I'm sure I'm not alone in spending an inordinate amount of time scrolling Twitter lately. I noticed that Sara Sidner, an anchor for CNN, was trending yesterday, and I wanted to check it out. Sidner has been covering the Covid-19 pandemic in-depth, reporting from 10 different hospitals over the past several months. But her work wasn't garnering attention because of the ever-climbing death toll and its devastating impact on individuals and families. People were paying attention because she cried on air.
Almost 400,000 Americans have died. But the focus was on the fact that SHE CRIED.
Whew. We need to talk about our deep and collective discomfort with tears.
Almost 400,000 Americans have died. But the focus was on the fact that SHE CRIED.
Whew. We need to talk about our deep and collective discomfort with tears.
Let me tell you a little bit about my morning yesterday. I had a three-year-old student who was upset. The particulars aren't important for the purpose of this example - she wanted things to be happening one way and they were happening another. And she was crying. Loudly. We were outside, and it was cold. I crouched down, an arm's length away from her, and I practiced what I have heard described as "bearing loving witness" to her tears, offering affirming language delivered with genuine empathy - the kind of tone you might use when a friend is telling you about a hard day (like, "Ugh, that sucks").
"You really want..."
"You don't want..."
"You wish you could..."
"You're feeling..."
"I hear that. I hear your words. I hear you say..."
"I feel that way sometimes, too."
About five minutes into this exchange, I realized that we were probably going to be here for awhile, so I sat down on the ground. She didn't stop crying. But I noticed that, a few moments later, she sat down next to me. A connection had happened.
We continued this process for about 50 minutes, all told. She cried and expressed her unhappiness. I affirmed. At one point, I wondered if she might want a hug or to be held, but she moved away from my outreached hand, and I didn't ask again. After awhile, I noticed that there were beginning to be breaks in her tears. She noticed a hawk in a nearby tree, and we shared a few words about it. She pointed to something interesting she saw through the classroom window. She talked to me a bit about her mittens. Eventually, with my only intervention being that loving witness to her tears, she stopped crying. She hugged my legs. And she told me, her voice clear and calm, "I'm ready to play now."
"You really want..."
"You don't want..."
"You wish you could..."
"You're feeling..."
"I hear that. I hear your words. I hear you say..."
"I feel that way sometimes, too."
About five minutes into this exchange, I realized that we were probably going to be here for awhile, so I sat down on the ground. She didn't stop crying. But I noticed that, a few moments later, she sat down next to me. A connection had happened.
We continued this process for about 50 minutes, all told. She cried and expressed her unhappiness. I affirmed. At one point, I wondered if she might want a hug or to be held, but she moved away from my outreached hand, and I didn't ask again. After awhile, I noticed that there were beginning to be breaks in her tears. She noticed a hawk in a nearby tree, and we shared a few words about it. She pointed to something interesting she saw through the classroom window. She talked to me a bit about her mittens. Eventually, with my only intervention being that loving witness to her tears, she stopped crying. She hugged my legs. And she told me, her voice clear and calm, "I'm ready to play now."
Here's the secret: Children will stop crying when they're finished crying.
I know this seems radical, this gentle welcoming of tears. It feels really strange when you first try it. It's uncomfortable because it counters deeply held social beliefs about emotions - that some are "good" (happiness, excitement) and others are "bad" (sadness, anger). When we observe a child, who is vulnerable and dependent on us, experiencing an emotion we perceive as bad, our impulse is to help them by changing their emotion to something we perceive as good. This might look like offering a distraction, scooping them up into a bear hug, or trying to make them laugh.
But what if emotions aren't good or bad? What if some are just harder to feel than others?And maybe if we support a child through hard feelings, instead of trying to change them, we communicate to the child that we know they are capable of doing hard things and that they are worthy of care and attention just as they are. That's a pretty remarkable gift. That is, dare I say it, love.
So here is my challenge to you. Dare to feel uncomfortable with a child who is crying. See what happens if, just this one time, you affirm (over and over and over) what you hear them say and confidently assert that it's ok to feel that way. It might take a long time. You might get impatient. You might think of all the other things that need to be done and wonder if this is a worthwhile use of your time. You will almost certainly need help in managing the rest of your class while you do this work. Breathe deep and stick with it, just this once. Be curious. See what happens.
And please - please, please, PLEASE. Let's normalize crying.
I know this seems radical, this gentle welcoming of tears. It feels really strange when you first try it. It's uncomfortable because it counters deeply held social beliefs about emotions - that some are "good" (happiness, excitement) and others are "bad" (sadness, anger). When we observe a child, who is vulnerable and dependent on us, experiencing an emotion we perceive as bad, our impulse is to help them by changing their emotion to something we perceive as good. This might look like offering a distraction, scooping them up into a bear hug, or trying to make them laugh.
But what if emotions aren't good or bad? What if some are just harder to feel than others?And maybe if we support a child through hard feelings, instead of trying to change them, we communicate to the child that we know they are capable of doing hard things and that they are worthy of care and attention just as they are. That's a pretty remarkable gift. That is, dare I say it, love.
So here is my challenge to you. Dare to feel uncomfortable with a child who is crying. See what happens if, just this one time, you affirm (over and over and over) what you hear them say and confidently assert that it's ok to feel that way. It might take a long time. You might get impatient. You might think of all the other things that need to be done and wonder if this is a worthwhile use of your time. You will almost certainly need help in managing the rest of your class while you do this work. Breathe deep and stick with it, just this once. Be curious. See what happens.
And please - please, please, PLEASE. Let's normalize crying.
