“Saariyah’s late! Let’s hide under the table to surprise her when she arrives,” Zion grinned, already crawling under the bright blue table in our room. Eamon, Malcolm, and Toni laughed and quickly found their own hiding spots.

I stared at my agenda for today. We were already twenty minutes in, and today was an important one. We had to lock in some core details of their self-made short films and finalize the questions they wanted to ask the children who’d be watching them. So, I closed my laptop and joined Zion under the table.

When Saariyah entered the room, she saw us all hiding as we waited for her and squealed with delight. We all sat down on the rug, opened our juiceboxes, and took a collective deep breath. “So,” Eamon said as I passed out bags of Goldfish crackers, “What research are we doing today?” 

I’m a PhD candidate in children’s rights, and I’m the first American to hold this title. I recently completed five months of fieldwork with five co-researchers, ages 6 to 9. Together, we explored a child’s right to seek, receive, and impart information. Our central question? What would child-friendly material look like, and what impact could it have, if children were true collaborators in its design and dissemination?

—

I have been working in the childcare industry since I was 12 years old, when I nannied for a newborn at a summer camp where I had been a camper just a year before. I knew then that working with children was in my bones. 

Word spread quickly, and soon, I was finding myself at different homes around my town multiple times a week. I needed the money, but I didn’t just stay because of that. I felt, and still feel, most me when I am around children. 

Soon after I began caring for children, I found myself in spaces where decisions were being made about me, without me, as a child. I was 14 when I first entered a domestic violence shelter, my mother newly separated from my father and me grappling with the reality that what I had experienced constituted abuse enough for a social worker to sit across from me in a room labeled THERAPY FOR CHILDREN WHO FACED VIOLENCE. 

Over the next few years, I spent more and more time in that room, being told how my life might change: whether I had the right to decide if I would see my father, the right to receive support from him, if, if, if. One day, the social worker mentioned they needed someone to help care for the children at the shelter so their mothers could attend a support group.

So, I started spending an hour each week with a group of children who were wrestling with the same feelings I had as a teenager. The only thing I knew how to give them was what I craved myself: the confirmation that adults are meant to protect us, not hurt us, the reassurance that children have value because of their age, not despite it, and that we could build a world together, even for just an hour, that was playful and whimsical without compromising viewing children as full beings. 

Over the past five months of working with my co-researchers, I’ve carried the same core responsibilities I’ve had since my first childcare shift at 12: I needed to offer snacks and water, create a safe space, and treat the children as collaborators in how we spent our time and what is created from it. Above all, I wanted each child to leave knowing they were seen, valued, and full of ideas that mattered.

A core way I worked to do that was through the holding of two truths: children have a right to be taken seriously, and that seriousness does not mean a compromise of their “childishness.” The ways children communicate with each other do not need to be shifted for what they are saying to have depth and be treated as important. We decided the core research questions together, and the kids taught me the ‘Floss’ dance move as a group. We discussed the role of emotion in a child’s internalization of information, and they insisted on ending each session with Dippin’ Dots and a game of tag. All of this, and more, can be true.

When I first started meeting with my co-researchers, I noticed my usual opening question, “How are you all?” over goldfish crackers and juice boxes didn’t quite land. Some stayed silent, others mumbled “Fine,” while a few bounced between stories. So, I leaned on my experience as a childcare provider, where I’ve learned to adapt my communication to honor my belief that kids should be taken seriously and spoken to on their own terms, not through an adult lens.

I introduced the “thumbs up, middle, down” check-in. Each child would first respond with a thumbs up (good), middle (okay), or down (bad), and then we’d go around—myself included—to share why. 

This prompt, with a physical movement, brought a unifying way to respond and receive others’ responses, routine the children could rely on to kick off our sessions, and over time, help encourage more thoughtful answers. 

