April 2025

A Lesson on the Carpet

During a quiet moment on a recent school day, I lingered a little longer in a 2nd Grade classroom. Mrs. Powell was guiding her students through a lesson on mass and matter—not just defining terms, but observing them in motion. The children sat on the carpet, legs folded or tucked beneath them, eyes wide and fixed on the SmartBoard. Some whispered to neighbors. Others waited in poised silence, ready to contribute.

When Mrs. Powell invited them to begin their investigation, something quiet but powerful unfolded. Without reminders or redirection, the students moved into action—retrieving materials, finding partners, stepping into roles. They didn’t just know what to do. They knew how to do it together: with care, with rhythm, with respect for the work and for one another.

Curious, I asked how they’d gotten so good at this.

“Practice and routine make this process familiar and easy,” one student said.

“We know what’s expected of us,” another added.

A third, with quiet assurance, offered, “There are high standards.”

Several classmates nodded. Then, with sweet honesty, one child added:

“Well... truthfully, it’s not always this good. But you’re here, so we’re on our best behavior.”

That moment stayed with me—not just for the humor, though it was real—but for what it revealed. These weren’t children simply following instructions. They were living within a structure they trusted—one they helped shape through repetition, relationship, and care. What I witnessed wasn’t performance. It was belonging.

And from that belonging, something deeper was taking shape: a sense of competence, shared purpose, and joyful autonomy. A foundation where excellence isn’t imposed, but invited.

At St. Edmund’s Academy, we don’t just believe that belonging supports excellence. We see, every day, that it makes excellence possible.

A Durable Culture in a Fractured World
One phrase we often return to is this: the strength of the wolf is the pack, and the strength of the pack is the wolf. At SEA, children are known, valued, and challenged to achieve their potential—not as isolated individuals, but as members of a community that lifts, grounds, and stretches them, often all at once. In a time when independence is confused with self-sufficiency, and connection is flattened into slogans, this way of growing up—together—is quietly radical.

The world beyond our walls can feel uncertain—pulled thin by polarization, frayed by complexity, shaped by a culture where fear moves faster than understanding. Too often, the loudest voices outside insist that we divide ourselves—retreat into echo chambers, apply litmus tests to determine friend or foe, reduce others to labels and groups. This is what breaking looks like: a turning away from nuance, from community, from one another.

But inside our school in Squirrel Hill—where children walk, bike, bus, and drive from across Pittsburgh to be together—we are practicing something different. Here, we bridge. We build. In a preschool classroom, children gather in a circle and compare skin tones, hair textures, and lunch choices—not with judgment, but with delight. They notice accents, styles, talents, and temperaments—and they are taught to see these differences not as divisions, but as discoveries.

That language of discovery—of curiosity, appreciation, and respect—becomes a habit early. And those habits make them smarter. More self-aware. More aware of others. More nuanced in their thinking. These are not just social skills. They are cognitive capacities. They support memory, motivation, attention, and reasoning. In short, they make learning stick. And they begin with belonging.

This kind of belonging isn’t accidental. It isn’t performative. It doesn’t chase trends or rely on compliance. And it’s certainly not a slogan or acronym—shrunk down for convenience and stretched to the point of distortion. Too often, powerful ideas like inclusion, equity, or belonging are reduced to symbols or shorthand—emptied of meaning and filled with whatever assumptions others choose to project onto them. In that flattening, something essential is lost. These values—meant to guide how we care for one another—become targets of controversy instead of practices of connection.

And when that happens, communities like ours—where belonging is lived with integrity—can be misunderstood by those who never step inside the classroom. But we know what it really looks like. We see it every day in the way our students greet one another, ask thoughtful questions, share their stories, and hold space for difference. We see it in the trust built between teacher and student. And we see it in the small moments—quiet, cumulative, consistent—when children are invited not just to be themselves, but to become themselves.

Belonging, Lived and Understood
The idea that belonging makes excellence possible isn’t just something we believe—it’s something we see. We see it in transcripts and test scores, yes. We see it in the reflections of nearly nine out of ten SEA graduates who tell us they felt more prepared for secondary school than their peers from other schools. But we see it most clearly in the places data cannot fully reach: in the daily rhythm of how students live and learn together.

