Researching practitioner experiences through autoethnography: Embodying social policy,exploring emotional landscapes

Introduction

This article sets out to explore the value of autoethnography as an arts-based methodology that draws on narrative. It will do so by sharing an example of an autoethnographic narrative that highlights the emotional landscape of one early years practitioner and her struggle to deal with the implementation of a social policy – child protection. As a piece of critical inquiry, it seeks to be both evocative and provocative to generate further discourse around practitioner experience and the need to create a new epistemological base in early years research, predicated on embodiment and insider practitioner experience. The challenge and strengths of autoethnography as a methodology are also given consideration.

This article asks the question: ‘What do policy imperatives actually feel like in practice and how might autoethnography, as an arts-based methodology, afford researchers a way to illustrate this?’

While many early years documents urge practitioners to get it right for children, there is a pervasive silence around the question of how we might get it right for practitioners, yet there is widespread acceptance of stress as a key factor in workforce attrition (Løvgren, 2016; Rentzou, 2012). Coupled with the knowledge that emotional exhaustion plays a role in burnout (Andrew, 2015; Forrester, 2005), these factors are a key driver underpinning this article, manifesting in a desire to raise the visibility of personal ‘emotional landscapes’ (Sumsion, 2001: 195) that might add to a growing body of knowledge on emotion and emotional geographies, built on practitioner experience. Using performative autoethnography as my chosen methodology, I share a narrative that illustrates both the gendered and embodied practice experienced in one event in a nursery. This narrative seeks to elicit tensions around child protection and safeguarding – and the consequent embodiment of a social policy, using the body and its experience of embodiment as raw data.

Performative autoethnography

As a child of ethnographic practices, autoethnography seeks to build on other ways of knowing through personal experiences that create a unique perspective from which to consider social issues, especially social injustices (Wall, 2016).

Performative autoethnography further troubles assumptions and offers food for critical thought. Through the juxtaposition of relevant texts within a narrative such as government documents, statistics, memoried thoughts of personal experiences, extracts from research articles and poetry, a dynamic three-dimensional textual landscape is created that resounds with a chorus of ‘discordant voices’ (Denzin, 2006: 433). Choosing to avoid linear narratives in favour of fragmented and unresolved stories, the forces at work in a given context can be illustrated and their impact on the individual made visible. The multilayered narrative is then accessible to readers to freely engage with their own critical meaning-making processes, to ponder, reflect, question and reimagine the events in the narrative. As a performative text, it calls upon the reader to be active, to read with rather about the text – to identify with the body of the writer and to build an empathic connection.

As Spry (2011) suggests, performative autoethnography contributes to research on identity as it helps us to see the constructed ‘I’, negotiated with other ‘subjectivities in meaning making’ (p. 503). The relational self takes up its position as a constructed ‘I’ through ‘dialogical relationships, both internal and external, with other voices’ (Loots et al., 2013: 109) visible (and audible) in the text. This affords critical consideration of how practitioner identity is created and where the tensions in that construction might lead to dissonance and dis-ease. Performative autoethnographic narratives can therefore contribute a unique and rich perspective to research on identity. As Pelias (2011) suggests, through writing we can make sense of our lives.

Averting solipsism

A key criticism of autoethnography is that of solipsism; the narratives are stories of little relevance to anyone else – put simply they are just stories. However, working on the principle that individuals are a part of society and therefore interact with key agents, human and non-human, in their workplace, they form a locus for societal demands, power and the lived reality of individual experience. The location of the researcher, centre-stage, therefore allows for the exploration of identity building in line with post-structural and feminist paradigms that urge us to elicit the powers at work in forming social spaces and the configuration of identities therein (Osgood, 2012). Through rich text, performative autoethnographic narratives therefore have the potential to contribute to our understanding of social life itself (Sparkes, 2013) and in the case of women in education whose voices have historically been marginalised or silenced (Osgood, 2012), these texts become ‘acts of witnessing, as testimony on behalf of others’ (Pelias, 2011: 661).

To avert charges of solipsism, I have chosen to follow the narrative with a brief exploration of relevant literature, helping to contextualise the events in the narrative and to create a wider discourse and understanding of the story. This allows readers to use their own meaning-making processes to critically appraise the narrative as raw data, for autoethnography as a methodology does not subscribe to one truth. Instead, it elicits the question mark over answers, possibility over truth, and portrays complexity (Jensen, 2014), all helping to trouble more linear narratives.