Once, Eamon answered with a thumbs down, “I’m sad because my friend said I hurt her feelings on the playground.” The other children quickly validated how hard that is, asked Eamon questions about the situation, and shared their own experiences. Later, Eamon decided to do his piece of child-friendly material on mental health and who you can talk to about your different feelings. 

—

When I tell people my co-researchers are children, they usually tilt their heads and say something like, “That’s so cute, but what do you mean?” Most research with children treats them as subjects, not as the ones actually leading the work. But in children’s rights, there’s something called a child-rights based approach to research, or CRBA. It means children are co-researchers. They help come up with the questions, shape the study, and analyze what we find. 

“Child-friendly material” created by nonprofits, community centers, and similar organizations is often how children are introduced to topics typically seen as complex—like mental health, climate change, and more. Sometimes it works: it’s interactive, engaging, and sticks with them. But more often, it misses the mark. It’s a flyer with too many words or not enough, confusing clip art (like a giraffe on a domestic violence poster), and abstract ideas with no invitation for children to connect it to their own lives or turn that information into a conversation.

The data to shift this is scarce, with a child’s right to information being one of the least explored rights of the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child (Langlaude, 2010). 

I met with my co-researchers twelve times, for two hours each, in a room at Brooklyn Children’s Museum. Our first session was on February 23rd. I remember waking up early and getting dressed in a green sweater patterned with orange fish, plus goldfish-in-a-tank earrings to match. It was an outfit I might wear on any regular day, but I also chose it with intention, knowing it would spark conversation with the children and gently challenge ideas of what adults are “supposed” to wear.

After introductions, we sat in a circle. The children looked at me with wide eyes, waiting for instruction. I knew I needed to build trust. But more than that, I needed them to see me not as a teacher, or another adult telling them what to do, but as someone showing up to create something with them. A co-builder.

“Guess what,” I said, matching their wide eyes with my own.
“What?” a few replied.
I leaned in. “I’m so excited to tell y’all this… it’s actually my birthday today!”

One child gasped. Another cheered. Malcolm, who had been straight-faced, cracked a smile. “Happy birthday!” they chorused, and a few began volunteering their own birthday dates. The energy shifted. The ice had started to melt. 

The word research usually instigates images of formality: professional clothing, and words that you need a thesaurus to understand. When I did my ethics application for my university to approve my research, one of the questions was why I feel I am equipped to lead this project. 

“I am a childcare provider,” I wrote. 

At first glance, being a childcare provider and being a researcher with children may seem like opposite ways of working with children. But fellow childcare providers know that our role goes far beyond solely keeping a child safe and occupied for the time they’re in our care. There are relationships that get created, developmental stages that we help come about, and worlds we build together. 

—

At the start of another research session, Zion answered with a thumbs up. “I’m happy because this morning, I had Spanish play group, and now I’m here. And I love to be here!” 

“You love being here how?” I asked, trying to play it cool. 

“I love being here doing research with my team, Valster!” Zion responded. 

Oh my gosh. I thought to myself. I got a nickname. 

Zion had spent the past few sessions calling other children “Dude” and “Buddy”. Alongside him affirming his love for this experience, Zion’s assignment of my nickname showed me that he viewed me as a collaborator or friend, rather than a teacher or authority figure, creating an even power dynamic amongst us. 

Having children as my co-researchers means I treat them with both the respect we grant adults, and the playfulness and whimsy we expect from children. And what I learned from Zion is that, once I’ve earned their trust, they treat me with the knowledge of an adult, but the respect they grant to other children. 

These moments make up my current pursuit of a PhD in children’s rights. Prior to this title,  I received my Bachelor’s Degree in Education Advocacy, weaving together work with children, policy, and nonprofits to understand how they intersect. I then earned a scholarship for a Master’s in Children’s Rights. 

While every class, conference, protest, and convening with world leaders has shaped me into someone who can work with children as co-researchers, the titles I remain proudest of are still the first one I have ever held: I was once a child, and I am a childcare provider.