Children playing on a floor with lego

Blog post by Rebecca Lindsay, current MA Education (Special Educational Needs) student.

Choosing to pursue an undergraduate degree in early childhood education has not only equipped me with the knowledge and skills to become an effective early year’s teacher- it has also made me a better mother. 

Looking back, I can see how my personal experiences, particularly as a young, single mother, shaped my early understanding of childhood and development long before I entered the classroom or lecture hall. 

Before this degree, my understanding of child development was shaped by the world around me: my own upbringing, the practices of friends and family, the messages from mainstream media, and, as a new mother, the authority of health professionals- midwives, health visitors, and GPs. I clung to developmental checklists, milestone charts, and expert advice. My son’s height, weight, and age were plotted on graphs, his progress measured against a hundred ‘typically developing’ children. 

At two, he was assessed to determine if he was ‘on track’. In reception, he was monitored using the Early Years Foundation Stage Profile (Department for Education, 2024), a framework designed to reassure parents like me that their children were where they ‘should’ be. 

As a 24-year-old single mother, I lived in constant comparison. Is he developing properly? Why isn’t he speaking yet? Is he small for his age? Am I feeding him enough? Why doesn’t he listen? I was told, with good intentions- mostly by well-meaning friends, relatives, and fellow parents-that he needed more discipline. That he should sit on the step. That he needed firmer boundaries, more routine, less leniency. 

And I believed it… until I began to truly understand. 

What I now know is that every child is different; unique individuals on their own path, developing at their own pace, in the way that is right for them. It’s not a race. There is no finish line. 

Child development isn’t a straight line. It’s like a series of streams flowing in different directions, at varying speeds, each eventually joining the winding river when ready. There are calm waters and stormy ones, obstacles and smooth sailing. Some stretches are clear and predictable; others twist suddenly around unseen bends. That, to me, is the essence of development- a winding journey not to be measured or managed, but to be embraced. 

As a practitioner, honouring each child’s unique developmental flow means resisting the pressure to standardise or rush progress. It means holding space within structured settings for curiosity, individuality, and emotional expression. In practical terms, this often looks like advocating for play, offering open-ended activities, or simply giving children time- time to explore, to try again, to be seen without comparison. 

But this can be incredibly challenging within the constraints of statutory frameworks, school policies, and external expectations. Many senior leaders in education- while well-intentioned- don’t fully understand the specialised nature of early years education. Too often, there’s a narrow focus on data, targets, and measurable outcomes, which can lead to an increasingly formalised curriculum that doesn’t always align with how young children actually learn and develop (Fisher, 2022). 

It doesn’t take a skilled practitioner to know their children- that comes naturally through time, presence, and care. But it does take a skilled and confident practitioner to meaningfully extend their learning through play, to advocate for their development within systems that don’t always understand early childhood, and to justify their practice in the face of pressure for outcomes. This work requires a deep understanding of children’s lives in context, knowing their families, their home environments, and their unique needs. One significant challenge arises when children are identified as being ‘behind’ in particular areas, as this can quickly lead to referral pathways for SEND support that may not always be appropriate (Blanco-Bayo and Reraki, 2025). Practitioners are often left navigating a delicate balance between supporting early identification and resisting unnecessary labelling, especially when those labels fail to reflect the child’s full potential or lived experience (Pierlejewski, 2023). 

In these moments, we must draw on our deep understanding of theory and practice, as well as our close knowledge of the child. We must not be afraid to stand up for them. That means carving out space in the day for children to follow their own interests, to extend their learning through meaningful play, and to engage in experiences that make sense to them. 

We need to trust children, not just as learners, but as leaders of their own development. Their play is purposeful. Their questions are valid. Their ways of exploring the world are rich and meaningful, even if they don’t align with adult timelines or expectations. This is not preparation for life; it is life. These are their stories, their voices, their one and only childhood. They are not blank slates waiting to be filled, but whole people with their own wisdom, preferences, and pace. 

And just as importantly, school leaders and policymakers must trust early years professionals- to give them the autonomy to shape their practice, to advocate for the children in their care, and to be heard as specialists in their field. When we trust the child and trust the practitioner, we create something powerful: education that is respectful, responsive, and rooted in relationship. 