Listening to Lola is the second of two stories drawn from a larger piece of research (Henderson, 2018) involving a 4-year-old child in my care. At the time of my interactions with the child I have chosen to call Lola, I was a practitioner with many years of experience in education and care. I loved my job, the children too, and I enjoyed interacting with their families. The context in which I knew Lola was, however, challenging as her family were troubled and her dad, Ricky, was known to have been violent. A few weeks prior to the event shared below, Ricky intimated to me that he had met one of my own children and knew where they worked at the weekends – a matter I found deeply distressing and threatening.

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Listening to Lola

Lola has decided she wants to play with the small-world toys today – wooden houses, furniture and people built on a small-scale to resemble real life. I don’t much like them myself: one tall, wooden, two-storey house divided into four flats, peopled with wooden characters and wooden furniture which I inherited when I arrived in the nursery. And one wooden ‘cottage-style’ house with flowers painted on the front. These toys leave little to the imagination and I had thought that I might put them in the cupboard for a while, but didn’t.

Lola plays alone, talking to her-self, and I shuffle books around on the shelf while keeping an eye on her and eavesdropping. She often lashes out at other kids and it can quickly turn nasty, so I’m a little bit wary when Mark creeps slowly towards Lola’s territory with his wooden trucks.

Lola has already placed the wooden ‘dad’ doll (Ricky) in the kitchen of the flat, with the wooden ‘mum’. Using the wooden ‘girl’ doll to represent herself, she places the doll on the table with an imaginary toy. Taking another wooden ‘child-like’ doll she names it Mikey (her brother) and sits it on the sofa before placing a doll to represent Frankie (her oldest sibling) in the corner of the room with an imaginary ‘X-box’. Summer, Lola’s baby sister, is the wooden ‘baby-doll’ in the cot. Suddenly, her ‘dad’, comes out of the kitchen and with one fast hand-move, sweeps ‘Lola’ violently the length of the table then onto the floor, while shouting ‘You little bastard! I’ll get you! I’ve told you not to sit on that table!’ She repeats this twice.

I catch my breath then nod to my colleague, Sandra. She nods back. Mark quickly moves away with his wooden trucks, quietly sensing danger, leaving Lola alone.

OPEN IN VIEWER

Since 2008 more children on the Child Protection Register are under 5 years old than over. In 2017, 53% of children on the register were under 5 years. Between 2000 and 2014 the overall increase in numbers of children on the register rose by 41%. (Scottish Government, 2018: 15)

After a pause, Lola takes her wooden family characters and gets them ready to go to the corner shop. Frankie asks to stay behind with his ‘X-box’, so the others leave the house without him. Suddenly the wooden Lola doll and the Mikey doll begin to squabble and fight so Ricky, their dad, shouts at them both. Then, as they pass the refuse-bin cupboards at the bottom of the flats (Lola has already placed a plastic pirate’s treasure chest beside the wooden playhouse), Ricky opens the door and puts a black bag full of rubbish into the bin. Swiftly turning round, he grabs Lola and throws her inside shouting, ‘Get in there you little bastard and shut it ’til we get back!’ He turns the key and walks on. Lola takes the other dolls and walks them to the corner shop. She is engrossed in thought and I wonder if she knows I’m watching and listening.

My stomach muscles tighten and my hands instantly freeze. I quickly turn and nod to one of my colleagues. She nods back, signalling she has heard it too. Then, quietly, I move towards Lola’s play space. We’re in Child Protection/Safeguarding territory now and I fear where this is going. My stomach turns over, my hands tremble, my breath becomes shallow, but this is no time to turn away. I need to engage sensitively and quietly as the room is crowded with other children playing and running around. Anything might happen.

Taking a wooden ‘grandma’ doll, I walk behind Lola’s family to the ‘shop’. ‘Hello’, I say to them all, ‘Are you off shopping?’ We’ve built up enough trust now for Lola to allow me into her play-world, but it’s erratic and I know that time is precious; she might just let me in for a few seconds so I have to act fast. But she doesn’t reply. Is she ignoring me? Did she hear me? I don’t know. Breathe deeply. Think of something appropriate to say.

‘Buying anything nice, today?’ I enquire brightly. Pause.

‘No … just bread and milk’. Her voice sounds wistful and far away.

‘Did Lola not want to come to the shops?’ I ask. Pause.

