No Such Thing as a Bad Kid: The Hidden Messages Behind Big Behaviors

Jillian Oetting
Apr 27
13 min read

When I was growing up, the stories I remember most didn’t come from books or movies—they came from my parents. Over dinner, during car ride, at family gatherings—they’d weave tales of hikes through the woods, campouts, group cheers, and long summer days filled with purpose. All of them had one setting in common: Camp.

Before they were "Mom and Dad", they were two psychology majors at Hanover College, studying under Dr. Harve Rawson, a psychology professor with a vision that was years ahead of its time. In the late 1960's, Dr. Rawson created a summer program nestled in the woods of southern Indiana, just outside of Hanover, for children labeled “behaviorally challenged”—kids who, without intervention, would have likely spent their summers getting into trouble or falling through the cracks.

But at camp, they weren’t treated like problems to be solved. They were treated like people. People with potential. People worthy of attention, structure, and play.

Dr. Rawson’s program wasn’t daycare, and it certainly wasn’t a boot camp. It was a summer camp and a living, breathing program in behavioral modification. And it worked.

The camp ran on the fundamentals of basic psychology:

A token economy where points could be earned for desired, target behaviors
Positive reinforcement to encourage target behavior
Ignoring to help extinguish undesired behaviors
Reinforcement schedules to strengthen behaviors and make positive change sustainable
Group belonging and social recognition as tools for motivation and behavioral change
Consistent routines, clear expectations, and an enormous amount of classic summer fun

College students studying psychology, education, and social work from schools across Indiana—Hanover College, Butler University, Wabash College, Ball State, and many others—were hired as the staff. They lived in bunk rooms for the summer, responsible for their own group of 8 kids, running daily activities and working the program, and formed bonds with kids who needed something solid to hold onto. For many of those kids, it was the first time they were seen for more than their behavior.

My parents worked at camp for multiple summers, and those stories became part of my childhood landscape. And when I found myself in their shoes—a psychology major heading into my senior year, unsure what the “real world” would look like—I knew exactly where I needed to be: Camp.

I packed my bags and headed to southern Indiana, where I spent eight weeks in the woods tracking behavior charts, teaching math, cheering kids on, and collapsing into bunk beds at the end of every exhausting, deeply meaningful day.

And I’ll tell you this: those eight weeks changed me. They rooted me. Not just as a future therapist—as a person.

Because somewhere in those weeks, as I worked one-on-one with kids who yelled, cried, walked off, threw punches, and later held your hand or whispered softly at bedtime, I learned something that would guide the rest of my career: there is no such thing as a bad kid.

When the summer ended, I cried the entire drive home. I couldn’t believe I had to leave. Before I even pulled off the gravel drive, I was already saying I wanted to come back.

And I did. The next summer, I returned as a veteran staff.

I remember the day the new group of counselors arrived for training. One by one, people pulled in with their bags and nerves. Some already knew each other—small schools will do that. Then a car pulled up, and out stepped someone who caught my eye instantly. Tall. Tan. Calm. Charismatic. He had that kind of ease about him that made you think he’d been here before, even though he hadn’t. He just glided right in.

We sat down for our first staff training. Assigned seats, always next to our therapy partner for the summer. And guess who I was placed next to? Mr. Tall and Tan.

Oh boy. I was in trouble.

As the summer unfolded, I learned he was much more than just tall and tan. He was thoughtful, kind, an absolute natural with the kids. He sang this silly song with them to get them to brush their teeth. He let me take the lead—and he still does. These days, I’m Mrs. Tall and Tan (only in name—I’m very average in height and extremely fair in complexion). And he still sings the silly toothbrush song.

But back to the real story: Camp. Kids. Behavior.

That second summer was tougher than the first. Our group of kids came in hot—full of energy, pain, and behaviors that kept us on our toes. And even with all I had learned, I found myself having to go deeper. To listen harder. To remind myself every single day that behind every behavior, there was a message begging to be heard.

Because that’s what I believe to this day: all behavior serves a purpose.

What we call “acting out” is often a cry for help.

What we see as “manipulative” might be a desperate attempt for control in a life that feels chaotic.

What we label as “attention-seeking” is often connection-seeking in disguise.

