Sometimes, the most supportive thing we can do is… not make a big deal about it.
Yes, really.
When kids are grappling with something challenging, there’s often a whole range of emotions, both big and small, that come to the surface. For instance–a child assembling a complex puzzle. First, there’s eager excitement—laying out the pieces, scanning them with a spark in their eyes. But as the minutes tick by and certain pieces don’t seem to fit, you might see the forehead furrow, maybe a sigh here or there. An edge of doubt begins to creep in as they realise, “This is tougher than I thought.” It’s a pivotal moment of deciding, “Do I keep trying, or do I give up?”
In this moment, the child doesn’t need us to swoop in and start rearranging the pieces. But here’s what can also be unhelpful: being told, “I see you’re struggling!” or “It’s okay, you’re doing great!”—they already know it’s a struggle, and reminders might even feel like extra pressure.
For many kids, grappling with a new skill can feel like taking on a maze (adults can identify with this feeling, too!). Another instance: a young reader sounding out a word for the first time. They may look at the letters, hesitate, try a sound, stumble, try again. It’s a process that might seem painfully slow to an adult who can read it fluently, but to the child, every attempt is an act of courage. They’re learning to sit with that discomfort, stretching their ability to stay with a task that doesn’t come easily. This process can be slow and often messy, filled with micro-moments of decision-making, problem-solving, and self-regulation.
Our role is to first, recognise that as an act of courage, then give them room to navigate each of those sounds and syllables, and let them work through it with our reserved encouragement.
What they need is space to experience that struggle without interference.
Quiet support says, “I’m here if you need me, but I trust you to figure this out.” Maybe there’s a quick glance up to check if you’re still nearby–which is sometimes all that’s needed of us. But the learning is in the moments where they take a breath and try again. When we watch quietly–perhaps offering a smile or a gentle pat if they look over–we’re teaching them to stick with it. We’re saying, without words, that their persistence matters more than getting it right on the first try. And these moments add up, creating resilience, step by tiny step.
A solid dose of calm, quiet, and steady support to build frustration tolerance is what we at Imagine If call our “touchpoints”—small, almost invisible gestures that say “I’m here.” It’s the high-five, the reassuring pat, and the simple presence nearby that shows belief in them without taking over.
Here’s why: kids already know when they’re facing something tough. They don’t need us hovering with worry, layered with encouragement that sometimes feels more like pressure through verbalising their frustration. Our touchpoints send a clear message: they’re trusted to handle this themselves. That faith, that choice to not say too much or do too much, gives kids the space to rise to the challenge on their own terms.
It’s counterintuitive, we know–that sometimes words of encouragement can actually get in the way. It can feel tempting to address, “This is really hard for you, huh?” rather than, “You can do this.” But when we step in too quickly with encouragement, it can feel like we’re telegraphing that doubt; saying, “I’ll fix this for you if you struggle.” Here at Imagine If, however, we aim to let kids live in that space of frustration, so they know it’s okay to wrestle with things. Real resilience—the kind they carry through life—grows from being trusted.
This isn’t about leaving kids to flounder. Far from it. We’re close, we’re present, we’re observant, and yes, we’re ready to help if it’s really needed. But we give kids the dignity of making their own calls and sorting things out, learning to sit with frustration without feeling rushed past it or rescued out of it. Imagine how powerful that could feel for a kid—to know they’re simply allowed to struggle, make mistakes, retry, and not have someone waiting to swoop in at the first hint of difficulty, the impatience subtly radiating off of them in response to the child not solving an issue according to someone else’s timeline.
This kind of silent support is also oddly liberating for parents and educators. Instead of feeling pressure to constantly “help” and “fix,” we can step into the role of guides, showing kids that discomfort is normal and absolutely okay. There’s no swooping in, no over-explaining, just a simple, subtle presence that says, “I trust you, and I believe in you.” Because frustration tolerance isn’t something we need to learn in our collective pursuit (yes, even some of us adults) of self-regulation; but something we need to give space for. And this removes that constant pressure to always “do” something, “fix” something or be the answer to every struggle. In doing so, we permit ourselves to show ourselves a little grace and patience too.
And especially as educators seeking to reshape what education looks like, this approach is revolutionary. We shift from being the “solution providers” to the “experience providers” – allowing us the chance to embody a presence that respects the learner’s process and autonomy rather than constantly measuring or correcting. The role of a true guide becomes clear: holding space rather than stepping in, letting kids lean into the discomfort without pressure, and teaching them—by example—that discomfort isn’t a crisis. The importance of this cannot be stressed enough.
As we trust this process, we start to see resilience emerge in our kids, to find that our own role becomes less about control and more about connection. We’re reminded that learning and progress are messy, sometimes uncomfortable, yet very much worthwhile. In this shared patience, we create a powerful cycle of growth—for them and for us.