All that Softness
Do not mistake her gentleness
for weakness.
It takes a spine of steel
to carry all that softness.
~Jessica Kantrowitz
When I first heard this poem, I knew it connected to my work.
As many of you know, one of the topics that is closest to my heart is Trauma-Informed care in Early Childhood Education. Here’s the thing: learning how to be a trauma-informed educator is not easy or gentle or soft. It’s hard. My Trauma-Informed session is the one that I find some leaders will steer-away from when considering hiring me to deliver a session. And yet, trauma effects all of us on some level.
I’m now wondering if that’s the reason we avoid talking about it—it hits too close to home. In order to become a trauma-informed educator, we must be willing to allow all the sorest parts of our history to be touched. We must be willing to acknowledge how trauma really impacts children, families, and…us. We need spines of steel.
But that spine of steel—facing even the darkest truths—is what actually opens the door to softness in our practice. What does it mean to be “soft”? Softness is the outpouring of our gentleness, our kindness, our sensitivity, our empathy towards others. Softness is what allows us to authentically listen to a child, to see their intricacies and humanness, to nurture their ability to be compassionate with themselves and others. Without softness, we are brittle, reactive, full of assumptions, and guarded with children. When we refuse to see the truth of our own past, to heal ourselves in lovingkindness—we are susceptible to repeating old patterns because they feel comfortable and familiar when we are under pressure. And the work we do in the classroom can bring much pressure.
I remember when I was in the classroom and how this would play-out. Early in my career, I didn’t have much softness. I also hadn’t acknowledged or healed my own past—and yet, here I was trying to nurture the next generation. I remember how hard it was for me to remain patient, calm, and present when a child was upset. I remember Jack, who would often struggle when it was time to clean up after play time. He might erupt with a yell or throw something across the room in anger. In those moments, I would become completely dysregulated too. Instead of having the capacity to pause, reflect on the moment, truly observe Jack and co-regulate with him—I would frantically find ways to distract him from his emotions and then move on. I’d invite him to help me wash the paint brushes, or roll the playdough up to put back in the containers—and then just proceed with the rest of the day. And I think it can be helpful to initially redirect children when their bodies are dysregulated, but with the understanding that our role is to also help them understand and navigate those big emotions. Our practices shouldn’t stop with the redirection—because this is essentially avoidance of the emotional experience. Instead, when children are calm, we can invite them back to that big moment and talk to them about what happened, what they were feeling, help them release the shame they may have about those overwhelming emotions, and brainstorm ways we can respond differently next time. One of our key roles as educators is to support children in developing an understanding of their emotional world. I couldn’t do that because I was responding with hardness—my actions forced Jack to shut off his emotions and quickly move on from the difficult moment.
The truth of the matter is that, early in my career, my hardness came in many forms as an educator, this is just one example. And that hardness wasn’t just something that played-out in the classroom—this was also how I learned to respond to my own big emotions, like anger. I’d always been encouraged to hide or suppress my anger, sadness, or really any emotion that was deemed “unacceptable” by my caregivers. The actions I was displaying on the outside (in the classroom) very much mirrored how I was also treating myself inside. Emotional neglect became my default.
It wouldn’t be until years later, when I started to unpack and heal my own emotional scars, that I would have the capacity to fully meet-up with the children’s emotional experiences. When I began to understand my own trauma and offer myself space, time, and compassion as I healed—I developed the tools and ability to support children in this same way. I started to slow down as an educator, even in the most heated moments. I was no longer avoiding, dismissing, or encouraging children to keep their emotions to themselves—locking them deep down inside. I can recall a little boy named Carter, who was afraid of a character in a story, and came to see me for comfort. Instead of just distracting him with another book and moving on, I talked to him about how he was feeling, learned about his perspective, offered him sensitivity and compassion, and came up with strategies to navigate that situation and address his fears.
This was my softness emerging. And it could only emerge because I had learned how to give this to myself first. But, to unlock that softness, I had to bravely face my own scars. I had to develop a spine of steel.
Educators are some of the most resilient individuals I’ve ever met. I know they can do this work—trauma-informed care—and, I know many educators who are doing this work right now. We must believe in educator’s ability to dig deeper, even to the darkest parts of themselves. Every time I have offered trauma-informed workshops or sessions centered around introspective well-being, I am reminded time and time again how educators are willing to do this work. The question is, as leaders, are we willing to provide those deep learning experiences for educators? Do we believe in educator’s ability to meet up with this work? In these changing and complex times, being trauma-informed—or, offering programs that are hubs of resiliency, safety, and connection—is crucial. Let’s not succumb to our hardness—this is not the moment to hide, sit back, or resist. Now, perhaps more than ever, the world needs our softness.
