"Caring isn’t a gendered act, it’s a human one. When men teach young children, they don’t break the mold; they reveal how narrow the mold always was."- Tash

It was a Tuesday like any other. The kind where the hum of routine blankets the morning, the warmth of small hands in ours, the cheerful greetings from families, and the familiar rhythm of educators arriving, coffee in hand, ready to give everything to the children we care for. That morning, my colleague and I stood at the entrance, welcoming every smile, every little giggle, every team member stepping in with purpose. In early childhood education and care (ECEC), no two days are the same, but nothing could have prepared us for how this one would unfold.

By midday, the news hit.

An educator had been charged with over 70 counts of child sexual abuse. In Melbourne. Across multiple centres.

Time stopped.

We sat in stunned silence as the details filtered in. Words blurred. Stomachs dropped. Faces drained of colour. Each of us was carrying the unbearable weight of what had happened, not in our centre, but in our sector. Our profession. Our calling. The betrayal stung like acid.

We had dedicated ourselves to the safety, dignity, and joy of children. And now, the trust that underpins every relationship we build, with families, with children, with each other, felt fractured.

Then, as the days unfolded, the wound deepened. A childcare provider that restricted male educators from performing basic caregiving tasks, like changing nappies.

Australia’s 1970s was a revolution in motion, women demanded not just equality, but justice and visibility in a society that had long shut them out. It was a defining era that reshaped the workforce, challenged gender norms, and proved that progress was possible when resistance became collective power.

But even as the ground shifted for women, one question quietly lingered in the shadows: What about men in care? Why were nurturing roles like teaching and childcare still seen as “women’s work”? What message were we sending to children by excluding men from the spaces where empathy, safety, and belonging are shaped?

Decades passed. Governments flirted with reform. Programs came and went. Yet male participation in early childhood education barely moved, stuck under 3%, as if frozen by fear, not facts.

Despite research, policies, and promises, the sector failed to truly embrace men as equals in care. Not because of capability, but because of culture. Because while we opened doors for women, we left men standing at the threshold of ECEC (Early Childhood Education and Care), told often silently, that their presence was unnatural, unwanted, unsafe.

It’s time we stop pretending this is about protection.
This is about prejudice.
And it’s hurting not just men, but the very children we claim to protect.
And it told every man in our sector, no matter how experienced, no matter how committed, that their presence was suspect. That their gender was a threat. That their care wasn’t welcome.

And I’m furious.

Because you can’t talk about equity in education while reinforcing inequality in who gets to educate our youngest minds. Because caring isn’t a gendered act, it’s a human one.

When I was studying to apply for my Australian citizenship, one value stood out to me above all others: equality. It wasn’t just a word in a textbook; it was a promise. A promise that all people, regardless of gender, race, or background, would be treated with fairness and dignity. But now, I ask: where is that value when it comes to the male gender in Early Childhood Education?

We are in the sector of early childhood, and that means we are in the sector of identity. Of shaping who children are, what they become, and where they belong. The Early Years Learning Framework (EYLF) makes this clear through its guiding principles: Being, Belonging, and Becoming. These aren’t just poetic ideals; they are foundational pillars that demand we create safe, inclusive, diverse spaces for every child and every educator.

And yet, how can we talk about belonging while treating male educators like outsiders?
How can we speak of being when their identities are questioned?
How can we foster becoming when their professional growth is stifled by prejudice?

And what about inclusion?

We talk endlessly about inclusion for children with disabilities, diverse backgrounds, and different learning needs, and rightly so. But inclusion is not optional. It does not get to skip gender. It does not silence the discrimination faced by men in caring professions.

If we are serious about creating truly inclusive environments, then that inclusion must extend to the adults in the room, regardless of gender. Because when men are excluded, children are denied. Denied the chance to see that love, empathy, and nurturing are human capacities, not gender roles.

Let’s talk numbers.

In Australia, 1 in 6 families are single-parent households. Nearly 80% of those are led by mothers. That means a significant number of children may go through their early years with little to no consistent, healthy male presence in their lives.

So, when a male educator walks into an early learning space, he isn’t just a teacher. He might be the first man in a child’s life who listens, nurtures, encourages, and protects. He might be the only male role model they see every day. He might be the difference between a child feeling safe around men or learning to fear them.

And yet, many of these men face suspicion the moment they walk through the door.

“Why would a man want to work with children?”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Can he be trusted?”

These aren’t questions.
They’re accusations in disguise.
They’re based not on evidence, but on fear. Not on statistics, but on stereotypes.

Why does society blame all men, instead of addressing the system that fails to screen and support all educators effectively?

Yes, families are angry. Yes, they’re heartbroken when trust is broken. And they should be. But blaming an entire gender is not the solution.

What we need is not fear. What we need is reform.

A parent recently asked me, “How are people even getting their qualifications?”
That hit me. Hard.
Because it’s a fair question.
We need to start screening at the very beginning. From the moment a student walks into a training course or university program, they must understand the ethical, emotional, and safety expectations of this sector. And those educators and placement supervisors signing them off? You should be held accountable. You are not just signing paperwork; you are vouching that this person is ready to be with children.

The Working with Children Check (WWCC) is a screening process used in Australia to assess whether individuals are suitable to work or volunteer with children. It involves a national criminal history check and a review of any workplace misconduct involving children. The WWCC helps identify people who pose a potential risk to children and aims to prevent them from gaining access to child-related work. It is mandatory for anyone working in early childhood education, schools, sports coaching, and other child-focused roles. While essential, it is only one part of a broader child safety framework. We need thorough national background checks so that if someone moves interstate, their record follows.

 
Zero-Tolerance Policy: Abuse or inappropriate behaviour should never be swept under the rug. Allegations must be taken seriously. Investigated thoroughly. Handled transparently. Full stop.

Even though we have mandatory reporting training (a legal requirement that compels certain professionals to report suspected cases of child abuse or neglect to authorities) and the 11 Child Safe Standards (a set of mandatory requirements in Victoria, Australia, designed to protect children and young people from abuse and harm), must ensure that every educator commits to and understands their child safety obligations.

We need clear visibility into learning spaces, windows for supervision, cameras for transparency, and robust recruitment processes to ensure we’re hiring based on values, not just vacancies.

And most importantly, we need to engage parents and communities, after all, it takes a village to raise a child.

Parental Involvement: Families must be partners in their child’s care. Regular communication, honest feedback, and shared responsibility build trust, and that trust becomes the backbone of safety.

Community Awareness: The safety of our children is not just an internal matter for services. It’s a societal one. Raising awareness about safeguarding, reporting mechanisms, and the positive presence of men in ECEC can dismantle harmful myths and create a culture of shared vigilance.

Because if safety is the goal, then quality, accountability, training, and trust are the path.
Not fear.
Not prejudice.
Not exclusion based on gender.

We must stop punishing male educators for the crimes of others.
We must stop pretending that exclusion is protection.
We must stop acting as if gender is a risk factor and not simply a characteristic.

If we want children to believe in equality, they need to see it.
They need to see men nurturing, leading, comforting, and educating, loudly, proudly, and without shame.

To every male educator who has stayed, despite the suspicion, despite the isolation, despite the whispered doubts, you are not the problem.
You are part of the solution.
You are proof that care doesn’t belong to one gender.
It belongs to us all.

It’s time the sector caught up.