I had one of those classes today that left me with such a sense of peace. The kind where everything clicks and you remember exactly why you fell in love with this work in the first place.
We were talking about something that sounds simple but feels revolutionary in practice: letting children figure out how to move through the world on their own, while we stand quietly nearby, ready but not rushing in. It’s about teaching them what TO do instead of constantly telling them what NOT to do. It’s about watching them stretch their bodies and their independence with pure joy, learning that “no” isn’t the end of the world, and discovering their own voices when they need to stand up for themselves.
As I was reflecting on this afterwards, I kept thinking about how much trust this requires—not just trust in the children, but trust in ourselves to step back and let the magic happen. There’s something so counterintuitive about it for many of us. We want to help, to guide, to smooth the path. But what if the bumps in the path are exactly what they need?
I watched a child today work for several minutes to climb over the Pikler triangle. She’d watched another child do it; she even watched her sister do it (many times). But she got up to the top, hung one leg over, and…froze. I came close, but she didn’t reach for me. She stood, leaning over the edge a little, periodically crying out with frustration. When I sensed she was getting tired, I helped her down to reset. She didn’t make it up and over today. But she learned that we trust that she will figure it out…when she’s ready.
Later in class, I witnessed another beautiful moment of children learning to listen to each other’s boundaries. One child approached another with arms wide open, ready for a hug. “Momma hold you,” the other child said, pressing into her mother’s lap. And you know what? The first child heard her. No pushing, no insisting…she did try a few other tactics, like offering toys and watching closely, to see if she’d change her mind…but she didn’t. Her mother told her she could hold her hands out to say “I needs space.” And the mother of the child who wanted to hug, reinforced that message by encouraging her daughter to look and listen to what the other child was saying. Later, a less successful interaction included a hug around the neck from behind, which led to tears…and then a sweet check-in.
Both things are so important…learning to protect your space, and learning to read when people are ready to let you into their space.
It’s a lifelong lesson, isn’t it?
Watching it unfold in real time, seeing children naturally develop these skills when we give them the space to practice—it reminds me that sometimes the most profound teaching happens when we teach ourselves to pause, to breathe, and to trust that children—just like we do in our own lives—will find their way when given the space and support to do so.
What would it look like if we gave ourselves that same patient trust?