Love, Nurture and the Parts We Hide

By Dr. Aaron Bradbury

It’s been happening more and more. A message here, an email there. Sometimes after a talk or a conference, sometimes quietly in the background, away from the noise of social media and each time, it lands in a similar way: “I really believe in what you and Tamsin are doing around Love and Nurture.” Then, almost always, there’s a pause. Because what follows is where it really matters.

These are men working in early years. Thoughtful practitioners. Committed, reflective, deeply attuned to children and their needs. The kind of educators our sector needs. They talk about relationships as the foundation of practice. They recognise the importance of connection, of warmth, of being emotionally present. Many have said that the Love and Nurture Rating Scale gives language to something they’ve always known to be true. However, then comes the reality. They don’t always feel able to be that practitioner in full.

One shared that he hesitates before offering comfort, even when a child is visibly upset. Another described how he is constantly aware of where he is in the room, who is watching, how something might be interpreted. One spoke honestly about avoiding certain interactions altogether, not because they didn’t matter, but because they didn’t feel safe for him to engage in them. Not unsafe in the physical sense, but in a professional and personal one. A sense that their intentions could be misunderstood. That their care might be questioned. That simply being a man in early years changes how their actions are viewed.

As I’ve read these messages, I keep coming back to the same uncomfortable question: what does it say about our sector if those who believe most in relational pedagogy feel they have to hold part of themselves back?

This isn’t about capability. These practitioners are more than capable. It isn’t about commitment either, they care deeply about their work. This is about perception. About the quiet, persistent awareness that showing nurture as a man can feel like a risk. So they have learnt to adapt. They become more cautious. More measured and less instinctive. They think twice before doing what comes naturally. Not because they don’t believe in love and nurture, but because they are navigating a culture that doesn’t always feel safe for them to embody it. Within that space, something shifts. Because children experience care through relationships, not policies. They feel it in the presence of an adult who sits beside them, who listens, who responds with warmth and authenticity. When practitioners begin to filter those responses, when instinct is replaced with hesitation, we have to consider what is being lost.

This isn’t about removing safeguarding. That’s not what is being asked, and it shouldn’t be. Safeguarding matters, and it must remain at the centre of our work. But there is a difference between safeguarding children and creating a culture where some practitioners feel under constant scrutiny simply because of who they are.

The messages I receive are not loud. They are not demands. They are quiet reflections from professionals who want to do their job well, who want to care, who want to connect, but who are not always sure if they are allowed to do so in the way they believe is right. This should give us pause. Because Love and Nurture is not gendered. It is human. It sits at the heart of what it means to work with young children. If we are serious about building a relational pedagogy, then we must also be serious about creating conditions where every practitioner can live that out fully. That means challenging assumptions. It means reflecting on how bias shows up in our settings. It means creating cultures of trust, where care is understood and valued, not questioned or constrained.

Ultimately, this is about more than men in early years. It is about the kind of profession we want to be. One where everyone, regardless of gender, can show up as their authentic self. Because Love and Nurture cannot sit in parts, it has to be whole.