This shift in perspective has changed everything. I’ve learned to slow down, to stop focusing on outcomes and instead stay present- to see my children as they are, not who they might become. And in doing so, I’ve come to appreciate their growth in ways no data point or checklist ever could. 

My eldest son’s kindness and empathy, his deep love for the world- these cannot be measured. He’s the boy who picks up litter from the woods because no one else will. He feels deeply, cares fiercely, and wants to make the world a better place simply because he can. His emotional intelligence, quick wit, musical gift, and attention to detail all shine brightly. The intricate towers he builds from LEGO and magnetic tiles are testaments to the way his mind works; creative, patient, exacting. 

My youngest son is a firework of curiosity and courage. He loves the outside world- feeling the sand and sea beneath his feet, embracing the sting of the wind on his face, taking in the earthy smells of the air after rain. On walks, he pauses often, bending low to watch an ant carry food, noticing how tree leaves shift in colour, or marvelling at the plants growing in the cracks of the pavement. By conventional checklists, he might be labelled as ‘behind’; still learning to regulate emotions, needing support with communication and self-care. But what those assessments don’t capture is his love of stories, memorising every word; his confidence in performing; his ability to recall lyrics with ease; his innate need to move, to dance to life’s rhythms wherever they lead him. 

My degree has also taught me the power of listening- not just with ears, but with heart and presence. For too long, children’s voices have gone unheard. They live in systems- educational, medical, even familial- that often make decisions for them rather than with them. While mechanisms for child voice do exist, they are not always prioritised or meaningfully embedded. Too often, the pace or pressures of adult agendas drown out what children are trying to say. 

And listening, I’ve learned, isn’t only verbal. Communication is everywhere- in gestures, energy, silence. I now see the unspoken signs- when my eldest is quiet, I know something weighs on him. When my youngest hums as he eats, I know he’s content. I recognise when they’re tired, overstimulated, or just need space. After long days at school and nursery, days of holding it all in, they need gentleness, not instruction. They need to simply be. 

Our evenings have become sacred, a space to reconnect, exhale, and feel safe. When my eldest races to share something he’s found online, I know he is not just curious- he’s inviting me into his world. When my youngest pauses to explore the tiny things, I know he is noticing what many overlook. 

These are their ways of speaking. These are their truths. 

By listening to the small stuff, I create space for the big stuff. I am building trust that says: you can come to me with anything. That no feeling is too small, no story too long, no fear too big. And when heartbreak comes, or questions, or pain- I will already have been listening. 

For parents, this kind of listening transforms everyday moments into opportunities for connection and trust-building. For practitioners, it means observing beyond behaviours and seeing what’s being communicated through play, silence, or emotion. It encourages us to shift from managing behaviour to understanding it. And in both roles, it invites us to slow down, to attune ourselves more deeply, and to remember that listening is a practice- one that children can teach us, if we let them. 

For me, this is the heart of both motherhood and teaching. Two roles that are, at their core, the same. We are not here to shape children into who we think they should be, but to walk beside them as they discover who they already are. 

Our job is not to control but to guide. To hold space when they struggle. To steady them, not steer them. To remind them they are capable, even when they fall. 

Because children are not just becoming. They are already whole. And they deserve to be seen, heard, and loved- not in the future, but now. 

And as for us adults… there is so much we can learn from them. 

This poem, written by my eldest son for his school’s poetry competition, says everything. From a boy who ‘hates’ writing, yet felt compelled to contribute, his words remind us just how much children think, feel, and care. 

They are our future. But nurturing that future begins with how we show up in the present- by being fully engaged with who they are now, not who they might become. By valuing their stories. By really listening. 

Because in a world filled with noise, war, fear, and division- we need something else. 

We need hope. 

And our children are that hope. 

So please, take a moment. Read my son’s poem. Listen to his words. Hear his heart. 

And hope with him. 

‘Hoping for action, 1 whole, not a fraction. 

Good luck, best took! 

Hoping for better, write a letter! 

Hoping for change, with range. 

Hope is something we need, for a good deed. 

Hope for you, to see it through. 

Hope for me, for a better tea. 

Hope for a better world, as it twirls. 

Without hope, the world would be a disaster, 

Can’t be fixed with a plaster. 

Hope brings us together through joy, 

For every single girl and boy. 

I hope for a more kind and generous world for all. 

Don’t be mean.’ 

Written by: Jesse Lindsay-Turner, aged 8.

References: 

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