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Early Years Insights Parenting & Education,

More Than Just A Teacher

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More Than Just a Teacher Sub Heading

I’m not just a teacher. I’m one of those teachers. The ones who stay late not to tick boxes, but to hold space—for a confused child, a scared parent, or a tired colleague. The ones who adjust, adapt, and reinvent their methods to match a system that often feels like it was never made for children. The ones who keep going, even when their knees ache, hearts break, and inboxes overflow.

Yes, I get things done. Fast. Efficient. Precise. I can jump into a new documentation format, decode new curriculum expectations, translate vague meetings into actual classroom outcomes—and still remember who forgot their lunch or had a nightmare last night. I’ve coordinated. I’ve mentored. I’ve created structures. I’ve run on coffee and conviction for years. And I did it with all my heart.

But somewhere in the noise of targets and tools, let’s not forget—I love being with children. That is where my soul rests. That’s where my job stops being “work.”

I watch them laugh at shadows, ask why the moon follows the car, cry over a broken crayon like it’s the end of the world—and I know I’m in the right place. These little ones… they love you not for what you teach, but for how present you are when you teach. They love you for the silly songs, the upside-down reading time, the moments you’re human with them. Not superior. Not controlling. Just human.

I’ve always believed that teaching is not about stuffing information into tiny heads. It’s about protecting curiosity from being killed by adult anxiety. It’s about saying yes to questions we don’t know the answers to. It’s about watching and learning from children—yes, us learning from them. Because let’s be honest, their hearts are cleaner than ours. Their joy is freer. Their wonder is intact. Who are we to shape them, when our own shapes are crooked?

I fight daily against a curriculum that often feels more like a bureaucratic checkbox list than a living, breathing guide for growth. I fight for the right to slow down. To let them listen to birds and see clouds turn into dragons. To feel the rhythm of a season. To love the earth because they’re part of it—not just memorize facts about it.

I want to show teachers that teaching can be beautiful, fulfilling, and respected. That we are not “just” teachers—we are caregivers, creators, facilitators, leaders. We matter. But respect doesn’t come from thin air. It comes from acknowledgment, fair pay, and emotional safety in the workplace.

I’ve reached a point where my body can’t take the classroom chaos anymore—but my heart hasn’t stopped beating for this profession. And each time I seek work that lets me mentor, create, train, or lead—I hear the same thing: “You don’t have experience.” Experience?! Was I not coordinating, managing, writing, designing, and problem-solving for years?

Let’s stop calling experience only what fits a job description. Give people a chance to grow into roles, not just apply to them.

And yes—I want to be paid. Paid not for being a babysitter of toddlers, but for being an expert in early childhood. Paid for my commitment, creativity, and depth. I’ve heard it too often: “It’s just small children, what do you even teach them?” You’d be surprised. We teach them how to be. How to feel safe. How to express. How to connect. That’s the foundation of everything that comes later.

So maybe, it’s time to close a chapter. But not with regret—with fire. I am one of many teachers who gave everything and were met with indifference. Who spoke up and were told to “adjust.” But let me tell you: I will not go quiet. I will not be replaced like a sock. I am not a follower. I’m a loud, proud, open-mouthed Polish woman who works hard, gives her heart, and deserves to be respected.

To all the early years warriors out there: I see you. You matter. And if the system won’t honour you, it’s the system that’s broken—not you.

The Unseen Cost of Early Years Performances

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The Unseen Cost of Early Years Performances

 

 

We dream of a magical event—tiny dancers twirling in perfect harmony, bright costumes, proud little faces beaming under the stage lights. And so, the rehearsals begin. Days, sometimes weeks, of endless repetition, constant corrections, and the quiet, unspoken pressure to make everything “just right.” But at what cost?

The Price of Perfection

I’ve watched it unfold countless times—children wriggling in their seats, their little legs aching to move, their eyes searching for an escape. And yet, they stay. Not because they want to, but because they’ve been told they must. I’ve seen them solemnly promise to sit still after being scolded, only to be bouncing again minutes later—not out of defiance, but because they’re children. Their bodies are wired to move, their attention spans are naturally fleeting. Expecting them to follow a rigid routine built for adults isn’t discipline—it’s denial of their basic nature.

And for what? So, we, the adults, can prove that we’re in control? That we can train them into obedient little performers? The only lesson they truly absorb in those moments is the weight of expectations, the power of authority, and the fear of making a mistake. That’s not confidence—it’s quiet compliance.

The Joy of the Unexpected

I once worked with a woman who truly understood children. She didn’t force participation, didn’t demand perfection. We rehearsed, but we did it differently—plenty of breaks, flexible participation, no pressure. Some children watched from the sidelines, curious but not quite ready. Others, hesitant at first, surprised us by stepping in at the last moment with excitement. And then there were those we never expected to perform—the shy ones, the ones who clung to their mothers—who, against all odds, found their courage and shone when it mattered.

And, of course, there were those who rehearsed diligently, only to freeze on the big day, refusing to leave their mother’s side. And that was okay too.

The performance was spectacular—not because it was flawless, but because it was real. There were missed steps, forgotten lines, unexpected detours. And yet, none of it mattered. The parents laughed, the children beamed with pride, and the energy in the room was pure joy. Because in the end, joy is what makes a performance beautiful. Not rigid formations not forced smiles—but genuine, unfiltered joy.

The Illusion of Control

We, as adults, often expect children to behave in ways we never would. When we talk with friends, do we take turns in polite, whispered tones? No! We talk over each other, laugh loudly, interrupt with excitement. And yet, we demand silence and stillness from children in situations where even we couldn’t hold back. The irony is laughable.

Yes, some children love the stage—the costumes, the applause, the thrill of performing. But that excitement fades when rehearsals turn into military drills, when movement is restricted, when creativity is replaced by control. Not every child wants to dance. Not every child wants to be watched. And yet, we insist they must—because it looks good in a picture. Because it makes us feel accomplished.

And let’s not forget the teachers. Exhausted, juggling lesson plans and daily routines, now tasked with ensuring the show runs smoothly. They know this isn’t what early childhood education is about. They see the boredom, the discomfort, the silent stress. But the system demands it—because the final video, the staged applause, the perfectly curated social media post makes it seem like a success.

But is it really?

Doing It Right

If performances must happen, let them be playful, spontaneous, and child driven. Let them be celebrations of movement, self-expression, and joy—not endurance tests in obedience.

Children are not tiny props for adult ambitions. They are full of life, bursting with energy, and they deserve to be respected. If we truly believe in early childhood education, if we truly value these magical years, then we must stop forcing them into a version of perfection that even we, as adults, could never uphold. Because a child’s happiness is the only standing ovation that truly matters.