Beginning Writing Doesn't Start with Writing Part 4
Every Child Deserves the Journey
When I first became a teacher, I thought my job was to help children become better writers. Fifteen years later, I see that job a little differently.
Today, I believe my job is to help children discover that they have something worth saying. Because when you really stop and think about it, writing has never just been about handwriting, spelling, punctuation, or paragraphs. Writing is communication. It's how children tell us what they know, share what they wonder, make sense of their experiences, and tell the stories only they can tell.
That's why this work matters so much.
When a child begins to believe they "can't write," they often begin believing something much bigger. They begin believing their ideas aren't good enough, that everyone else is a writer except them, or that writing is something they'll never be successful at.
I don't think that's because children lack ideas. I think it's because too many children experience frustration before they ever experience success. Think about the students we've all taught. The child who eagerly shares every detail during class discussions but freezes the moment they're handed a pencil. The student who whispers, "I don't know what to write," even though they just spent five minutes telling you an incredible story. The child who writes one sentence, puts their pencil down, and quietly says, "I'm done."
For years, I thought those students needed more motivation.
Now I think they needed something very different.
They needed success.
Not success after weeks of frustration.
Success from the very beginning.
I've come to believe that confidence isn't something children bring to writing. Confidence is something writing should help build.
Every time a child successfully tells a story, confidence grows. Every time they realize their scribbles carry meaning, confidence grows. Every time they stretch a word, hear the sounds, and successfully write it down, confidence grows. Every complete sentence, every connected paragraph, and every finished piece of writing quietly reinforces one powerful belief:
"I can do this."
I think that's the part we've overlooked.
We've spent so much time focusing on what students produce that we've sometimes forgotten who they're becoming in the process.
Writing instruction isn't simply about producing better narratives or stronger informational pieces. It's about developing confident communicators—children who know their ideas matter, whose voices deserve to be heard, and who aren't afraid of a blank piece of paper because they've experienced success every step along the way.
That's why I've become so passionate about honoring the developmental journey.
Not because it's easier.
Not because it lowers expectations.
Because it's how children learn.
When we honor that journey, something remarkable happens. Teachers stop feeling like they're constantly trying to catch students up. Students stop believing they're "bad at writing." Instead, everyone starts moving forward with purpose, one intentional step at a time.
Looking back, I often think about all the students sitting quietly during my writing lesson. I remember knowing something just felt off.
If I could go back and teach that lesson again, I wouldn't hand them another graphic organizer. I wouldn't search for a better writing prompt or wonder why they weren’t getting started. Instead, I would ask myself a different question:
Are they ready for what I am asking them to do? Has the curriculum prepared them for this moment OR do I need to step back and prepare them?
That realization changed my teaching.
I stopped looking for what my students couldn't do yet and started paying attention to what they were already learning. I stopped viewing writing as a collection of isolated lessons and began seeing it as a developmental process that deserved to be taught with the same care and intention as reading.
It also changed the way I looked at curriculum.
Instead of asking, "How do I get through today's writing lesson?" I started asking a different question.
Are my students truly ready for what I'm asking them to do?
Not because the standard was wrong.
Not because the curriculum was wrong.
But because I had begun to understand that children can't skip developmental steps.
Sometimes the best thing we can do isn't push harder.
Sometimes it's taking one intentional step back so students can move two steps forward.
I started asking myself:
Has the curriculum prepared my students for this moment?
Or...
Do I need to prepare my students for this moment?
That question gave me permission to teach differently.
Not by lowering expectations.
Not by abandoning the curriculum.
But by building the bridge between where my students were and where the curriculum expected them to be.
That journey eventually became Scribbles to Sentences. Not because the world needed another writing curriculum.
But because I wanted teachers to have the roadmap I wish someone had handed me during my very first year in the classroom.
A roadmap that respects child development.
A roadmap that builds confidence before independence.
A roadmap that helps teachers understand not only what to teach, but when to teach it—and why every step matters.
Because I truly believe every child deserves the opportunity to become a writer.
Not because they were born naturally gifted.
Not because writing comes easily.
But because someone patiently taught the developmental skills that made writing possible.
If you've been following this series, I hope you've started seeing your young writers a little differently. I hope you've recognized that struggling writers aren't broken writers.
They're developing writers.
And like every other developmental journey, they simply need intentional instruction, thoughtful guidance, and time to grow.
That's why I created Scribbles to Sentences.
Not to replace your curriculum.
To help you teach it with confidence.
To help you recognize when your students are ready to move forward...
and when they need you to step back and strengthen the foundation first.
Because children don't need us to lower the destination. They need us to intentionally teach the journey that gets them there. And I have a feeling that once you start looking at writing through that lens...you'll never teach it the same way again.
