Why Do Kids Need Awe? How Everyday Wonder Supports Resilience, Learning, and Kindness
I was eight minutes late for school last Tuesday, one kid’s permission slip was still crumpled under the kitchen table, and my 7-year-old Lila stopped dead on the sidewalk. My first thought was that she’d dropped a tooth or tied her shoelace wrong. When I reached her, she was staring at the damp concrete, pointing at a thin silver trail glinting in the morning sun. “The snail drew a line,” she said. “It looks like a fairy’s path.” I had my hand on her elbow ready to tug her forward when I remembered the podcast I’d listened to the night before, all about why kids need awe. So I dropped my hand, pulled my phone out to text the office that we’d be a couple more minutes, and stood next to her for 12 whole seconds.
I’ve subbed at the local elementary for three years, so I’ve spent a lot of time around kids and the constant rush to check boxes: get through the math worksheet, line up on time, turn in the project. Most days, when a kid stops to stare at something that isn’t on the lesson plan, we hurry them along. I’d always thought that wonder was a nice extra, the kind of thing you save for field trips to the science museum or summer vacations to the mountains. That podcast, where researchers and children’s media creators talked through the effects of small moments of wonder, changed how I see it. It’s not an extra. It’s something that changes how kids show up every day.
A month before that snail stop, I was subbing for a second grade class. We’d finished the planned reading activity 15 minutes before lunch, and I was two seconds away from pulling up a cartoon on the smartboard to fill the gap. Then a group of kids by the window started pointing, whispering about the shadows the oak tree outside was throwing on the cinder block wall. The leaves swayed in the wind, so the shadow patterns moved like water. I closed the smartboard instead, and asked who else noticed something cool. For 10 minutes, kids called out observations: one said the big shadow looked like a dinosaur, another brought a pinecone he’d found at recess up to the front to pass around, a girl shared that the rock in her pocket looked just like a tiny shark fin. I left that class thinking I’d wasted 10 minutes of learning time. The regular teacher told me later that the kids were quieter and calmer through lunch that day than they’d been all month. No one argued over who got the blue seat at the table, no one cried over spilled milk. That stuck with me.
One of the researchers on the podcast explained that awe doesn’t have to be standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon. It’s any moment that makes you feel connected to something bigger than your own small, immediate worries. For a kid, that’s a snail’s silver trail, or moving shadows on a wall. When you stop to take that in, it dials down the constant low-grade stress that most kids carry these days—from standardized tests to friend fights to packed schedules of soccer and piano lessons. Over time, that adds up to more resilience. When kids get used to stepping back from their own small problems to notice something bigger, they’re less likely to spiral when things go wrong.
The podcast also talked about how awe makes learning stick, because it’s curiosity that comes from the kid, not a worksheet. Lila went to the library that weekend after the snail incident and checked out three books about slugs and snails. She spent an afternoon drawing their trails and counting the spots on their shells. I never would have planned that science lesson. It just came from 12 seconds of stopping. The creators also talked about how awe makes kids more likely to be kind to each other. When you feel small in that soft, not scary way, you care less about getting your own way and more about the world around you. That prosocial shift shows up in small, everyday moments, not just big grand gestures.
I’ve been trying small changes over the last couple months, nothing big. If we’re not actually late for something that matters, I don’t rush Lila when she stops to stare. If we are running late, I don’t just yank her away— I say, “That snail trail is so cool, can we come back and look at it after school today?” instead of dismissing it. I leave 5 minutes of empty time after dinner most nights, no screens, no planned activities. We just stand on the porch and look at the sky or listen to the crickets. I also try to point out the small things I notice, instead of just scrolling my phone while we wait for the bus. Yesterday I said “wow, look how the frost made patterns on the car window” and all three of us stood there staring for a minute.
I still mess it up more than I get it right. Last week we were late for Lila’s doctor’s appointment, and when she stopped to look at a mushroom growing through a crack in the parking lot, I just said “we don’t have time for mushrooms right now” and pulled her along. That’s okay. It’s not about being the perfect parent or teacher who stops for every bug and cloud. I’ve noticed small changes though. Last month Lila fell off her bike and scraped her knee pretty bad. She was halfway to crying when she looked up at our big oak tree, and said “Look how green the new leaves are. It doesn’t hurt that bad.” That’s the shift the podcast was talking about, right? It’s not big. It’s just a small shift in how you see the world. Awe isn’t something we have to plan or pay for. It’s just there, in the cracks of the sidewalk, on the walls of the classroom, in the sky after rain. Some days we stop, some days we don’t. The small moments add up anyway.
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