Language is how we build bridges - or walls. It’s not just what we say, it’s how it lands in a child’s body. I’ve seen this play out in classrooms more times than I can count: the same phrase can open a door or shut it tight.

We like to think that language is about what we say, but the truth is, it’s about how it’s felt. A child might not remember every word we use, but they’ll remember how those words felt in their nervous system. They’ll remember whether our words brought calm or confusion, whether they felt safe or small.

This week, I’ve been thinking a lot about the power of language. Not as some fancy tool to fix behaviour, but as the quiet backbone of every interaction we have with children. Because the words we use aren’t just instructions, they’re seeds. They become the stories children carry about themselves and about the world around them.

I’ve been there, moments when my words have been sharp, rushed or careless. When I’ve said “stop” in a way that felt more like a threat than an invitation. When I’ve spoken from my own stress instead of my calm. And every time, I see it in their eyes: that moment of “I’m not safe here” flicker. The shift in their shoulders. The way they either lean in or pull away.

And here’s the thing: I’m not talking about being perfect. I’m not talking about never raising your voice or always knowing the right thing to say. I’m talking about choosing words that build bridges. About pausing long enough to remember that the child in front of you doesn’t need a perfect script they need words that remind them they belong.

Calm Words in Heated Moments
When things are loud and messy, our words can either add fuel to the fire or calm the storm. I’ve seen this in the simplest ways, a child in meltdown, my body tensing, my words getting short. And I’ve seen what happens when I take a breath first. When I let my voice be soft, even when everything feels like it’s spinning.

It’s not about saying “calm down” and hoping it works, it’s about being the calm they can borrow. It’s about speaking in a way that says, “I’m here. I’m not going to match your chaos, I’m going to hold steady so you can find your way back to calm, too.”

Replacing “Stop” Language with “Start” Guidance
This is one of the biggest shifts I’ve made in my own work with children: moving from telling them what not to do to telling them what they can do. Because “stop that” is clear in the moment, but it doesn’t give a child anywhere to go. It leaves them stuck in the problem, without a path forward.

When I started replacing “stop” language with “start” guidance, everything shifted. Instead of “stop yelling,” I’d say, “use your calm voice.” Instead of “don’t run,” I’d say, “walking feet.” Simple changes, but they invite the child back into their own power. They give them something to hold onto. And that matters.

Children are incredibly creative. You say, “Don’t run,” and they respond with, “I’m crawling or leaping or hopping or sprinting...” the list goes on! But when you give them something to start with “walking feet” you’re giving them a clear direction. A path to follow. A place to put all that energy and curiosity.

Speaking to Belonging
Children need to feel like they belong, especially when their behaviour is challenging. When we’re frustrated, it’s easy to slip into language that separates, “you’re being difficult,” “you’re not listening,” “you’re the problem right now.” I’ve done it. We all have.

But every time I see a child’s shoulders slump or their eyes drop, I remember: my words can either push them out or pull them in. So I’ve made it a practice to choose words that say, “you’re still part of this, even when it’s messy.” Words that say, “I see you. I’m not giving up on you.”

Because that’s what builds safety. That’s what builds trust. And that’s what helps children feel like they can keep trying, even when it’s hard.

Slowing Down and Choosing Mindful Language
This is the one I’m still working on every single day. In the heat of the moment, it’s easy to rush, to react, to let my words come out faster than my breath. But I’ve learned that when I slow down, even just for a second, I find language that feels different. Language that says, “I’m here to help,” not, “I need you to get this right now.”

That pause? It’s everything. It’s the gap where I can remember the child’s nervous system is listening to more than just my words. It’s listening to my breath, my tone the story I’m telling about them underneath it all.

A Personal Reflection
One of the most powerful moments of realisation for me was when I saw how much impact I could have on a dysregulated child, not with my words, but with my presence. To watch a child melt into your regulation. To see them borrow the calm they need to move through the emotions. That’s the power of the hidden classroom. It’s not about the script you memorise or the perfect words you say. It’s about the safety you can offer with your breath, your body and your willingness to be there, steady and present.

This realisation changed the way I turn up for children, knowing that the power of my nervous system is more powerful than any words I can say.

But that doesn’t mean the words don’t matter. Because once your body is calm, the words you choose become an anchor for the child. They become the path back to safety.

A Quiet Invitation
So here’s what I’d offer you: notice the words you use when things get loud. Notice the stories those words are telling children, not just about the moment, but about who they are and how safe they can feel with you.

When you feel the urge to say “stop,” try “start” instead. When you’re about to say, “you’re not listening,” try, “I’m here to help you find your calm.” When you’re not sure what to say, take a breath. Let your breath be the first word. Because that’s the language that children feel before they ever hear it.

None of this is about being perfect. It’s not about having all the right phrases. It’s about knowing that the words you choose today will echo in children’s hearts tomorrow. Let them be words that build bridges. Let them be words that say, “You’re safe here. You’re seen. You’re still part of this, no matter what.”

Try This
The next time you feel yourself getting loud inside, pause and ask:

• Am I speaking from my calm or my chaos?

• Are my words showing the child a path forward or leaving them stuck?

• Are my words saying, “I’m here for you,” even when it’s hard?

Language shapes everything. Let’s make it count.

May your stories hold your power.

Jason