Why We Refuse to Break the Plate

I saw a video recently of a plate being smashed so it could fit neatly into a box. And I mean properly smashed. Not a little crack. We’re talking full commitment. Pieces everywhere. Then carefully… almost proudly… those pieces were placed inside the box.

And technically, yes… it fit. Success. Round of applause.

Except… it’s not a plate anymore, is it?

It’s just broken bits that now happen to fit into something they were never meant to go into in the first place. And the worrying part is, the more I thought about it, the more I realised how normal that has become for children. We don’t smash them into pieces, obviously, but we do something very similar. We ask them to adjust. To behave a certain way. To sit still, focus, listen, don’t do that, do this instead, why can’t you be more like… and before long, they start shaping themselves to fit whatever environment they’re in.

And everyone calls that success.

At Rainbow Roos, we’ve just decided we’re not doing that. We’re not in the business of breaking plates.

We had one of those moments this week that sums it up perfectly. One of our little ones had just made the move from BabyRoos into MiniRoos. Now, if you’ve ever seen that transition, you’ll know exactly what I mean when I say it’s a weird stage. They’re too old for the little ones, but the bigger group feels like you’ve accidentally signed them up for the Premier League. It’s louder. Faster. The kids look bigger. Everything feels like it’s happening at about double speed.

So he did what a lot of kids do. He stayed glued to mum. Watching. Assessing. Probably wondering who approved this life decision. Ball comes near him… he moves away. Kids run past… he steps back. At one point he just sat down off to the side, like, “yeah, I’ll observe this chaos from here, thanks.”

And honestly? Perfect.

That is exactly where he needed to be. No one dragged him in. No one said “come on, join in” in that slightly too enthusiastic voice we all know. We just let him be.

Then we gave him a little mission. Quietly. Just for him. “See how many players you can run up to and touch without them noticing.”

Was he any good at it? Absolutely not. Stealth level: zero.

But suddenly he’s on the pitch. Close to the action. Near the “big kids” he’d been avoiding five minutes earlier. And something starts to shift. Not massively. Not dramatically. This isn’t a movie.

Just slowly. Bit by bit.

He stays out there a little longer. Moves a little closer. Eventually… he’s in the game. Still cautious, still figuring it out, but in it. And then the best part…

When it’s time to go, he doesn’t want to leave. Of course he doesn’t. Because now it feels like his place too.

Week one. That’s a win. A massive win.

We see it with parents as well, and sometimes that hits even harder. We had a mum come down recently who had clearly been through the wringer at a previous club. Her child struggled to focus, which, as it turns out, is not actually a crime… but you wouldn’t have known that from how it had been handled.

So she arrives ready. Apologising before anything has even happened. Calling out constantly. “Listen! Do it properly! Pay attention!”

Not because she’s that parent. You can tell instantly she’s not. It's fear.

Fear of it going wrong again. Fear of being judged. Fear of her child being labelled.

And for the first part of the session, it’s actually not the child we’re working with.

It’s her.

Letting her know, gently and consistently, that everything is fine. That her child is fine. That we’re not keeping score. No one’s in trouble. No one’s being compared.

And slowly, you see it happen. The voice softens. The shouting stops. She sits down. Actually sits down. And just watches.

And her child? In his own way, at his own pace… gets involved. Smiling. Engaged. Happy. And in that moment, something shifts for both of them.

That’s belonging too.

Then there are the moments you don’t plan for at all. The ones that just happen because the environment allows it. We were playing Soccer Ball Rush, which, if you’ve never seen it, is chaos in the best possible way. Balls everywhere, kids running in every direction, no time to overthink anything.

At one point, a group of kids ended up in the middle as defenders. No instructions. No input from us. They just… formed a huddle.

Started planning. “You go there.” “I’ll stay back.” “We’ll double up on him.”

Honestly, it was like watching a tiny Champions League team talk… except it very quickly descended into strange noises, howling and, of course, the dreaded 6-7!

/

But again… that’s not the point. The point is they felt comfortable enough to step into that moment. To communicate. To be part of something. As I've mentioned before, my son Grayson, is mute most of the time, but you wouldn't know that if you've only ever seen him on the pitch!

For me, belonging isn’t about everything looking calm, controlled and “well behaved”. In fact, it often looks like the complete opposite. It looks messy. Loud. Unpredictable. Sometimes a bit chaotic.

Because what you’re actually seeing is children who feel safe enough to drop their guard.

Safe enough to stop making. Safe enough to just be themselves, without constantly checking if they’re getting it right. And yes, that might look like they’re not “behaving” in the traditional sense. I’ll take that every single time.

Because we’re not here to create perfectly behaved children who fit neatly into a box. We’re here to make sure they never feel like they have to break themselves just to belong.

And when that happens, everything else… confidence, friendships, development… it all follows.

Funny that.