I want to share with you a few stories that shaped and inspired the creation of the Child-Centered Documentation framework. My hope is that these stories connect with moments when you’ve felt pressure to do more—and have struggled to stay true to Child-Centered Play Therapy, even though you knew in your heart it was the right path.

Early in my career, I worked with a child I’ll call Jaya. Her dad was dying of a terminal illness, and she came to see me every week during that time. In our sessions, she didn’t talk about her dad—or really say much at all. She sat quietly, sorting foam stickers by color and shape, and each week she added a few to a small card she’d take home with her.

Her other parent was so worried, wanting to be sure that she was “processing the grief.” I started to feel anxious that I wasn’t doing enough. One day, I gave in to that pressure and I asked her directly about her dad.

The energy in the room shifted immediately. She pressed her crayon so hard onto the paper that it broke into pieces, and she drew a giant stop sign. I knew right then that I had pushed her further than she was ready to go.

Later, I realized something important. At the end of her dad’s life, he wore an eye patch, and week after week Jaya had chosen a pirate sticker—always placing it in the center, surrounded by hearts and rainbows. She had been processing her grief all along, just not in words. What she needed was the quiet space to do it her own way, at her own pace.

Later in my work, I met another child, Daisy. Her parents brought her in for behavioral challenges. In the playroom, her stories grew more and more complex. I could see her becoming stronger on the inside. But her parents wanted “data points.” They wanted proof.

I knew the play was helping her, but I didn’t know how to explain it in a way her caregivers could understand. That gap—between what I could see happening in the play and what I could show to caregivers—was the moment the CCD framework started to take shape.

I began using it in my own practice, and eventually teaching and training others in it. But even now, years later, I still feel that pull to “do more.”

Just recently, I received a long email from a caregiver about school refusal and a violent meltdown that morning. When I saw the child later that day, I wanted so badly to bring it up. Instead, I resisted the urge to lead and let her guide the session through play.

She played keepy uppy with a balloon. Then she built obstacle courses—delighting in finding unexpected ways to get to the finish line. And in the last five minutes, she put on a puppet show. In it, the teacher was really mean to one puppet. All the other puppets knew the answer—except that one.

In that moment, it made sense why she didn’t want to go to school. By not saying anything, I gave her space to regulate, to build relational safety with me during keepy uppy, to grow her sense of self and problem-solving as she tackled the obstacle courses—and then, when she was ready, she gave me a glimpse of her deeper feelings in the puppet show.

And honestly, it made me think: what if she hadn’t gotten to the puppet show? What if all I had seen was the balloon game and obstacle courses? I still would’ve needed language to communicate to her parents how even those activities were helping her build self-regulation and confidence—growth that would, in turn, reduce her school anxiety.

These moments remind me, again and again, that children’s play—even when it looks simple or disconnected—is how they build inner strength, regulation, and resilience. And that inner growth is what leads to behavioral change.

My hope is that this course helps you hold onto that truth. That it gives you tools to stay congruent, to trust yourself, to trust the play, and to feel more confident in your work—even when the outside pressure to fix things is strong.