Who Are the Rules For? What It Takes to Center the Child

At the start of this school year, Leah Walker and Kirsti Forrest, Teacher Leaders at Spicebush Montessori, a teacher-led Wildflower school in Glen Mills, Pennsylvania, were facing a decision no educator wants to make. Tommy, a neurodivergent four-year-old, was pushing, scratching, biting, hitting, and throwing things at students and teachers every single day. Staff took turns helping him regulate, one exhausted teacher handing off to the other, all day long. An expulsion conversation was on the table.

They didn't make that call. And with the end of the year in sight, Tommy is still at Spicebush — a full member of the class. What happened between then and now says something important about what it actually takes to center the child.

First, they had to see him differently

Observing Tommy closely and doing their own research, Leah and Kirsti realized that his behavior wasn't defiance. It was communication. He was triggered by others' accomplishments, by anything perceived as a demand, by any moment that made him feel less-than. And when that feeling overwhelmed him, his body took over.

"There is a misconception that neurodiverse children, especially autistic children, often lack empathy," Kirsti says. "Actually, many children like Tommy feel deeply. They feel inadequate from head to toe."

That realization changed everything. They shifted from instruction to noticing: I see the paper is on the floor rather than can you pick that up? They modeled silently whenever possible. If Tommy wanted an Oreo for lunch, they didn't redirect him — they talked about what they were eating. Any hint of a demand, even a gentle one, could send him into a spiral.

Then, they had to change the environment

Some of what Leah and Kirsti did for Tommy, they were already doing for other children. One student — energetic, ADHD, physically gifted — couldn't sustain academic work without first doing something strenuous. So they put ankle weights on the stairs, added a heavy bean bag kids could hoist and toss, and filled the playground with tires and logs to flip, push, and rearrange. Physical work first, then focus.

They also noticed that for some children, the Montessori classroom itself — with its choices, materials, constant activity — could be overwhelming rather than freeing. So they converted their kitchen into a sensory room: lights off, nearly empty, just a few fidgets. Dramatic play and building toys moved to the lobby — a break from academics entirely.

"Learning to regulate is part of the work," Leah says. "Allowing children to take true breaks, even from Montessori materials, actually helps them engage more."

Ultimately, they realized Tommy wasn't the problem. They were.

Every adaptation came back to the same question: who is this rule actually for? The child without core muscle strength — does she need to sit at a table, or does she need to get her work done? The child who listens best standing behind you — does it matter that he's not sitting crisscross on the rug?

"A lot of school rules aren't really for kids," Leah says. "They're for the teachers. You have to get honest with yourself: is this about the child, or is it about me?"

Leah and Kirsti will tell you they haven't figured it all out. But the other day, Tommy showed a new student how to pushpin. "Come find me when you're finished and we can check your work together," he told her.

Part two is coming soon: how Leah and Kirsti sustain this kind of work without burning out. If you're thinking about what kind of educator you want to be — and what kind of school would let you be that — stay tuned.

*Student names have been changed to protect privacy