How Play Helps Mentors Build Trust with Kids
Opening Story
The soda can hit the pavement harder than Brandon meant for it to.
It slipped out of his hand and rolled across the concrete, fizzing loudly as it spun in a slow circle before tipping over. Neither of us moved to pick it up right away. Brandon just watched it leak onto the ground, arms crossed tight against his chest, like the whole thing was not worth the effort.
I made a small joke about wasting a perfectly good drink, hoping to lighten the moment, but he did not bite. Instead, Brandon kicked the can a little farther away and muttered, “It doesn’t matter anyway,” under his breath.
The words were quiet, but they carried more weight than the situation called for.
I could feel that familiar tension building in me, the urge to correct, redirect, or make the moment more productive than it clearly wanted to be. But sitting there with Brandon, I realized I had a choice. I could focus on the mess on the ground, or I could slow down long enough to notice the one happening inside him.
The Problem
I’ve noticed that one of the most common mistakes I make as a mentor is starting with behavior. When a kid shuts down, pushes back, or acts out, my instinct is often to interpret that behavior as disrespect, disinterest, or lack of effort. I begin thinking about how to correct it, how to redirect it, or how to manage it so the interaction can move forward in a more productive way.
But that approach assumes something that isn’t always true. It assumes the child has the capacity in that moment to respond differently.
What I’ve come to understand, especially with kids from hard places, is that behavior is rarely the starting point. It’s the outcome. It’s the visible expression of something deeper—fear, confusion, insecurity, or even a learned survival pattern that has been reinforced over time. When I focus only on behavior, I’m trying to solve the symptom instead of understanding the story.
And when I do that, I unintentionally communicate something to the child. I communicate that how they are acting matters more to me than what they are experiencing. I might get compliance in the short term, but I miss connection in the long term.
The Core Principle
The shift for me has been simple to say, but much harder to live out consistently: start with safety, not correction.
That doesn’t mean I ignore behavior or lower expectations. It means I reorder my priorities. Instead of asking, “How do I fix this behavior?” I begin asking, “What does this child need to feel safe right now?”
Because here’s what I’ve learned over time: a child who does not feel safe cannot access the part of themselves that can change. Their brain is not in a place where reasoning, reflection, or self-control are available. They are operating in survival mode, even if the situation doesn’t look dangerous to me.
If fear is driving the moment, then safety has to lead the response.
This has reshaped the way I think about my role as a mentor. I’m not just there to guide behavior. I’m there to create an environment where change is even possible.
Expanded Insight
That afternoon at the table, I took a breath instead of reacting. I leaned back a little and said, “Hey, I feel like something’s going on. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I’m here.”
He didn’t respond right away. He just kept spinning the pencil. But his shoulders dropped just slightly, and the tension in his face softened. After a minute, he said something small, almost like he was testing whether it was safe to say it out loud. That small comment turned into a longer sentence, and eventually into a conversation that had nothing to do with school and everything to do with what had happened at home the night before.
If I had stayed focused on his tone or his lack of eye contact, I would have missed it entirely.
What I’m learning is that kids communicate long before they articulate. Their bodies, their posture, their energy—these are all signals. And for many kids, especially those who have experienced instability, those signals are shaped by a deep need to protect themselves.
They might withdraw because it feels safer than engaging.
They might control the situation because unpredictability has hurt them before.
They might push people away because connection has historically led to disappointment.
When I understand behavior through that lens, it changes my posture completely. I move from frustration to curiosity. I stop asking, “What’s wrong with him?” and start asking, “What has he learned that makes this response make sense?”
Behavior is often a child’s best attempt at solving a problem they don’t yet have the tools to articulate.
This is where the idea of “felt safety” becomes so important. Safety isn’t just about the absence of danger. It’s about the presence of consistency, attention, and care. It’s about a child knowing, not just intellectually but emotionally, that they are seen, valued, and not at risk of being rejected or dismissed.
One of the most powerful ways I’ve seen this play out is through something that feels incredibly simple: play.
Play lowers defenses. It removes pressure. It allows a child to engage without the weight of expectations. I’ve had some of the most meaningful conversations happen not across a table, but while shooting hoops, building something with Legos, or just tossing a ball back and forth. In those moments, the environment shifts from performance to presence.
And when that shift happens, something else becomes possible. The child begins to move out of survival mode and into connection. And connection is where growth actually begins.
Here are some practical ways to apply this principal:
Start by slowing down your initial reaction. When a child responds in a way that feels frustrating or disrespectful, I’ve learned to pause before speaking. That pause gives me space to check my assumptions and ask a better question internally. Instead of reacting to what is visible, I try to consider what might be driving it. That small moment of restraint often determines whether the interaction becomes corrective or connective.
Create consistent moments of undivided attention. One of the most practical things I’ve implemented is setting aside intentional time where the child gets my full focus. No phone, no multitasking, no agenda. I let them choose what we do, even if it seems trivial. Over time, this communicates something powerful: they are worth my attention. And that consistent experience begins to build the kind of safety that opens the door for deeper conversations.
Use language that validates before it redirects. I’ve had to train myself to name what I see and feel in a way that acknowledges their experience. Phrases like “I can tell you’re frustrated” or “That makes sense why you’d feel that way” go a long way. It doesn’t mean I agree with every behavior, but it shows that I’m paying attention to their internal world. Once a child feels understood, they are far more open to guidance.
Lean into play as a strategic tool, not a distraction. There was a time when I thought play was secondary to “real” mentoring conversations. Now I see it differently. Play is often the doorway into those conversations. When I engage with a child in an environment that feels light and enjoyable, their guard comes down. That creates opportunities for connection that structured conversations sometimes can’t produce.
Practice “redos” instead of immediate correction. When a child communicates in a way that is harsh or inappropriate, I’ve found it helpful to give them another chance instead of shutting them down. I might say, “I want to hear what you’re saying—can you try that again in a way that helps me understand?” This keeps the focus on growth rather than punishment and reinforces that their voice matters, even if the delivery needs work.
Educate yourself on trauma and its impact. The more I’ve learned about how trauma affects the brain and behavior, the more patient and effective I’ve become as a mentor. Understanding that a child’s reactions are often rooted in past experiences helps me approach situations with empathy rather than judgment. It also reminds me that change takes time, and that my consistency is part of a much longer process.
Conclusion
That moment at the table could have gone a very different direction. I could have corrected his tone, pushed for an answer, and walked away feeling like I had done my job as a mentor. But I would have missed what he actually needed.
What he needed wasn’t a better question or a stronger correction. He needed a safe place to land.
I’m learning that mentoring isn’t primarily about fixing behavior; it’s about creating an environment where a child no longer has to defend themselves. When that happens, everything else begins to shift. Trust starts to form. Conversations deepen. Growth becomes possible.
I don’t always get this right. There are still moments where I react too quickly or focus too much on what’s visible. But I keep coming back to this truth: connection is not a byproduct of mentoring—it is the foundation of it.
And sometimes, the most important thing I can offer isn’t a solution or a strategy. It’s my presence, my attention, and the steady reminder that they are safe with me.
Discussion Questions
When a child you mentor displays challenging behavior, what assumptions do you tend to make, and how might those assumptions be shaping your response?
What is one intentional step you can take this week to create felt safety in your mentoring relationship, and how might that change the way the child engages with you?