We see it in how they listen—to teachers, to one another, and to themselves. In the quiet way they take responsibility for a mistake, or the care they offer when a classmate stumbles. In the questions they ask—not to impress, but to understand. In their willingness to speak honestly, and in their discipline to keep listening even when it's hard.

A few weeks ago, in an 8th Grade Core Values and Leadership Seminar, students engaged in structured dialogue around a question designed to invite disagreement. Afterward, one student reflected:

That kind of reflection doesn’t happen by accident. It grows from a culture where empathy is as essential as analysis, and where students are trusted to grapple with complexity—not for the sake of debate, but for the sake of connection. When trust and structure go hand-in-hand, students gain the confidence to take risks with their thinking—and the humility to keep learning from others.

When belonging is truly lived, it doesn’t just support excellence—it makes it possible. It creates the emotional grounding, the moral clarity, and the sense of competence from which everything else can grow. Leadership becomes more than a role. Character becomes more than a trait. And excellence becomes more than achievement—it becomes purpose made visible.

These outcomes are not only central to our mission—they are also foundational to our long-term strategy. Belonging strengthens student engagement, deepens learning, enhances readiness for secondary school, and reinforces the trust that sustains our community.

The impact of belonging is not abstract—it’s visible in the daily habits our students carry with them. These are not outcomes imposed or lessons delivered in isolation. They are enduring ways of being—habits of heart and mind—that emerge when children feel seen, stretched, and supported within a structure they trust. These habits are not accidental. They are cultivated, day by day, in a school designed to help every child grow—socially, morally, and intellectually—into their fullest self.

When children feel they belong—genuinely seen, trusted, and held to high expectations—they begin to internalize a quiet sense of responsibility. Not out of fear, but out of care. Their motivation becomes relational. They start to notice how their choices shape the experience of others. They reflect more deeply before speaking, listen more fully before acting. As one 8th Grader shared after a Core Values Seminar:

That kind of awareness doesn’t arrive through instruction alone. It’s cultivated in community—through trust, through modeling, and through a learning environment designed to support reflection and growth. When students feel safe, connected, and needed, they begin to act from the inside out.

We see this growth begin in our youngest students. In PreKindergarten, a child waited at the top of the slide for a classmate who had fallen behind.

No one told her to wait—she just knew it was right. These small choices, repeated in classrooms and hallways every day, begin to form a steady moral rhythm. Students learn to tell the truth, even when it’s hard. They learn to take responsibility, even when no one is watching. They learn that doing what’s right is not about compliance—it’s about connection. In a culture where belonging runs deep, excellence begins here—with conscience quietly awakened and character gently shaped, one thoughtful choice at a time.

When children grow up in a culture of trust, they learn to navigate relationships with both honesty and care. They learn that disagreement isn’t failure—it’s a moment to listen, to reflect, and to connect more deeply. They begin to understand that respect for others doesn’t require sameness. It requires presence. Courage. Curiosity. And the conviction that difference, approached with care, can deepen our shared humanity.

This wisdom doesn’t arrive fully formed—it’s built gradually, through modeled behavior and intentional practice. In Kindergarten, when classmates reach different conclusions, students learn to say things like, “We don’t see it the same—and that’s okay.” These early moments plant seeds. By 8th Grade, students are engaging with harder questions—of identity, justice, and perspective—often defending views they don’t personally hold, not to change their minds, but to stretch them.

This is the heart of relational wisdom: learning to hold firm to one’s values while honoring the dignity of others. And it’s only possible when students feel secure enough to take risks—not just academic ones, but relational ones.

At SEA, these habits are not theoretical. They’re lived. They’re scaffolded through dialogue protocols, shared expectations, and daily reminders that every voice matters. They’re part of how we prepare students to collaborate across difference, lead with empathy, and thrive in a world that needs more bridges—and fewer walls.

