There’s a lot of well-deserved attention right now on
teaching mindfulness to children, at home and in school.
We know that mindfulness can be a powerful
intervention to help young people cultivate critical skills
for paying attention, and calming down when they are
upset.
But at Mindful Schools, where I earned my Mindfulness
Instructor certification and continue to serve as a guiding
teacher in the Mindful Teacher certification program, we
emphasize a simple, profoundly powerful idea:
Your nervous system is the intervention. As mammals, we
regulate our nervous systems in the presence of stable
others. We come into this world immature and
dysregulated, and it’s only through the soothing voices,
gentle touches, and reciprocal attention of our caregivers
that we learn to experience stillness, safety, and peace.
So when your child, or any child— or any other human,
for that matter— is dysregulated and needs soothing,
they don’t necessarily need advice or ideas or lectures or
solutions or therapy or a meditation app. They may just
need you, a stable other, to sit with them in their distress.
You can be the anchor in their proverbial emotional
storm.
I experienced the power that my stable, well-regulated
nervous system could have on a young person a few
months ago at dance recitals. When I went backstage just
before my “dance moms” group was about to perform, I
noticed a young dancer (I’d later learn she was 7 years
old) in hysterics, looking on from the wings as her
classmates danced on stage. I had no idea what had
happened, but I did learn, from her frantic screams, that
she did not want to be here, and did not ever want to
dance ever again, because she hates dance.
I was torn between wanting to help her (which I
attempted, briefly, to do) and having to get onstage and
perform my tap dance. A fellow dance mom finally had to
nudge me onstage so I didn’t miss my cue.
Once I returned to the dressing room, I saw this
distressed young girl with another teacher. I also teach at
the studio, so I asked if I could help. The teacher
gratefully asked me to stay with the child as she went to
find her parents.
I had never met this young girl; I didn’t even know her
name. All I knew was that she was in quite an agitated
state. I asked her name, which she shouted at me, angrily
correcting me when I pronounced it wrong at first. Then I
sat down next to her, so we were on the same level. I
didn’t ask what was wrong—I don’t even know if she
knew at that point— but I simply said, “You’re really
upset right now, huh?”
I saw the slightest softening in her face. “Yes! I’m so mad,
and I don’t want to be here!” she screamed.
“It must be so hard to be so mad and have to wait while
they find your parents,” I offered.
“Yes! I hate dance and I don’t ever want to dance again!
I’ve done this for four years and I don’t want to ever
come back!” As she screamed at me, I just sat with her,
continuing to make eye contact and listen to her, and
simply reflect back what I was hearing. I didn’t tell her
how much I love dance, or that maybe someday she
would want to dance again, or maybe she was just upset
because she was tired, or the million other things I might
have said in an effort to “help.” I knew she had a lot of
charge in her system that needed to be released. I knew
she needed to be listened to, to feel felt and understood.
She relaxed a little as I asked her about the doll she was
clutching, and she told me more about why she didn’t like
dancing. She expressed her worry that her parents would
be mad at her for not going onstage. By the time her
family arrived, she had calmed down a bit, and seemed to
welcome the hugs that her not-mad parents offered.
So often, when children are dysregulated and upset, we
end up joining them in their dysregulation. We get just as
mad, just as loud, and just as unskillful in our behavior. It
might be because we fear that the child’s behavior is a
reflection of our parenting or teaching abilities, or
because the child is demonstrating a trait (such as
helplessness or frustration) that we have difficulty
tolerating in ourselves.
In my experience with this distraught dancer, I think I was
able to maintain my own state of regulation because of
my distance from this child, a complete stranger to me.
And, paradoxically, that was precisely the reason I was
able to invite her into the stability of my internal nervous
system state. It was the most powerful gift I could offer
her in that moment.
We cultivate this gift, this secret power of our own stable
nervous system, each time we sit in stillness. Each time we
take a few moments to notice our breath, we invite
regulation into our system. And because we are members
of a co-regulating species of mammals, our regulation
invites the nervous systems around us to regulate as well.
We don’t have to teach complicated techniques to our
children. Our nervous system is the intervention.
A few weeks after dance recitals, at my daughter’s dance
team auditions, I was able to offer this intervention once
again. My daughter ran up to me before her tap audition
and said, “Mom! I’m freaking out! I’m so scared and
nervous and I don’t think I can do this!”
Her agitation let me know that any words of reassurance
about how much she’d practiced or how good of a tapper
she is would have fallen on deaf ears. Her nervous system
was in a dysregulated state, where rational thinking is set
aside in order to let the body’s fight-or-flight instincts do
their thing without cognitive interference.
So I offered my regulated state. I held her hands and took
a few deep breaths—a nonverbal invitation to join me in
activating her parasympathetic nervous system
(the socalled “rest-and-digest” system). I helped her focus her
attention away from the perceived threat by asking her
what sounds she could hear in the room, and how many
blue things she could see at that moment. As her
breathing slowed, I spoke to her in a soothing voice…and
as her number was called, she went into the audition
room with a bit more poise and confidence.
I don’t claim to be perfect at this practice, and I’ve joined
the dysregulation of young people more times than I’d like
to admit. But the more I practice, the more stable and
grounded I become. The more I practice, the more
stability and grounded-ness I can offer to young people.
That is a pretty miraculous superpower. And it’s a
superpower you possess, too. How will you use it?
—Sarah Rudell Beach, M.Ed.
