Wisdom of a Fifth Grader

I think the heart of this one is the wisdom of that fifth grader—and the reminder that children may naturally crave quiet, nature, and space, but we have to give them opportunities to experience it. I’d lean into that moment and let it carry the piece rather than making it feel too much like an argument about screen time.

I am the director of a charter school in Utah, and today was our first day of school.

There is something about the first day—the freshly sharpened pencils, carefully decorated classrooms, nervous smiles, new shoes, and teachers somehow managing to hold both excitement and exhaustion at the same time.

Throughout the day, I made my rounds, stepping into each classroom to refresh my memory on student names and to see how everyone was settling in.

There were get-to-know-you games. Rules and procedures. Laughter. A little nervousness. A lot of energy.

In one classroom, I was invited to join an activity they called speed friendshipping.

I stood across from a fifth-grade student, and we were given a question to answer:

What is your best characteristic?

She thought for a moment and then said,

“Nature.”

I smiled.

“Tell me more.”

She explained that she loves to sit outside where it is really quiet—where the only things she can hear are the sounds of nature.

And just like that, I wanted our one-minute speed-friendship timer to stop.

Because I understood exactly what she meant.

We talked, quickly, about how good it feels to be somewhere quiet. To listen to birds or wind or water. To simply sit outside without all the other noise.

Then our minute was over.

But I carried her answer with me for the rest of the day.

Nature.

Of all the characteristics she could have chosen, that was hers.

Later, I found myself thinking about the children who haven't yet discovered what she already seems to know—that there are places where the world becomes quiet enough for you to hear yourself.

I recently listened to a conversation on Oprah's podcast about what was described as an “indoor epidemic”—how much time we now spend inside and how disconnected we have become from the natural world.

And I couldn't stop thinking about our children.

I wonder if we sometimes assume they will naturally develop a relationship with the outdoors simply because we did.

But their world is different.

Nature is competing with screens and schedules, organized activities and constant entertainment. There is always something available to watch, play, scroll, listen to, or do.

Maybe experiencing nature is something we have to intentionally give them.

Let them sleep outside under a sky filled with stars.

Let them take off their shoes and walk barefoot through a stream.

Let them scramble over rocks.

Let them try a safe climbing route that makes them a little nervous and incredibly proud when they reach the top.

Let them lie in the grass and watch clouds without needing to identify them or photograph them.

Let them carry a backpack.

Let them get dirty.

Let them hear birds they can't name.

Let them discover what complete quiet actually sounds like.

And perhaps most importantly, let them see us doing it too.

Children notice what we value.

If we want them to understand that stepping outside can calm a busy mind, we need to step outside.

If we want them to put down their phones, sometimes we need to put down ours.

If we want them to discover the wonder of a mountain, a desert, a stream, a forest, or even the patch of grass in the backyard, we may have to be the ones who take them there first.

We don't have to plan an epic adventure.

Maybe it begins with sitting outside after dinner.

Taking a walk without headphones.

Watching the sunset.

Looking for the first star.

Listening for birds.

Standing barefoot in the grass.

And not rushing to fill the silence.

Because someday, perhaps a child will be asked what they love most about themselves.

And maybe, like the fifth grader I met today, part of their answer will come from knowing that there is a place in this noisy world where they can simply be.

Outside.

Quiet.

Listening.

What are you doing to help the children in your life develop a relationship with the outdoors?

And maybe an even better question:

What memory of being outside do you hope they carry with them when they are grown?