What Sixth Graders Taught Me About Presence
They’re learning to dissect frogs and write coherent arguments—and also how to sit next to someone they don’t like (or like too much!). How to share ideas without being interrupted. How to speak even when they’re afraid of being wrong. How to manage crushes, social hierarchies, group texts, and the weight of online personas.
All at once.
I spent time in a sixth-grade classroom this week, facilitating a Social Emotional Learning lesson on teamwork and collaboration. I say “facilitating” instead of leading because it really is a conversation led by them … sharing their thoughts, opinions, pre-conceived notions and beliefs about what a team looks like and how it functions.
The Same Questions We Ask
I asked them to reflect on what makes group work hard.
Their answers were revelatory:
“The hardest thing is saying something that is wrong.”
“The hardest thing is when my ideas don’t get heard.”
“The hardest thing is feeling nervous and not following the group.”
“The hardest thing is working with people I’m not close with.”
These aren’t just sixth-grade struggles. These are the questions we adults carry when we try to show up: What if I’m wrong? What if no one hears me? What if I don’t belong here? What if I mess this up?
No one ever outgrows these questions. We just learn better disguises for them.
Whether you’re eleven years old trying to contribute to a book club discussion, or an adult trying to share your creative work, or someone walking into a room where you don’t know anyone—the fear is the same.
The vulnerability is the same.
The courage it takes to speak, to stay, to try again … that’s the same, too.
What We Do Instead of Fixing
Standing in that classroom, I felt the pull to solve their problems. To teach them the “right” way to handle disagreements. To give them strategies for managing difficult group members.
But that’s not what they needed.
They needed someone to witness what they were carrying. To create space for them to name it. To trust that they already had their own wisdom about what might help. In an effort to help them with forward-thinking I asked how they would approach what feels hard to them the next time it happened.
One student wrote: “Next time, I’ll try looking at their point of view.”
Another: “Next time, I’ll ask for a recap so I can catch up.”
Another: “Next time, I’ll say it in a louder voice.”
They didn’t need me to give them answers. They needed permission to trust what they already knew.
This is what we do when we make tokens of gratitude. We don’t fix people’s days. We don’t solve their problems. We witness them.
We say: I see you here, in this moment, with whatever you’re carrying.
The token doesn’t solve anything. It just offers presence.
The Art of Restraint
Whether in a classroom or in creative practice, what I’m learning is that presence requires knowing what NOT to add.
In that room, I didn’t add solutions. I didn’t correct their strategies or tell them better ways. I didn’t perform expertise or guide them toward the “right” answers.
I held space. I listened. I got out of the way.
When we make tokens, we practice the same restraint.
We don’t add instructions: “This is for when you’re feeling sad.”
We don’t add expectations: “I hope this makes your day better.”
We don’t add control: “You should display this somewhere meaningful.”
We make something small. We offer it freely. We trust the recipient to complete the meaning.
Creative Courage, Collaborative Courage
Those sixth graders are practicing something extraordinary: Showing up in groups even when it’s uncomfortable. Speaking even when they might be wrong. Staying engaged even when they feel invisible.
This is creative courage. This is collaborative courage.
It’s the same courage it takes to:
Share your work when you’re not sure it’s good enough
Make a token for a stranger without knowing if they’ll appreciate it
Show up to a creative community when you feel like you don't belong
Keep making even when no one seems to notice
We underestimate what young people are navigating. We also don’t fully acknowledge what we ourselves are navigating.
Every time you make something and offer it—whether it’s a token, a piece of art, a kind word, your presence in a difficult conversation—you’re practicing the same courage those kids are practicing.
You’re saying: “I’m here. I’m trying. I might mess this up, but I’m showing up anyway.”
The Invitation
What if we approached all our interactions—creative, collaborative, communal—from this stance?
Not performing presence, but practicing it. Not teaching people what they need, but trusting they already know. Not fixing what feels broken, but witnessing what’s already whole.
What if we just started noticing? Listening? Being?
The Ripple Practice is an eight-year kindness movement centered on handmade tokens and generous presence. If you’re part of Inside the Ripple Studio, you already know: the work isn’t in the making. It’s in the showing up.
