Why Do Kids Need Awe? How Wonder Shapes Resilience, Learning, and Kindness
I was halfway down the wooded trail near our house last Saturday, watch ticking down because we were already 10 minutes late for my 7-year-old Lila’s soccer snack drop-off, when she stopped dead. She didn’t tug my hand or yell, just stood there, head tilted, staring at the old stone half-wall off the path. It had rained the night before, and the moss covering it was bright neon green, seeping into every crack. “Mom,” she said, like she was sharing a secret only she knew. “Look how it fits every broken part.”
I sighed, already opening my mouth to say we had to go. That’s the thing about being a parent, right? Half the time you’re herding kids from one scheduled thing to the next, and these random stops feel like just one more delay. But I closed my mouth, checked my watch again, and sat down on the damp dirt next to her. We looked at the moss for two minutes. I even pointed out a tiny snail crawling along the edge that she’d missed. We ended up 12 minutes late instead of 10. No one cared. The other parents just shrugged.
A few days later, I was folding laundry during my 10-year-old’s quiet reading time and listened to a new podcast episode I’d seen recommended, the one where researchers and children’s media creators talk about why awe matters for kids. I went in thinking it was just another fluffy wellness thing, but I ended up pausing it halfway through to jot down a few notes, because it lined up with all those little moments I’ve brushed off for years.
The researcher they interviewed explained it this way: when kids experience awe—that feeling of seeing something bigger or more surprising than your everyday life—it shifts their focus away from their own small, immediate problems. I thought of Jase, my 10-year-old, last month when he froze up mid-study for his big algebra test, snapping that he was stupid and would never get it, then wandered out to the porch and didn’t come back for 10 minutes. I was annoyed at the distraction, until I went out and saw he was just watching a spider weave a web between the rail and the planter, completely still. When he came back in, he sat down and finished the study guide without another complaint. I’d written that off as a random reset, but the researcher said that’s awe working on resilience. When you’re stuck on a hard test, and you step back and see something that’s existed way longer than your bad grade, that problem doesn’t feel so big anymore.
It also changes how they treat other people, the study showed. Kids who had even a small awe experience—like watching a two-minute video of giant redwood trees, or walking past a field of wildflowers on the way to school—shared more of their snack with other kids, helped pick up more trash in the classroom, and were more likely to stop to help someone who dropped their stuff. I thought of Lila, the week after the moss incident, stopping on the way to the bus to help a kindergartener pick up all the crayons she’d spilled, when normally she’s too busy chattering about her art project to notice anything else. It’s a small thing, but it fits.
The kids media creator on the podcast brought up something I hadn’t thought of: most kids content these days moves so fast. There’s a new joke or a new plot twist every 10 seconds, no dead air, no space to just sit and look at something. That means kids don’t get much practice feeling awe, because it’s a slow feeling. It takes time to stop and stare.
The good thing is you don’t need to plan a trip to the Grand Canyon to give kids that experience. I’ve started trying small, low-effort changes that don’t add much time to my day, and they’ve worked better than I thought. If I’m hurrying and my kid stops to stare at something, I don’t say “come on” right away. I say “give me one minute to see it too” if we’re pressed for time, or just let them talk through what they’re seeing for two minutes. If we’re in the car waiting for school to get out, instead of handing over my phone, I ask “what’s the most surprising thing you see right now?” For my sister who’s a 3rd grade teacher, she started doing one-minute “wonder shares” at the start of each day, where one kid shares something amazing they saw lately, and it barely takes any time away from reading and math. Once a week, we swap one 20-minute screen session for sitting on the porch looking at clouds, or walking down the street to look at the big old oak tree at the end of the block.
I still mess up, of course. Last Tuesday I was running late for a doctor’s appointment, and Lila stopped to watch an anthill carry a cookie crumb, and I did drag her away, no two-minute stop. She pouted the whole way, and I felt guilty afterward. But that’s okay, right? This isn’t about being perfect. It’s just about not brushing off those little moments as distractions.
I was looking out the window this morning, and Lila was in the yard, lying on her stomach staring at a worm move through the dirt. I had a sink full of dishes to wash, and emails to answer. I paused for a minute, leaned against the counter, and just watched her. I didn’t rush her. The dishes can wait two minutes.
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