Christmas is approaching, and the world around us reflects it: decorations appear, familiar songs play, schedules shift, and anticipation grows. For many children, these changes feel exciting. Yet for others – particularly those who thrive on predictability or who carry relational trauma – this season can feel dysregulating, uncertain, or emotionally complex.

As routines loosen and environments become noisier, busier, and less structured, children may experience an increase in arousal, anxiety, or confusion. The nervous system is always scanning for safety, and when patterns change, the brain may interpret those changes as potential threat rather than celebration.

For children with care experience or disrupted attachment, Christmas may also hold emotional memories – some cherished, others painful or unresolved. Some children remember early experiences of disappointment, exclusion, or unpredictability. Others associate this season with moves, loss, or transition. Even if the conscious mind doesn’t recall, the body often does.

So how do we support children through this season with emotional safety at the centre, especially when we too may feel stretched, tired, or overstimulated? How do we stay empathetic, connected, and curious when, if we’re honest, parts of us might also want a quiet room and a long pause?

Perhaps it begins with expectations – realistic ones. Classrooms and families are full of wonderfully diverse children with different strengths, needs, and comfort zones. In the film School of Rock, we see that a team needs everyone: the performers, the organisers, the technicians, and the quiet thinkers behind the scenes. Christmas can be the same. Not every child will want to be centre stage, and not every child will enjoy the chaos. Sometimes it’s less about helping children fit into the moment and more about adjusting the moment so it fits them.

And what about those supporting them – teachers, parents, carers? We matter too. Maybe this season invites us to take a breath, soften where we can, and remember that connection is often more important than perfection. When we pause long enough to wonder what a child might be feeling – and why – we offer safety. When we meet them where they are, rather than where we hoped they would be, we offer compassion.

Christmas doesn’t need to be flawless to be meaningful. It doesn’t need to be loud to be joyful. Sometimes the quietest acts – slowing down, noticing, making space, inviting rather than insisting – bring the deepest sense of warmth and belonging.

Perhaps that’s where the real spirit of the season lives: in creating moments where each child feels seen, valued, and safe. And in doing so, we just might find that joy finds its way to us as well.

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