Not Everyone Is In It for the Children

A note on presence—after a week of watching adults put children last

There’s something I need to say—and I’m saying it here, from the middle of it all.

From the meetings.
The backchannels.
The beautiful moments, too.
But mostly from the ache of watching what happens when adults with power forget who the work is for.

Lately, I’ve been carrying a kind of professional grief. A slow, steady ache that comes from being in spaces that claim to center children… but often don’t.

Recently, Melissa Taylor of Imagination Soup said something bold:

“75% of picture books published are books that I wouldn’t recommend after reading them.”

When I read that, I didn’t feel shock. I felt affirmed.

Because I’ve sat in conversations where the goal wasn’t connection—it was volume. I’ve spoken with authors who’ve published three books before ever asking what a family—or even a child—actually needs.

And this past week, I listened to ramblings and received information that revealed something hard but clear: the places where children are supposed to be nourished were mentioned—but their actual needs weren’t considered. Not really.

I watched adults protect each other instead of protecting the children they say they’re here to serve.
I watched silence get rewarded and clarity get punished.
And I’m tired.

Because in this work—whether you're an author, a parent, an educator, or an advocate—you meet people. And not all of them are in it for the right reasons.

Some are here to sell.
Some are here for power.
Some are here to do the work—but only when it’s comfortable.
Some are here for appearances, for ego, for access.

And when you speak to them—not with judgment, but with curiosity—you realize: reaching children isn’t always the goal. Reaching numbers is. Whatever those numbers may be.

And listen—I get it (kind of). We all need to make a living. We all have goals. Not everyone has the privilege of aligning their income with their mission. But what troubles me isn’t the hustle. It’s the forgetting.

The forgetting of why this work matters.
The forgetting of who it’s for.

And that forgetting? It’s not just personal. It’s structural.

I see how racism doesn’t need to raise its voice when it can hide behind “neutral” decisions.
I see how equity can be name-dropped without ever being acted on.
I see how easy it is to say, “This is for the children,” while making decisions that protect comfort instead of creating change.

So let me say it clearly:

Not everyone who works with children is in it for children.

And that’s why your presence as parents—your daily, imperfect, wholehearted presence—matters more than ever.

Because the most important relationship your child will ever have… is with you.

If you’ve ever felt like your voice doesn’t carry weight—
If you’ve ever believed that someone else reading to your child matters more than you reading to your child—
I’m here to remind you: their bond may be meaningful. But it will never outrank yours.

Do not outsource the sacred work of connecting with your child through a book.

We live in a world that talks a lot about “fixing literacy.”
About raising test scores.
About boosting independent reading minutes.

But what happens between you and your child when you open a book together—that’s not just literacy.

That’s legacy.
That’s relationship.
That’s rhythm, safety, storytelling, and trust.

If reading were an eight-slice pie, literacy might be one slice.
But connection—the kind that lasts long after the story ends—is the whole table.

So if you’ve been wondering whether your presence is enough…
It is.

If you’ve been waiting for permission to step into that sacred space…
This is it.

Pull out the book.
Make the time.
Take up the space.

They need your voice.
And we need more of you.

All my best,
Quinn