Questions are the fuel for learning, so why do we sometimes fear asking them?
Last week, during a class discussion on the history of pandemics, a parent joined my session to observe her child’s learning. I often welcome parents to sit in and experience how their children engage in inquiry and discussion.
After the discussion, one of my students raised his hand and asked, “Sir, in medieval times, people did cover their faces, so what made the virus spread so fast?” For many, this might have seemed like an “obvious” question. We had already discussed this point earlier in class, using COVID-19’s rapid spread in 2020 as a reference. But instead of focusing on the content, what caught my attention was the parents’ reaction, a subtle, sarcastic smile that everyone noticed, including the student who had asked.
I didn’t respond right away. Instead, I encouraged the class to answer collaboratively, allowing them to revisit their understanding and refine their explanations. Later, as the class ended, the parent thanked me for letting her observe the session. Before she left, I gently asked about her smile. She said, rather comfortably, that she thought the question had already been discussed and felt the student must not have been paying attention, in short, that it was a “stupid” question.
Her response made me pause. Was the student inattentive, or was he genuinely curious to make sense of something in his own way? Was his question really “stupid,” or was it simply a reflection of how he processes understanding? And more importantly, what message would I send if I dismissed such a question as unnecessary or foolish?
There Are No Stupid Questions — Only Missed Opportunities
As a teacher, I deeply believe there are no stupid questions. There might be incomplete answers, but every question carries a spark of curiosity, the very foundation of learning. Yet, how often do we hear people begin with, “This might be a stupid question, but…”?
That hesitation reflects something deeper, a learned fear. A fear of being judged, ridiculed, or dismissed. And that fear often begins not in adulthood, but during childhood, when curiosity meets mockery or impatience.
The late astronomer and author Carl Sagan once shared a telling observation. When visiting a kindergarten class to talk about science, he found the children endlessly curious “natural-born scientists,” he called them. They had no concept of a “dumb question.” But when he visited high school students, the atmosphere was different. Their spark of curiosity had dimmed; their questions were guarded, hesitant, and cautious. The sense of wonder seemed lost, buried under the fear of appearing foolish (Sagan, 1996).
So, what happens between kindergarten and high school?
The Silent Decline of Curiosity
According to Newsweek magazine, research shows that preschool children ask an average of 100 questions a day. Sagan described these as “cries to understand the world.” Parents and teachers often find these constant questions tiring, but they are a vital part of cognitive and emotional development (Newsweek, 2018).
By middle school, however, children stop asking as many questions, not because they lose interest, but because they stop feeling safe to ask. Somewhere along the way, they internalise that asking “too much” might make them look silly or less capable.
As educators and parents, this should concern us deeply. The decline in curiosity doesn’t happen naturally; it happens because the environment, schools, homes, and even social norms, begin to reward knowing rather than wondering.
When Curiosity Feels Unwelcome
Think about moments when you’ve asked a question that made others uncomfortable, maybe your doctor, a supervisor, or even a relative. Perhaps you were told, “You overthink too much,” or the topic was quickly changed.
That subtle dismissal stays with us. Over time, we learn to silence our curiosity.
The same happens with children. A child who is constantly told, “You should already know that,” or “That’s a silly question,” eventually learns not to ask. The result? A quieter classroom. A more compliant student. And a shrinking sense of wonder.
But curiosity is not a distraction; it is the engine of learning. Without it, education becomes a mechanical process, focused on memorising facts rather than exploring meaning.
Curiosity as the Root of Success
In an interview series by The New York Times, journalist Adam Bryant asked over 700 CEOs what traits they most often observed in successful people. The top answer was “passionate curiosity.” (The New York Times, 2011).
That phrase passionate curiosity is powerful. It captures the willingness to ask why, how, and what if, even when others stop at what is.
Curiosity keeps us adaptable, open-minded, and resilient. It prevents us from falling into intellectual stagnation, the belief that we already know enough. It aligns closely with what Buddhists call a beginner’s mind, a mindset of openness and humility that allows one to see every situation as new, no matter how familiar it seems.
A Reflection for Parents and Educators
As I reflect on that classroom moment, I realise how easily curiosity can be crushed not by harsh words, but by subtle reactions: a smirk, an eye-roll, or a dismissive tone.
For parents, it’s important to remember that a child’s question, no matter how simple, is a doorway to connection. When your child asks “why,” they are not testing your patience; they are inviting you into their world of thought.
Instead of answering with “We already talked about that,” try asking, “That’s interesting. What made you think of that?” Such responses affirm curiosity and build confidence.
For teachers, too, this reflection matters. Encouraging students to question even the obvious helps build critical thinkers who are not afraid to explore. When we celebrate questioning, we teach children that learning is not about having the right answers, but about seeking deeper understanding.
All in all: Keeping the Flame Alive
Children are born curious. They are wired to explore, question, and make sense of the world around them. But as they grow, the fear of asking or being wrong, of being laughed at, dims that natural flame.
Our role as parents and educators is to keep that flame alive. We must model curiosity ourselves, ask questions openly, and treat inquiry as a sign of intelligence, not ignorance.
The next time a child asks something that seems “too obvious,” pause before reacting. Behind that question lies not stupidity, but courage, the courage to learn. And that, perhaps, is the most powerful kind of curiosity of all.