And kids? Kids don’t always have the emotional vocabulary or brain development to say what they need. So it shows up in other ways — yelling, crying, throwing things, running away, or shutting down entirely.

Sometimes the behavior gets so big that it grabs the attention of every adult in the room. And instead of pausing to understand the message, we focus on stopping the behavior.

But here’s the thing: Big behaviors are not the problem. They’re the smoke. Our job is to find the fire.

And more often than not, it starts with something small. A seed. A message. A need.

Setting Kids Up for Success

But before we start decoding behavior—before we talk about messages and meaning—we need to pause for a moment and talk about expectations.

Because I know what some people are already thinking. "Okay, sure, the kid needs help. But that doesn’t mean they can throw things.” Or: “I get it, she needs connection, but she still can’t blurt out in the middle of class.”

And to that, I say: You’re right. And also...you’re missing the point.

Children are children. They are not mini adults. They are not fully cooked humans with mature brains and impulse control and decades of emotional experience. They’re still learning. Still wiring. Still responding to the world in the only ways they know how.

And here’s the kicker: We are the adults.

Whether you’re a parent, teacher, babysitter, therapist, neighbor, coach, or cousin — if you’re the grown-up in the room, then yes, you signed up for this. You signed up to guide, to model, and to help that child succeed.

That’s what it means to take care of kids: Not just feeding them and keeping them physically safe — but giving them the tools and environment they need to thrive.

Because a child who is 6, or 8, or even 11 does not have the same emotional maturity or regulatory skills as a 25, 31, 37, or 44-year-old adult. And a child who has experienced trauma? Forget it. Their nervous system is doing everything it can just to stay afloat. Expecting them to manage challenging situations like an adult would isn't just unrealistic — it's unfair.

So what does it look like to give kids a real chance at success?

Let’s go back to camp.

One of the core responsibilities we had as staff was to set the stage for success before we ever expected anything from a child. That meant:

Thinking ahead. Scanning the environment. Anticipating what might be too much, too distracting, or too unclear.

Let me paint a picture.

You’re leading your group to an activity—maybe a game, maybe a chore, maybe a simple transition from one part of the day to the next. You’ve got your eyes on the prize: structure, participation, smooth execution.

And then — one kid finds a rock.

Not just any rock. A really cool rock.

Or maybe it’s a funky stick.

Or maybe they uncover an ancient-looking horseshoe half-buried in the ground.

And just like that, they’re gone. Mentally, emotionally—checked out. They’re crouched down in the dirt, totally uninterested in the instructions you’re giving. They’re not earning points. They’re not part of the group. They’re just out.

Now, you could say: “Well, that kid should be paying attention.” But at camp, that is the wrong answer.

The expectation is not that kids should automatically know how to focus.

The expectation is that we, the adults, need to set up the situation for success.

That might mean picking a different location for the activity—one with fewer distractions. It might mean setting the child up beforehand with a “deal” or a “contract”—a simple, structured agreement like, “You are doing such an amazing job staying with group right now, if you can keep that up for the next 10 minutes, you'll earn a point when this timer goes off.”

Because when expectations are unreasonable, results are predictably frustrating—for everyone. But when we prepare thoughtfully, when we plan ahead for success instead of punish failure, we change everything.

And once that foundation is laid, we can layer on another powerful tool: modeling.

I’ll be honest—I love a good acting opportunity. At camp, we really leaned into exaggerated modeling to show kids what was expected.

Let’s go back to our kid with the rock.

Instead of telling them a hundred times to “hey, pay attention,” we’d have a staff member model the behavior we were hoping to see — dramatically, nonverbally. Wide eyes. Big head nods. Obvious engagement. Maybe even a theatrical gasp at how interesting the directions were. We made it relatable. Mimic-able.

Why? Because modeling gives kids a chance to correct their behavior independently—without shame, without punishment. They see the cue, respond on their own, and when they do, we immediately reinforce it with praise.

That praise feels good.

And because it feels good, the child becomes more likely to repeat it.

Not for the adult.

But for themselves.

That’s intrinsic motivation.

And it starts with us.

Behind Every Behavior, There’s a Message

Before we can change a child’s behavior, we have to understand it.

