The Power and Weight of Connection

The ECE sector is truly unique. Every day we work alongside colleagues and form strong, reciprocal relationships with mokopuna, whānau, and one another. I often wonder, how many conversations do we have each day? How many words do we speak? And, perhaps most importantly, how many genuine points of connection do we make?

As a kaiārahi, my days are filled with conversations with kaiako and leaders. Some are during Ministry-funded centre visits, often anchored in a shared focus eg.  leadership, infants and toddlers, or social competence. Others are with leaders and kaiako I mentor, where the conversation runs deep, weaving together professional and personal reflection.

A leader asked me recently if I ever get tired from all the listening  to the complex and sometimes deeply personal conversations. I can honestly say never. Even on those rare mornings when I might not feel at my best (perhaps a migraine brewing), by the end of the day my emotional battery is full again, recharged by the richness of the people and stories I encounter.

But recently, a conversation sat a little heavier and it started me thinking again about connection and protection.

The Weight of Listening

Our work is built on relationships. It’s what makes our sector special, but it also carries weight. Imagine arriving at your centre and being greeted by a colleague or perhaps one of the whānau who’s been triggered by something and needs to share what’s on top for them. You listen with empathy, you care deeply, and you hold space for them, but in doing so, you might also pick up some of what they’ve been carrying.

As empathetic listeners, we don’t just hear stories  we feel them. Sometimes those feelings echo our own experiences of shame, fear, or grief. In those moments, I find myself wondering:

How do we support others while also protecting ourselves?

Recently, someone shared something so raw and deeply human that it touched the emotions many of us quietly carry. It reminded me that connection is both a gift and a responsibility, one that nourishes us, but also asks us to be gentle with ourselves.  I read this quote today - You are not stressed because you have too much to do; you are stressed because you are not doing enough of the things that make you happy.  Sometimes it’s not the number of conversations that drains us it’s forgetting to fill our own cup between them.

Staying Connected Without Carrying It All

During mentoring conversations, it’s impossible to separate the professional from the personal, nor should we try to. I’m interested in supporting the whole person. That means hearing the heart of a leader or kaiako, not just their goals or challenges or their PGC journey. Some stories take courage to tell and courage to listen to.

But here’s the question I keep coming back to:

How do we stay connected while also protecting ourselves?

We cannot carry the emotional triggers, hurt, or pain of others  no matter how much we care. Yet as empathetic listeners, sometimes hearing someone else’s story awakens something deep within us  emotions we thought we’d tucked safely away. These conversations might touch on grief, loss, pain, illness, or trauma. They don’t happen every day but every now and then, a moment arises where someone we care about needs to share something raw. And sometimes, that sharing sits heavily on our shoulders. So what do we do then?

My suggestion is to create a ritual something small, symbolic, and grounding. A ritual might be:

Pausing for a few deep breaths before stepping into your car or through your front door

Washing your hands with the conscious intention of releasing what isn’t yours to carry

Lighting a candle, walking barefoot on the grass or beach, or saying a karakia to clear emotional space.

These small acts remind us that we can honour someone’s story without holding it as our own, that we can be deeply connected, and still protect our own emotional wellbeing.

Honouring Leaders Who Hold Space

I admire so deeply the leaders who turn up every day, listening to the stories that come through the door,  the stories of kaiako, mokopuna, and whānau. The stories are many and varied, and they’re listened to without judgment.

Even in their busy worlds, these leaders stop and hold space to ensure everyone is seen. Sometimes, the conversations might stir something deep within them, but they remember — their story doesn’t need to be shared in this moment.

Once the computers are off, the doors are locked, and they’re back in their own spaces, they take time to reflect, to think about what the day has meant for their own healing journey, and to gently release what is not theirs to carry.

The Heart of It All

He aha te mea nui o te ao? He tāngata, he tāngata, he tāngata.
What is the most important thing in the world? It is people, it is people, it is people.

This whakataukī captures the essence of our profession. Everything we do, every plan, every policy, every reflection  is ultimately about people. It reminds us that connection is not a by-product of our work; it is the work.

I remember as Centre Kaitiaki a student once asked me, “What’s the hardest part of your role?” Easy to answer - the people. Because we are messy and complex, and we all bring with us our whole selves: our whānau, histories, hopes, and dreams.

But I also said, people are the most rewarding part of my role  for exactly the same reasons. Each of us brings such richness.

Boundaries Are Not Barriers

Some might say, “We need to have professional boundaries.” But what does that even mean when people are at the heart of everything we do?

Boundaries, in this context, aren’t about separating ourselves from connection they’re about honouring the relational space. They help ensure that connection nurtures rather than drains, empowers rather than blurs.

In te ao Māori, there’s a beautiful analogy: the ātea, or the space between. It’s not empty; it’s sacred. Boundaries can be like ātea  they mark a respectful space where two people can meet safely, both seen, both protected. You don’t have to choose between being warm and being boundaried. The art of our profession is to be both, fully present, deeply human, and consciously grounded.

Final pondering you might consider

How can I stay open-hearted without being unguarded?
How do I offer safety to others without losing my own?
What rituals help me to release what is not mine to carry?

These questions move us from self-sacrifice to sustainable compassion, the kind that doesn’t burn out, but keeps giving life.

Every conversation in our work whether with mokopuna, whānau, or colleagues  is an act of connection. Each word, glance, and gesture shapes the emotional climate of our day and the day of all that enter into our spaces.

When we hold our boundaries as containers for care, we honour both the connection and the people within it including ourselves.

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