I used to move through our days trying to get to the next thing. Reggio Emilia taught me to stop hurrying my child through her own childhood — and it changed both of us.
For a long time, I moved through the day with my daughter like she was an item on a list she happened to be on. Get dressed so we can eat. Eat so we can go. Go so we can come home. I loved her completely, and I was also, quietly, always trying to get us to the next thing.
Then one afternoon she crouched over a single earthworm on the sidewalk, utterly absorbed, and I heard myself say “come on, let’s go” — to a child doing exactly what children are meant to do. Wonder. Notice. Be here.
That was the day Reggio Emilia stopped being a philosophy I admired and became something I understood.
The 2-Minute Version
- Reggio treats a child’s time and pace as something to protect, not rush
- Slowing down isn’t doing less — it’s being present for what’s already happening
- A child’s absorption in small things is thinking and exploring, not delay
- Small shifts: follow their pace when you can, soften “hurry up,” let moments finish
- An unhurried childhood is one of the gentlest gifts we can give
What Reggio Says About Time
One of the quiet, radical ideas in Reggio Emilia is that children have their own relationship with time, and that adult time — with its rushing and efficiency — isn’t the better one. It’s just different. Reggio educators talk about protecting a child’s pace, letting a moment of curiosity run its course instead of cutting it short to stay on schedule.
There’s a phrase at the heart of the approach: that children have a hundred languages, a hundred ways of exploring and understanding. And here’s what struck me — a child crouched over an earthworm is using those languages. The noticing, the wondering, the total absorption. That isn’t a delay in the day. That is the day. That’s the learning. And I kept interrupting it to get to a nap.
What Changed When I Slowed Down
I said “hurry up” less. Not perfectly, but I started catching it, and often swallowing it. I let the earthworm moment finish. I let her take the long way, touch the wall as we walked, take four minutes to put on one shoe.
And something surprising happened: our days got less stressful, not more. The rushing had never actually made us faster — it just made us both tense. When I slowed to her pace in the moments that could bend, she resisted less, and I saw her more. I saw who she was when I wasn’t hurrying her past it.
What I hold onto now: She is not in my way. She is not slowing down my day. This is the day.
The Small Shifts That Helped
It’s less about doing and more about not rushing. I try to follow her pace in the moments that can flex — some things have hard deadlines, but many don’t. I try to catch “hurry up” before it leaves my mouth and ask whether this actually needs to be faster.
I let moments finish: the worm, the puddle, the long look at something we’ve walked past a hundred times. And I build in a little more margin, because so much of my rushing came from simply not leaving enough time. 
One Small Step Today
The next time your child stops to notice something — and you feel the “come on, let’s go” rising in your chest — try letting that one moment finish. Just one. Crouch down beside them instead of pulling them along.
You might see what I saw: that the thing you were rushing toward was never as important as the small, wide-eyed moment you were rushing past.
Welcome to the nest. 🤍
