Sometimes the hardest decisions we make in early childhood education are not about curriculum, ratios, or regulations—but about people.
Recently, a child visited our program with a parent who clearly wanted the best for them. The parent shared their hopes and was looking for a place where their child could thrive. But within minutes of arriving, it became clear that this child needed more support than we could safely provide. There were intense behaviors—attempts to throw furniture, difficulty staying in the space, and an urge to bolt toward exits.
In a larger center with more staff or access to specialized resources, this child might have had the right supports in place. But in a small, intimate setting like ours, where staff are often alone with a small group of children, safety has to come first. If a child cannot be safely supported, it puts everyone—including that child—at risk.
This decision wasn’t made lightly. I am not just an educator—I’m also a parent of a child with special needs. When my son was young, we lived in a different province where access to services felt more available. He was enrolled in a Child Development Centre even before he had a formal diagnosis, and that early support made all the difference.
Still, it was hard—not because I couldn’t accept him, but because it took me time to understand that his struggles weren’t the result of something I was doing wrong as a parent. I thought if I just tried harder, or parented differently, everything would fall into place. Accepting that he had special needs wasn’t about loving him less—it was about shifting how I understood him, and how I supported him.
And the truth is:
“It wasn’t that I had trouble loving—it was loving me.”
That grief—the loss of the dream child you imagined before embracing the one who stands before you—is real. That line from Beyond the Tears never left me. And it speaks to a journey so many families walk quietly, bravely, and often alone.
Over the past 20 years living in Alberta, I’ve watched as the supports that once existed have dwindled. Families are left to carry more on their own, and educators are expected to do more with fewer resources. And yet—I truly believe everyone is doing the best they can. Parents. Educators. Specialists. Support workers. We’re all working within a system that has gaps, doing our best to hold children in those in-between spaces.
We often say “all children deserve quality care”—and I believe that with all my heart. But quality care isn’t one-size-fits-all. Sometimes, advocating for a child means being honest about what we can’t provide and gently helping them find a place that can. It’s not a lack of love—it’s a reflection of care, honesty, and respect for everyone involved.
This work is full of joy and heartbreak.
And sometimes, the most loving thing we can do… is say no.
Rosetta