Scratch that, back up—before we even think about changing it, we have to ask: What is this behavior trying to say?

Because every behavior is a form of communication. And if we’re not listening, we’re missing it.

I’ve written before about attachment and validation—two foundational ingredients in a child’s development. When a child consistently receives emotional attunement and responsive caregiving, they build a secure foundation. They learn that they are safe, that their feelings matter, and that the world is predictable and loving. That foundation follows them through life.

But when that foundation is cracked—when a child experiences inconsistency, dismissal, or emotional unavailability—things start to shift. A child might still act out. Still cry. Still seek connection. But if those behaviors are met with misunderstanding or punishment instead of validation and support, the real message goes unheard.

And that’s where relationships start to break down.

When a child has an experience—big emotion, big disappointment, big fear—and responds with a behavior, that behavior is the only language they have in the moment. And if we respond to the behavior, instead of the experience that caused it, we’ve missed the opportunity to connect. Worse—we may have unintentionally invalidated the child’s experience altogether.

That’s why interpreting behavior isn’t just a parenting trick or a therapist’s skillset—it’s a relational necessity. Because when we can learn to read a child’s behavior, we can learn to respond with empathy instead of authority. With curiosity instead of control. With understanding instead of punishment.

And when we do that, we don’t just get better behavior.

We build trust.

We build security.

We build flexibility—the real kind, the kind that grows from being seen and valued in your hardest moments.

Children with insecure attachments are often misunderstood.

Instead of asking what led to the attachment disruption, we look at their behaviors and label them: Disrespectful. Difficult. Oppositional. Out of control.

But underneath that?

Difficulty processing and expressing emotions.

Challenges in social settings and strained peer relationships.

Feelings of worthlessness, shame, or fear of abandonment.

Acting out as a form of control or self-protection.

Struggles with trust, boundaries, and feeling safe in relationships.

In other words, the same children we tend to label as “behaviorally challenged” are often the ones most in need of connection, consistency, and compassion. They don’t need stricter rules—they need stronger relationships.

There are so many ways emotional distress shows up in behavior. And it’s rarely straightforward.

Sometimes it’s classic signs:

Changes in sleep or appetite
Regression (bed-wetting, thumb-sucking, clinginess)
Physical complaints without a clear cause
Difficulty focusing or sitting still
Sudden drop in academic performance

But often, it’s more subtle.

It’s a kid who suddenly won’t eat foods they used to love.
A child who throws a toy across the room because their friend didn’t invite them to play.
A student who jokes their way through every lesson because deep down they feel stupid.
A child who becomes too perfect, constantly trying to please everyone out of fear they’ll be rejected if they don’t.

And sometimes? The message behind the behavior is heartbreakingly complex:

“I’m scared.”

“I’m hurting.”

“I miss you.”

“I feel like I’m never enough.”

“If I mess this up first, I won’t have to feel the disappointment of another person letting me down.” or

“If I mess this up first, I won’t have to feel the disappointment of knowing I can't do it."

We don’t always hear those words. But we can see them—if we know how to look.

So, what do we do with this? We stop asking, “Why is this kid doing this?” And we start asking, “What is this behavior trying to tell me?”

We shift from reacting to interpreting. From correcting to connecting.

Because every behavior—no matter how inconvenient, annoying, frustrating, or loud—is a message.

And when we respond to that message with empathy, understanding, and care, we’re not only helping a child "behave better", we’re showing them that their voice matters. That they are safe. That they are seen.

That’s how we build emotional intelligence.

That’s how we support mental health.

That’s how we change lives—not by silencing the messages behind behaviors, but by understanding them.

Behavior Work in Practice: Healing Relationships, Not "Fixing" Kids

When families come to me for behavior support, it’s often because something feels stuck.

There’s been too many hard days. Too many blowups. Too many notes sent home from school.

Everyone is frustrated.

Everyone feels like they’re failing.

Here’s the first thing I want parents, caregivers, and teachers to know: You are not failing if you have a child who is struggling. Struggling doesn’t mean failing.

Just as I believe there is no such thing as a bad kid, I also believe there is no such thing as an intentionally bad parent. Every parent was once a child themselves. Every parent carries the models they were given—some healthy, some not.

