Why Do Kids Need Awe? How Wonder Impacts Learning, Resilience, and Behavior
I was halfway through a mental list of grocery runs and math homework checks when my 7-year-old planted his feet on the sidewalk last week and refused to move. It had just stopped raining, our boots were still squelching, and I needed to get dinner in the oven before his older sister’s soccer practice. “What is it?” I said, already leaning forward to tug him along. He just pointed at the wooden fence running alongside our street, where a snail had left a thin, shiny silver trail that glowed in the slanted late afternoon light. “It looks like the snail drew a line of stars,” he said. I stopped, too. I’d walked that route a hundred times and never noticed it.
A couple nights later, I was folding laundry and catching up on a parenting podcast I’d been meaning to listen to, the episode where researchers and children’s media creators break down why awe matters for kids. I went into it expecting another sermon about planning elaborate nature trips to give kids “meaningful experiences,” so I was surprised when the conversation veered straight into the messy, ordinary parts of daily life. Awe doesn’t have to be the Grand Canyon or a fancy museum exhibit, they said. Most of the time, it’s the tiny, unplanned moments kids stop to notice when we’re busy trying to get from one place to the next.
I immediately thought of the Lego rocket incident two weeks prior. My son had spent three afternoons gluing and stacking pieces for his school science fair project, and it tipped over off the kitchen counter 10 minutes before we had to leave. He sat on the floor sobbing, repeating that he was stupid and would never be able to fix it in time. I was already grabbing the hot glue gun to piece it back together when he sniffled, leaned forward, and said, “Wait. These broken fins look like the Rocky Mountains in my geography book.” He scrapped the rocket entirely, rearranged the pieces into a mountain base camp diorama, and ended up with an honorable mention for most creative. I’d written that off as just his quirky way of bouncing back, but the podcast framed it differently. When kids experience awe, it shifts their focus away from their own small frustration and opens them up to something bigger than their original plan. That shift is what builds resilience—they don’t get stuck on what went wrong, they start looking at what else could be.
The conversation also connected wonder to how kids treat other people. The children’s media creator explained that awe trains kids to notice things outside of their own needs and schedules. That habit of noticing doesn’t just apply to snail trails or fireflies—it extends to other people, too. I thought of the weekly wonder walks my son’s second grade teacher started doing a month ago. Every Friday, the class walks around the school playground for 10 minutes, and each kid just has to find one thing that makes them curious. A week after they started, my son came home and told me he stopped to help a lost kindergartener find the bathroom on his way back inside. He was already in the mode of slowing down and looking around, so he noticed she was crying when everyone else just walked past. It wasn’t a big, planned lesson on kindness. It was just a side effect of making space for wonder.
None of the practical ideas they shared require big schedule overhauls or extra money. The biggest takeaway was that we just need to leave small gaps in our days for these moments to happen. I’ve started trying three small, easy changes that fit into our routine. First, I leave two extra minutes early for school drop-off, so we can have one 2-minute wonder stop on the walk. Whoever is leading gets to pick the thing we look at, no rushing allowed. Second, when my kids point something out to me, I bite my tongue before I spit out the factual answer. Instead of saying “that’s just snail slime,” I say, “What do you think is cool about it?” It lets them wonder first, instead of just checking a box for learning, which makes them more curious long term. Third, I don’t force it. If we’re really running late for an appointment, we skip the wonder stop. No guilt, just try again the next day.
Last week, we had a 12-hour power outage after a summer storm. I was panicking because I had a work deadline that night, and I was worried all the food in my fridge would go bad. My son pulled me away from my dead laptop, grabbed my hand, and dragged me out to the front yard. There were fireflies everywhere, blinking in sync across the grass, and he made me sit on the porch step for 10 minutes to watch them. I’d lived in this house for six years, and I’d never noticed how many fireflies we get in June. I didn’t hit my deadline that night; I had to ask for an extension. It was inconvenient.
I still rush most days. I still get annoyed when we’re late because someone stopped to watch an ant carry a crumb across the sidewalk. I don’t know if making space for these small moments will translate to better grades or higher test scores down the line. But I’ve noticed small shifts already. When something breaks or doesn’t go their way, my kids are more likely to stop and look around instead of immediately falling apart. That’s more than I thought I’d get out of two extra minutes a day.
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