The First Hello Matters: A Young Person’s Perspective on Trust, Consistency, and Positive Adult Relationships

The following article is written from the perspective of a young person and is aimed at adults who work with children.

My name is not important; I could be any child you’ve worked with. I might be the one who walked into your classroom with my hood up and my head down. Or the one who sat quietly at the back of the therapy room, saying nothing. Or maybe the one who turned up at your youth centre, pretending I didn’t care.

You probably meet many children each day — in classrooms, youth clubs, social care meetings, or when we sit in your office with our parents. For you, it might feel like just another hello, another name to remember, another file or referral. But for me, that first moment with you can change everything.

I want you to hear me — not from a textbook or training PowerPoint, but from how it feels to be me: a young person sitting across from you, silently deciding whether I can trust you with the things that keep me awake at night.

I don’t always get to choose which adults come into my life, but I notice every single thing about how you do it. And the truth is this: our first interaction sets the tone for whether I feel safe, believed, and worth your time.

This is my story, but it’s also the story of many children you will meet.

When I walk into a room with you, I am already carrying so much.

• I might be anxious because I’ve been let down before.
• I might be over-energetic, trying hard to make a good impression so that you’ll like me.
• I might look like I don’t care at all, because caring feels too risky.

That first hello matters more than you may ever know. The way you look at me, whether you smile or frown, whether you talk to me like I matter — all of that tells me something before we have even begun.

Your small actions, such as a genuine smile, using my name, or a kind word that isn’t just about my behaviour, can make a world of difference. They tell me that I might be safe with you, that maybe you’ll listen, that you’ll perhaps stay.

But if you look rushed, distracted, or uninterested, my brain immediately says: Here we go again, another adult who won’t really stick around.

The truth is, you might not realise how much power you have in those early seconds. For you, it’s routine. For me, it’s deciding if I dare to trust.

I’ve had so many adults drift in and out of my life. Teachers who left halfway through the year. Social workers who changed because of ‘caseloads.’ Support staff who promised to check in but never followed through.

Do you know what that does to me? It teaches me that adults don’t stay. It makes me wonder why I should even bother opening up, because by the time I do, you’ll probably be gone.

That’s why consistency matters. Not just showing up once, but showing up again and again — in the same way. Even the smallest things make a difference: remembering my name, asking how my football match went, noticing when I’ve cut my hair. Those little details scream, I see you.

When you keep your word, I start to learn that I can believe you. When you come back tomorrow and still care, I start to believe that I’m worth caring about.

Consistency builds the bridge that lets me walk towards you with trust. Without it, the bridge never even gets built. And if I don’t have that bridge, I stay on my side — distant, silent, and closed off.

Let me paint you a picture of the times when adults got it right.

The teacher who asked about my music

On my first day in a new class, I was expecting the usual: rules, warnings, and someone telling me how I should behave. Instead, the teacher sat down beside me and asked, “What kind of music are you into?” I froze for a second because no adult had started with that before. I told her about a band I liked, and she actually smiled and said she knew one of their songs. It was small, but in that moment, I wasn’t just another “new kid.” I was someone with interests, someone worth knowing. That one question changed how I felt about the whole class.

The youth worker who stayed steady

At the youth centre, I tested people a lot. I’d say shocking things just to see how they reacted. Most adults either panicked or told me off. But one youth worker never did. I told him something messy once, something that would have made most people look uncomfortable, and he just said calmly, “I’m still here tomorrow.” And he was. He didn’t try to fix me, he didn’t judge me, and he didn’t disappear. That steady presence was enough to make me feel like I could show up again without pretending.

The school counsellor who noticed the window

I always chose the chair near the window. Nobody ever asked why — they just assumed I was distracted. But the counsellor noticed. She gently asked, “Does it help you feel safer, being able to see outside?” That question hit me like a wave. For once, an adult saw past my behaviour and into what I might actually need. I didn’t even realise it myself until she asked. That moment of noticing made me feel like my feelings were valid, not strange.

None of these things were big. They were simple moments of noticing, listening, and sticking around. But because of them, I started to believe I could be honest. I gave school another chance. I let myself hope.

Now let me tell you the other side.

