We often celebrate the children who are “no trouble.”
The ones who don’t interrupt the lesson.
The ones who don’t argue.
The ones who quietly get on with things.
The ones who tell us they’re “fine.”
As adults, it’s easy to breathe a little easier around those children. They’re independent. Polite. Responsible.
But over the years, I’ve started wondering whether we sometimes mistake quietness for coping.
Some children don’t make a lot of noise when they’re struggling.
They become even quieter.
They stop putting their hand up.
They apologise for things that don’t need apologising for.
They tell everyone else they’re okay before anyone has a chance to ask twice.
Sometimes they become experts at not taking up space.
As a parent, I’ve realised how easy it is to focus on the child who needs immediate attention while unintentionally overlooking the child who seems to need very little.
As someone who works with young people, I’ve seen how often the quiet children carry enormous emotional worlds that few people ever see.
They’re thinking.
Watching.
Feeling.
Trying to make sense of things.
That doesn’t mean every quiet child is unhappy.
Far from it.
Some simply have calm personalities.
But I do think quiet children deserve the same curiosity we naturally give louder ones.
Instead of assuming they’re fine, what if we asked a different question?
Not, “Are you okay?”
But, “What’s been on your mind lately?”
Not every child will answer straight away.
Some will shrug.
Some will change the subject.
Some will simply smile.
But sometimes, knowing someone noticed is enough.
I also think this is one of the quiet gifts of children’s books.
Stories ask nothing from children.
They don’t expect immediate answers.
They don’t interrupt.
They simply sit beside them.
A child may never tell you they’re worried about fitting in.
But they might read about a character who feels exactly the same.
A child may never say they’re frightened of failing.
But they’ll cheer for the character who keeps going anyway.
That’s why I believe stories matter.
Not because every book teaches a lesson.
But because the right story can gently remind a child:
“Someone else has felt this too.”
When I wrote The Adventures of Morish, I wasn’t trying to create the bravest child in the forest.
I wanted to create a child who sometimes felt unsure.
A child who hesitated.
A child who found courage one step at a time.
Because that’s the kind of courage I see in real children every day.
If you’re a parent, teacher, librarian or someone who cares for children, I’d love to know your thoughts.
Have you ever met a child who seemed completely fine on the outside, only to discover they were carrying far more than anyone realised?
I’d genuinely love to hear your experience in the comments.
And if thoughtful children’s literature, reading, and emotional wellbeing are topics close to your heart, you’re warmly invited to subscribe to the Morish Press newsletter.
I’d love to continue the conversation.
Elorine
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