Sometimes a child chooses you before you ever realise it.
It isn't always obvious.
Sometimes it looks like following you around the room.
Sometimes it's constantly checking where you are.
Sometimes it's seeking reassurance.
And sometimes... it looks like behaviour that is much harder to understand.
When I first began working with neurodivergent children, I remember wondering why one particular student seemed to direct so many of their biggest emotions towards me. I questioned myself constantly. Was I doing something wrong? Why me?
It wasn't until much later that someone introduced me to the idea of a safe person.
For many neurodivergent children, particularly those who experience challenges with emotional regulation, communication, sensory processing, or anxiety, the people they feel safest with are often the ones who see their biggest emotions.
Not because they dislike them.
Because they trust them.
That doesn't make aggression okay.
Being hit, kicked, scratched, bitten, or having objects thrown at you is never behaviour we should simply accept. Every child deserves compassionate support, and every educator deserves to feel safe. Boundaries, co-regulation, and teaching safer ways to communicate remain incredibly important.
But understanding why those moments happen changed the way I viewed them.
Instead of asking,
"Why are they doing this to me?"
I started asking,
"What is this child telling me that they don't yet have the words to say?"
Sometimes, what I was witnessing wasn't anger directed at me.
It was relief.
Relief that someone felt predictable.
Someone who stayed calm.
Someone who didn't disappear after the hard moments.
Someone who felt safe enough to hold emotions that had been building all day.
And while those moments could be incredibly difficult, I slowly realised something that has stayed with me ever since.
Being someone's safe person is one of the greatest privileges an educator can be given.
Not because we are there to absorb hurt.
Not because challenging behaviour should be accepted.
But because trust is never something we are entitled to.
It is something children quietly choose to give us.
For a child whose world can often feel unpredictable, overwhelming, or misunderstood, allowing another person to witness their most vulnerable moments is an incredible act of trust.
That trust deserves to be met with patience.
With boundaries.
With consistency.
With compassion.
Our role is not to carry those emotions forever.
Our role is to help children understand them, express them, and gradually discover safer ways to communicate them.
One day, the hope is that the hitting becomes words.
The tears become communication.
The overwhelm becomes self-advocacy.
And the child who once only knew how to say "I'm struggling" through behaviour begins to believe that someone will still listen when they use their voice.
That is the real honour.
Not being the person who receives the hardest moments.
But being the person who helps a child believe that even after those moments...
they are still worthy of connection.
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