At SEA, belonging doesn’t dilute ambition—it deepens it. In a culture where every child feels known and needed, students learn that excellence is not about surpassing one another. It’s about striving with one another. They take pride in doing hard things, not to prove their worth, but to strengthen it. Here, competition is not a race to the top. It’s a rising tide that lifts the whole group—each child stretched by the high standards they hold, and the higher ones they see modeled around them.

Belonging makes that stretch possible. When students feel a deep sense of connection and competence, they become more willing to take risks, persevere through struggle, and celebrate others’ success without diminishing their own. They learn that high expectations are not a burden, but a vote of confidence in who they are becoming.

In Upper School, this ethos becomes especially clear. When preparing for the 8th Grade Capstone Research Paper, students are required to cite peer-reviewed journals from the disciplines their topics inhabit—biology, sociology, philosophy, or literature. It’s not an easy ask. But they rise to it.

The bar is set high—not because we expect perfection, but because we believe students are capable of deep, original thought. And when one student reaches a new level, it becomes an invitation—not a threat—to the rest.

That’s the power of healthy competition in a community built on belonging: it doesn’t isolate. It inspires. It builds resilience. It nurtures integrity. And it prepares students to thrive not just in school, but in the complex, competitive world beyond it.

A Personal Reflection on What Endures

The strongest communities don’t pretend to be perfect—they commit to showing up for one another, especially when the path isn’t clear. At St. Edmund’s Academy, that commitment shows in how we hold complexity—with respect, with honesty, and with care. We meet moments of misunderstanding not with retreat, but with curiosity. We don’t turn from difference—we build bridges across it. And in doing so, we create something durable. Something real.

In a time when many institutions are stretched thin—by division, by distrust, by the slow erosion of shared purpose—our cohesion is neither accidental nor guaranteed. It’s something we practice. Not perfectly, but persistently. We show up for the work of community—not just when it’s easy, but especially when it’s not. We speak with honesty. We listen with care. We take responsibility for the impact we have on one another. And when the moment demands more—as it often does—we don’t scatter. We steady ourselves in relationships. We respond in chorus, grounded by a quiet truth: that in every room, on every team, within every conversation, each of us carries multitudes.

At a recent Chapel Talk, SEA parent and Form Energy CEO Mateo Jaramillo reminded our students of something quietly profound: each of us carries many roles. A child may be a sibling and a student, a teammate and a friend—but before any of that, they are someone’s most cherished person in the world. That truth, spoken with love in a room full of children, settled deep.

It’s something we never forget. Many of us who lead and teach at SEA are also parents within it. We walk the same halls, attend the same performances, and hold the same hopes. And so we understand—deep in our bones—that every child here has been entrusted to us by someone who loves them beyond measure. Our greatest responsibility is not only to care for them, but to help them grow into people who care for others.

That’s why, when I think about what we strive for, I return to something I said earlier—now with even greater clarity. I want my own children—and every child—to be part of a school where excellence isn’t handed down from the front of the room, but drawn out from within. A place where they are known and valued. A place where they are challenged with love. A place where they discover not only what they can do, but who they are becoming—and why that becoming matters.

And I’m reminded, as I often am, that this work begins early. Just last week in a 1st Grade classroom, a student pushed his worksheet aside and said, with frustration, “This is too hard.” A classmate looked over and said, gently,

It wasn’t said to scold—it was said to help. And it worked. That moment, like so many others, wasn’t orchestrated. It was cultivated. It came from the slow, deliberate shaping of a culture where children are expected to believe in themselves—and just as importantly, to believe in one another.

And now I find myself returning again—to the quiet moment on the carpet in that 2nd Grade science classroom. Children, gathered in community, eager to investigate the nature of mass and matter. The lesson was about science, yes—but it was also about belonging. About trust. About learning how to learn together. What I saw wasn’t performance. It was practice. A daily rhythm that turns care into confidence, structure into trust, and relationships into readiness.

That’s what we mean when we say belonging inspires excellence.

So let’s continue this work—with care, with courage, and with the quiet confidence that what we are building is both real and lasting.

Thank you for your trust, your partnership, and your belief in a school where children are known, challenged, and loved—and where the shared work of raising them is met with purpose and joy.

With deep appreciation,
Chad Barnett
Head of School