And yet, beneath that composed surface, many of these children are quietly exhausted. 

What we are witnessing is the emergence of what might be called the high-performing childhood: a version of growing up that is rich in opportunity but increasingly shaped by subtle, cumulative pressure. It is not the product of harsh parenting or overly rigid schooling. Quite the opposite. It comes from care, from aspiration, from a genuine desire to give children every possible advantage. But even the most benign intentions can create a climate in which children begin to feel that their worth is tied, however gently, to how well they are doing. 

Children are remarkably adept at absorbing what surrounds them. They may not hear explicit demands, but they notice patterns: how time is structured, what achievements are praised, what successes are shared. Gradually, often without anyone naming it, they begin to internalise a set of assumptions; that their time should be used well, that effort should lead to results, and that those results matter. 

In this context, being capable can become a vulnerability. The more a child succeeds, the more likely they are to feel they must continue to do so. 

One of the most striking changes in recent years is just how early this mindset can take hold. Anxiety, when it appears, does not always look dramatic. Instead, it tends to arrive quietly. A child may hesitate to try something unfamiliar in case they are not immediately good at it. Another may struggle to relax, insisting on finishing “just one more thing” long after they are tired. Some become unusually frustrated by small setbacks, while others lie awake at night, their minds busier than their bodies. 

These are not necessarily children in obvious distress. In fact, they often appear to be coping extremely well. But their coping requires constant effort, and that effort can be draining. 

Layered on top of this is a more diffuse, modern influence: the sense of being measured. Even at prep school age, children are increasingly aware, if not explicitly, then instinctively, of how they compare to others. This awareness is rarely the result of direct competition. Instead, it seeps in through conversation, through glimpses of older siblings’ worlds, and through the subtle ways adults exchange information about schooling and achievement. Children do not need a formal ranking system to feel judged; they are exquisitely sensitive to what is valued. 

In such an environment, life can begin to feel less like something to experience and more like something to evaluate. 

Ironically, this is where the language of wellbeing can become part of the problem. When wellbeing itself is approached as something to manage, optimise, or measure, it risks becoming just another item on the list. We schedule rest, but still observe it. We encourage gratitude, but look for evidence of its effect. We speak about resilience, yet instinctively smooth over difficulty. 

What children need, more than carefully structured wellbeing, is something far simpler and far less visible: room to breathe psychologically. They need moments in which nothing is being assessed - not by teachers, not by parents, and not by themselves. They need time in which there is no implicit question of whether they are doing well enough. 

As both an educator and a parent, I recognise how easy it is to lose sight of this. The instinct to provide, to open doors, to ensure that no opportunity is missed, is a generous one. It often comes from our own experiences; what we wished we had, or what we feel matters now in a changing world. 

And yet, when I think about the children I know best, it is not their achievements that stand out most vividly. It is the moments when they are entirely absorbed in something that has no clear purpose. Building something that does not need to be built, playing a game that has no outcome, laughing without direction or goal. In these moments, they are not performing or progressing. They are simply being. 

Those moments are not incidental. They are foundational. They are the rare spaces in which a child is freed from the quiet, persistent question of whether they measure up. 

For parents who are thoughtful and deeply invested in their children’s lives, the challenge is not whether to support, but how to do so without adding to the pressure. Often, the most meaningful shifts are not dramatic. They begin with attention - specifically, what we choose to notice and respond to. When conversations revolve primarily around outcomes, children naturally assume that outcomes are what count. When we show curiosity about what they enjoyed, what puzzled them, or what felt difficult, we widen the frame. We signal that experience matters as much as achievement. 

It may also involve a quiet defence of time that appears, at first glance, to be wasted. Unstructured afternoons, boredom, moments of drifting attention. These can feel uncomfortable in a culture that prizes productivity. Yet they are precisely the spaces in which children begin to develop a sense of self that is not entirely contingent on performance. 

Equally important is helping children encounter, and tolerate, the experience of not being exceptional. Many prep-aged children are used to being highly competent within a familiar environment. When they step into something new and find themselves average, or even struggling, it can feel unsettling. Gentle reassurance that this is both normal and valuable can make an enormous difference. Enjoyment, after all, does not depend on mastery. 

There is also something to be said for softening the constant emphasis on the future. It is easy, and often well-intentioned, to frame present efforts in terms of what they will lead to: future exams, future opportunities, future success. But when everything is a stepping stone, the present risks losing its intrinsic value. Sometimes it is simply enough to allow something to matter because it is happening now. 

Perhaps most crucially, we need to pay particular attention to the children who seem to need it least; the ones who manage, who deliver, who rarely complain. These are often the children most likely to internalise pressure. They may not signal distress, but they can carry it quietly. A well-timed check-in, an explicit reassurance that struggle is allowed, a reminder that they are valued irrespective of what they produce; these small moments can provide a powerful counterweight. 

Ultimately, the goal of childhood is not to produce a perfectly optimised adult. It is to allow a person to grow into themselves - unevenly, imperfectly, and at their own pace. 

In a culture that increasingly equates worth with performance, this can be easy to forget. But if we can hold onto it; if we can offer children not just opportunity, but space; not just support, but freedom from evaluation - then we give them something far more enduring than success. 

We give them the sense that they are, quite simply, enough.

Craig Cuyler
Designated Safeguarding Lead/Director of Wellbeing/
Head of PSHEe/Assistant Housemaster (Main School)