And if you’re here—seeking support, trying to understand, willing to learn—you are already breaking a cycle. You are already doing the hard, beautiful, unglamorous work of healing.

So what does behavior work actually look like?

It starts with understanding that the goal is not to “fix” the child. The goal is to build a bridge between what the child is experiencing internally and what the adults around them are able to see, understand, and respond to. In practice, behavior work often includes:

Looking at patterns. When do behaviors happen? What triggers them? What needs are trying to be met?
Sometimes, it’s not about "fixing" the child’s behavior directly. It's about empowering the adults to create an environment where the behavior doesn’t need to happen in the first place.
Teaching children emotional regulation, communication skills, and problem-solving—skills they may never have learned.
Adjusting routines, expectations, and environments to promote success and minimize struggles.
Teaching adults how to model desired behaviors clearly and how to reinforce positive behaviors effectively and meaningfully.
Helping adults recognize that behaviors are emotional communications—and that validating the emotion behind the behavior can de-escalate situations faster than punishment or consequences.

Reframing Day-to-Day Struggles

When a child’s behavior feels overwhelming, it’s easy to move into blame—of the child, of yourself, of your circumstances. But here’s a different lens to try:

Instead of "They’re trying to make my life harder," try "They’re trying to tell me something, and they don’t know how."
Instead of "They’re so disrespectful," try "They’re feeling disrespected or powerless somewhere."
Instead of "They’re lazy," try "They might feel overwhelmed, hopeless, or unsure how to begin."
Instead of "They’re attention-seeking," try "They are connection-seeking."

It’s not about excusing inappropriate behaviors. It’s about understanding the root of them so you can address the real need—not just the surface behavior.

Children are not born knowing how to regulate emotions, solve conflicts, or sit still when they're anxious.

Those are learned skills. And children learn them best from adults who are willing to teach, model, and re-teach—patiently, imperfectly, again and again.

And if you didn’t have those skills modeled for you growing up? If your models were critical, volatile, emotionally absent, or inconsistent? You didn’t deserve that. And you are not broken beyond repair.

You are here.

You are trying.

You are learning.

And that is enough.

The healing that starts with you doesn’t just change your child’s trajectory. It changes yours too. You’re not just helping your child become emotionally healthier. You’re becoming emotionally healthier too. You’re not just interrupting patterns—you’re rewriting them.

Behavior work isn't about control. It's about connection. It's about seeing children—and yourself—with fresh eyes, open hearts, and the understanding that every behavior tells a story.

Where the Trails Lead Us

When I think back to those summers at camp, I know that it wasn’t only the kids who were growing. It was us, too—the counselors, the teachers, the adults.

We were learning how to see beyond behaviors.

We were learning how to meet kids where they were, not where everyone wished they would be.

We were learning that success wasn’t about perfect behavior—it was about building trust, safety, and connection one small moment at a time.

And really, that’s what this work still is.

You don’t need to have worked at camp to know what it looks like when a child feels misunderstood—or what it feels like to be seen. You don’t need a background in psychology to know that relationships built on patience and empathy last longer than ones built on fear or frustration. You don’t need a classroom, a therapy office, or training within a program to start changing the way you connect with the children in your life.

You just need a willingness to look past the behavior and a willingness to be curious about the message behind it.

At camp, we created environments where kids could be successful by preparing the space, adjusting our expectations, and modeling the skills they needed to thrive. In homes, in classrooms, in therapy sessions—it’s the same.

🌱 Set kids up for success.

🌱 See their behaviors as messages.

🌱 Respond to the story, not just the surface.

That’s the work. That’s the heart of it. And it’s work that doesn’t just change kids—it changes us, too.

Because when we choose to see the good, the scared, the hopeful underneath the hard moments,

we’re not just shaping behavior.

We’re strengthening trust.

We’re building connection.

We’re creating spaces where children—and the adults who care for them—can feel safe to grow, to heal, and to be fully themselves.

And maybe—if we’re lucky—we’ll rediscover parts of ourselves that needed that same understanding, plant something softer, stronger, and more enduring than what we were given—something that finally lets us turn our faces toward the sun ☀️.