When friends and acquaintances learn I work as a preschool teacher, they often smile. They say, “You must have so much patience.” I usually just shrug. I don’t think patience is the most essential quality when working with young children. In fact, I’m not a fan of patience. I’m all for understanding.

Take four-year-old James. He is a sturdy redheaded boy. He just decided who gets to ride the scooter by pushing a three-year-old girl off it. Does James’s behaviour require patience? Is patience what I need, as his teacher, to handle the situation thoughtfully and effectively? What does being “patient” even mean?

According to most English dictionaries, patience is “the capacity to accept or tolerate delay, trouble, or suffering without getting angry or upset.” The underlying assumption? You’re enduring something unpleasant.

Patience is often seen as a hallmark of good educators. “Kate, I could never do what you do—I don’t have the patience.” “You must be incredibly patient to work with kids every day.” Compliments like that used to make me smile, but lately they’ve started to rub me the wrong way. Probably because I’ve never considered myself particularly patient. Sure, I can sit through a dental appointment in silence, give blood without flinching—but to put up with work that drains me or feels meaningless? No, thank you.

Patience is usually framed as a virtue. It conjures images of someone calm, humble, quietly enduring something difficult. You grit your teeth, take a deep breath, and get through it. Why? Because “patience is a virtue.” Because “good things come to those who wait.” Because “hard work and patience conquer all.” These sayings run deep in our cultural wiring.

But I don’t think early childhood educators, nannies, or parents of young children should rely too heavily on patience. Why? Because if you’re constantly “putting up with” children, it probably means you’re not enjoying the work. It suggests you’re not in a state of flow, as described by psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. And that’s a problem. Because it means you’re disconnected.

An educator who truly understands a child’s developmental stage—their strengths, their challenges—won’t suffer silently. Take James again. His behaviour might look aggressive, but developmentally, it’s not out of the ordinary. I’m not about to label him a “troublemaker” or say he’s violent. He’s a great kid—he just doesn’t yet know how to behave differently. Maybe he struggles with self-regulation. Maybe he needs support from a psychologist. Either way, the incident (yes, James pushed someone again) becomes an opportunity to teach, not punish.

At this stage of development, James only knows how to express himself through force. My job is to help him find another way. That doesn’t require me to clench my fists or count to ten—it simply means I remind him, gently and clearly, that we don’t hit people. We use our words. James isn’t distracting me from my work—he is my work. He gives me a reason to model better ways of interacting.

And it’s not just James. There’s Zoya, who loves pulling hair and biting. There’s Ruben. He is autistic and sometimes throws sticks from the top of the slide. This behavior is not out of malice. He doesn’t yet grasp the consequences of his actions.

If I relied solely on patience, I’d burn out by the end of the first week. By the end of the month, I’d be yelling and reacting poorly. What I need far more than patience is understanding. And that understanding comes from developmental theory, from knowing children’s capabilities and limits—and from genuinely wanting to be around them.

Patience has a limit. There’s a reason we say, “Beware the wrath of the patient person.” But understanding, compassion, and connection? They’re renewable.

Teachers and parents who expect three- to five-year-olds to sit quietly on a mat or at a desk? They do need patience—because they lack understanding. It’s almost comical to watch an educator sternly tell a child “for the last time” to take a pencil out of their mouth. They clearly forget what it’s like to be teething and want to chew everything.

Expectations that aren’t age-appropriate only create tension between adults and children. If I know a child’s gums are itchy, I’ll offer a teething toy or some crunchy toast. My voice and body language stay calm—not because I’m forcing patience, but because I get it. When you understand, there’s nothing to endure.

Treating young children’s behaviour as something to be endured—like a headache or a traffic jam—turns it into something threatening. “You’re doing this just to upset your mum!” “Johnny, did you pee your pants on purpose?” Many of us still remember those hurtful lines from our own childhoods. We recall how wrong they were. We also remember how much they shamed us.

But harshness and rejection often come from a simple lack of understanding. When adults take time to really listen—not just to what children say, but to what they mean—they create space for growth. When I understand a child, I respond to them as they are—not as I wish they were. I don’t waste energy fighting the fact that children are, well, children. I use my energy to guide them.

And that, to me, is far more powerful than patience.

Let me know what you think!

Kate