilled out. You’re not in charge of their tone. You’re in charge of yours.

You can draw a line without launching into a six-paragraph defense. You can decide not to match their intensity. And for what it’s worth — I’ve never had a parent come back and say, “I wish you’d been more defensive.”

You Don’t Have to Prove You’re a Good Teacher

In my first few years, every angry email felt like a job review. If one parent was mad, I assumed it meant the entire community thought I was disorganized.

So, I overcorrected. Big time.

I started doing these “pre-emptive clarity campaigns.” Email. Follow-up email. Printed handout. In-class announcement. Reminder text. Laminated FAQ sheet.

At one point, I made a Google Form just to confirm that parents had seen the reminder email. A parent replied: “Why am I filling out a form just to know when a concert is?”

Fair question.

Eventually, I started to give myself a quiet little checklist after sending stuff out:

• Was it accurate?
• Was it clear?
• Was it kind?

If all three boxes are checked, I’m done. I don’t re-read it 12 times. I don’t draft a “just-in-case” follow-up.

You’re not a bad teacher because one parent is mad. And you’re not a better teacher because you preemptively folded yourself into a pretzel.

That’s not your identity.

You’re the one showing up every day, building something out of chaos. That counts for more than the inbox makes it feel like.

The Ones Who Get It, Get It

Most parents aren’t out to get you. Some are busy. Some are overwhelmed. My wife and I raise six kids — we’re in a constant state of overwhelmed. Some are just used to pushing until something gives.

But plenty of them do get it. They show up. They email a thank-you after the spring concert. They bring donuts. They clap way too loud for the quietest kid in the trumpet section because they know what that performance meant.

Let that balance out the noise.

And when the noise gets loud? Scroll back. Find the email where you bolded the date. Then take a walk, eat a snack and let it go.

Because honestly? You have music to make. And one angry email doesn’t change that.