Say What You See, Ask A Question.

It was a hot summer afternoon, thick with humidity that clung to our skin. Around fifty children were in our care, running, laughing, playing, seemingly unaware of the heavy air. The concrete shimmered in the sun, and the gum trees swayed lazily overhead, offering some shade from the still heat. It was 2003, and I was there supporting a colleague, thirty years my senior, who was reluctantly being mentored by a twenty-three-year-old educator studying psychology. I did not blame her. She had spent decades in education and care, and was confident in her methods. 

Across the basketball court, six-year-old Jacob was running. My colleague called out, “Don’t run, Jacob.” He stopped, frowned, then started running again. She repeated it. “Don’t run, Jacob!” Again he stopped, again he ran. After the third time she marched across the court and said, “Time out, Jacob!” pointing to a corner. His face crumpled. Huge sobs shook his small body as he bowed his head and walked slowly to the corner. 

DON'T RUN JACOB!

I was in the middle of writing a policy banning the practice of ‘time out’ in our services, so as seething as I was, that battle was going to have to wait. I sat beside him on the hot concrete. “Jacob, you are so upset. Do you want to talk about it?” We did some breathing together, a routine he knew well. When he finally found his voice, he told me he thought she was saying, “Run, Jacob.” 

In that moment, the policy I was drafting felt more urgent than ever. It was no longer a theoretical debate about behaviour guidance; it was sitting right there in front of me, in the tears of a child who was being punished for misunderstanding an adult’s words. 

At the time, everyone was talking about positive language. Tell children what to do, not what not to do. So instead of “No running inside,” we would try, “Let’s walk indoors, please.” It helped, because children did not have to convert the instruction from what NOT to do to what TO do. If you say “No running,” what comes next? Skipping, stopping, sitting? That mental conversion takes a moment, and by then the instruction is being delivered again, and the tone becomes more frustrated. Add to that a neurodivergent child who needs a little longer to process the instruction, and we have a problem. 

A speech pathologist had recently told me that children with auditory delays often miss the first word of a sentence. This made intuitive sense, but in this moment, Jacob was teaching me what it actually meant. Jacob was diagnosed with a speech and language impairment, and his auditory processing was being investigated. If he did not hear the first word, “don’t,” then he only heard his name and the word “run.” In his mind, he was doing exactly what was asked of him. 

That moment is etched in my memory. The heat, the smell of wattle, the glare of the afternoon sun, and Jacob’s furrowed brow of genuine confusion. I remember how easily an instruction became a misunderstanding, and how quickly a misunderstanding turned into shame. It reminded me that language is powerful, and that even our best intentions can unravel when our words are not received the way we mean them. 

That day on the basketball court stayed with me, not only as a lesson about Jacob but as a mirror for my own practice. I began thinking differently about the language educators use every day. How a single word can shift the entire meaning of an interaction, and how quickly our words can build connection or create distance. From that reflection, and from many moments just like it, grew the approach that would later guide my work with teams across countless services. I call that approach; Say what you see, ask a question. 

In these early years of my career, when I was mentoring educators or leading workshops, I spoke often about positive language. I encouraged people to tell children what to do, not what not to do. For a few years, that message made up a big part of my workshops. But eventually, I started to realise that even positive language can still land as a negative interaction. 

For example, when we say things like “Walk inside, please” or “Put your hat on,” the words are polite, but they’re still corrective or directive. If a colleague said, “Make sure you do the dishes before you leave,” or “You need to remember to turn off the air con,” we’d recognise that as correction or direction, not conversation. Children feel that as well. “Walk inside, please,” or “Put your hat on,” may sound gentle, but if most of our contact is a string of small corrections, the relationship takes the hit. I started to see that the issue was not only what we were saying; it was how often we were using our voice to correct rather than to connect. 

So I started to think less about positive language and more about positive interactions. That was an important shift, because even language that sounds polite can still create a pattern of correction. And when those moments stack up, the relationship becomes disconnected. 

Eventually, I stopped talking about positive language altogether and replaced it with a practical strategy that fixed the confusion between positive language and positive interactions. The strategy was simple, and it worked. 

When a friend says things they regret after a tough conversation with a mutual friend, you do not scold them with a moral lesson. You might say something like, “You said some things that were hurtful, and you were honest. What are you going to say when you see them again?” 

When a teammate raises their voice and you can hear the stress behind it, you do not say sharply, “Inside voices!” You might say, “I noticed you seem really stressed. Do you need a five-minute break?” 

We already know how to protect relationships with our words. We do it with adults every day. The skill transfers to our work with children. The more we practice, the more natural it feels.  

I have watched this subtle shift transform classrooms and whole services over the years. 

This approach keeps boundaries in place, and it does so through relationship rather than control. Children still hear limits. They also hear respect, and an invitation to think with us. 

Some educators do this practice naturally. They have a way with words that protects connection and keeps dignity intact. Often, skilled educators know that their interactions and relationships with children are successful, but in my experience, very few can mentor others in how to do it, when in fact what they’re often doing is… Say what you see, ask a question. 

So here is my invitation. If this feels intuitive to you, start naming it out loud. When you use the strategy, say so in front of colleagues, “I am going to say what I see, then ask a question.” When you notice a teammate doing it, point it out and appreciate it. Offer prompts that others can borrow.  

“I noticed you are …” 

“Do you need …” 

“What would help you right now?” 

“Where could we try that instead?” 

Jacob taught me that a single moment can set a course. One sentence can connect, or it can divide. I keep returning to that hot court, the glare of the sun, the gum leaves moving in the breeze, and a small boy who thought an adult told him to run. Every time I share this story, I remember why I keep teaching the same simple tool. 

Say what you see, then ask a question. 

Author: Sandi Phoenix