The social worker behind the laptop

I remember sitting in a meeting, nerves twisting my stomach. I finally built up the courage to say something that mattered. But as the words came out, she didn’t even look at me. Her eyes stayed on the screen, her fingers tapping away. No nod, no pause, not even a glance to show she’d heard me. I left that room thinking, Why did I risk saying anything at all? From then on, I decided I’d keep things to myself.

The teacher who only saw behaviour

In one class, the teacher never spoke to me unless it was to point out what I’d done wrong. Not once did he ask how I was, or notice when I actually tried. To him, I was the “naughty kid.” That label stuck so hard that even when I wanted to do well, I gave up — because I knew he’d only see the trouble anyway. Being judged only by my behaviour made me feel invisible as a person.

The youth mentor who forgot

Once, I trusted a mentor enough to share something heavy. He nodded, looked serious, and promised to check in with me the next day. I waited for that moment, carrying the weight of what I’d shared. But he didn’t come. The next day passed, then the week. His silence was louder than any words. It said: You’re not important enough to remember. That broke something in me. I wished I’d never said anything in the first place.

When adults get it wrong, it’s not just disappointing — it confirms the story I already believe: that adults can’t be trusted, that I shouldn’t open up, that I’m better off staying silent. One distracted look, one broken promise, one missed chance can close the door for a long time.

If I could sit every professional in a room and tell them what matters to us, here’s what I’d say:

1. Your first impression lasts. Even if you forget it, I won’t. The way you greet me the first time can shape whether I’ll ever trust you.
2. Small actions matter. Eye contact, a genuine smile, remembering something I told you last week — these things tell me I matter to you.
3. Consistency is safety. Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Every time you do what you say you’ll do, you prove that I can rely on you.
4. We’re scanning for signs. I notice your tone, your body language, and whether you’re rushing or listening. These signals tell me if you’re safe or if I should hold back.
5. Trust takes time. Don’t expect me to share everything straight away. Keep showing up, keep noticing, keep caring — and eventually, I might let you in.

What feels small to you can mean the world to me.

I know it’s not easy for you either. You’re busy. You’re tired. You’re stretched thin by paperwork, targets, and the pressure of carrying too many young people at once.

But here’s the thing: I don’t see the system. I only see you.

When you tell me, “Sorry, I haven’t got time,” I don’t blame the system — I blame myself. I think I’m not worth your time. I think I’m the problem.

I understand you can’t do everything. I know there are limits to what you can give. But I need you to remember this: how you show up for me, in that moment, makes a difference that no policy or piece of paperwork can ever replace.

Sometimes it’s not about having all the answers or endless hours. It’s about presence. Even two minutes of your full attention can mean more to me than a rushed half-hour where you’re half looking at your phone or laptop.

The teacher who admitted she was busy

I remember once asking a teacher for help just as she was rushing between classes. She stopped, looked me in the eye, and said honestly, “I can’t give you the time you deserve right now, but I promise I’ll come find you at lunchtime.” And she did. That honesty, followed by action, made me feel I mattered. She proved that even when you’re stretched, you can still build trust.

So yes, I get that it’s hard. But when you choose to be present with me, even briefly, it changes how I see myself. It tells me I’m worth your time. It tells me I matter.

Please don’t underestimate the power of being that one consistent adult. You might be the first person who shows me that adults can actually be safe. You might be the reason I stay in school, the reason I speak instead of staying silent, the reason I begin to believe in myself again.

It doesn’t take grand gestures. It takes:

• Saying hello like you mean it.
• Listening with your whole attention.
• Keeping promises, even the small ones.
• Coming back tomorrow and the next day.

If you do those things, you give me the chance to rebuild trust. You help me believe that I’m more than my behaviour, more than my file, more than the hard things I’ve been through.

Sometimes, you don’t realise that you are the turning point in a young person’s story. But you could be.

So here’s my truth: the first time we meet matters more than you think. But what really changes my life is when that first moment is followed by many more moments where you show up — consistently, with care.

When you choose to be steady, even when I test you, push you away, or make it hard, you prove to me that I’m worth the effort. And that belief that I matter is what helps me grow, learn, and heal.

I know you can’t fix everything. I know you can’t stay forever. But if you make those first interactions positive, and if you keep showing up in the ways you can, you become part of the story where a young person like me learns to trust again.

So next time a child walks through your door, remember: you might just be the turning point in their life.