She throws the wooden daddy doll into the air, thumping it with her fist when it lands. She takes the other wooden dolls and scatters them across the floor, then, in silence, walks away to the other side of the nursery. I look at my colleague and we nod to one another. I tremble with fear. I think Sandra, my colleague, senses it too. I start to squeeze my pale, icy fingers, gripped by the solitude and tension I’m feeling. The responsibility is overwhelming and I sense a numbing cold travelling up my arms. I feel unable to speak and the thought of having to interact with Ricky, Lola’s dad, fills me with dread.

As I move away, to discretely record the event before I forget any details, I feel my stomach twist as though it’s in a wrench. My pulse races and I have to gasp for extra air as a nauseous feeling wells up and tightens my throat. I hate having to deal with Child Protection and Safeguarding cases. I hate it, hate it. It sends a chill air into my body. I simply hate it.

I quickly stagger to the toilet as I start to gag. The loneliness of the responsibility fills me with dark dread; the duty falls on me to inform the Child Protection Officer. Suddenly an unexpected feeling rises up. I struggle to understand it. I’m perplexed. As I slowly breathe out, however, I come to recognise just how much I have come to fear and despise Ricky. In fact I’ve come to loathe him and can’t face the thought of having to interact with him.

Will he leave me alone now or will this make things worse? Then I quickly do a double-take, a rain-check on my soul. I feel sick and start to wretch as I mutter, ‘Oh, my God! What have I become?’

In the toilet, I sink to the floor, overcome with fear and self-disgust. My body slides limply down the wall, before coming to rest in a doubled-up position on my knees, my head resting on the floor between the wall and the toilet bowl. I sob quietly and tremble with the overwhelming emotions, caught between two worlds – the self I thought I was and the self that just came into view – I am still and cold, enveloped in the silence that permeates no-man’s land, on the toilet floor. ‘Where has my strength and light gone?’ I ask myself.

OPEN IN VIEWER

… approximately 40% of primary teachers are exposed to negative parental behaviour either online or on school premises at least once a month. … over 40% are planning on leaving the job in the next 18 months. (Ravalier and Walsh, 2017: 4)

The sounds of the nursery slowly begin to drift in under the door: laughter, children calling to each other, wooden blocks tumbling to the floor, the soft tones of the practitioners talking to each other, the phone ringing in the background, the sound of water being poured in and out of a container. Leaning on the toilet bowl, I draw myself up into a standing position before dragging my heavy, aching body over to the wash-hand basin, to throw cold water on my face. Catching sight of a pale, grey face in the mirror, I ask, ‘Is this me? Who am I?’ Then I turn to the door and slowly, tentatively, unlock it, before re-entering the world.

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Reflexive thoughts

Lola’s story conveys my struggle to deal with one (unexpected) event in an ordinary nursery day. It conveys both my visceral emotions and the plurality of my identity in a pedagogical space: the adult responsible for dealing with disclosures, my perceived caring practitioner-self and my (threatened) mother-self. All of which led to a deep dissonance within my ‘emotional landscape’ (Sumsion, 2001: 195) with consequences for my personal well-being that resonated beyond the moment, for many years. When Lola’s play disclosed her father’s abuse – throwing her into the refuse cupboard – his knowledge of my family complicated a situation that I already found harrowing. I had never overcome my anxieties around child protection issues during the whole of my professional career but never talked about them either. Effectively I silenced myself, possibly through a fear of being seen as weak and incompetent.

How then might researchers convey the complexity and oft-times detrimental impact of practitioners’ oscillating identities (Harwood et al., 2013: 10) that lead to tension and dissonance in their inner emotional landscapes? For those working outside the sector, but who may have the power to shape and determine its future, there is a need to engage them in the rawness of events to deepen and extend their understanding of early years practice. For those working inside the sector, but who may feel silenced or disempowered, there is a need for them to find a resonance with their experiences in research, to find their reflection and to encourage them to write. As Osgood (2012) noted, if we want the ‘critically reflexive emotional professional’ to replace the ‘competent technician’, we need more stories (p. 154).

In line with post-structural sensibilities, a key task for early years researchers is the need to make visible the extent to which pedagogical spaces, such as early years settings, are inflected with multiple voices: parents and their aspirations for their children, government policies, individual children’s needs, local needs, society’s mores and values, regulatory demands for measurable outcomes and the practitioners’ own values – all shaping, determining and legitimising, to varying degrees, the actions and events within the context that have the capacity to create dissonance. As a methodology, autoethnography has enabled me to expose and trouble assumptions about my early years practice while making accessible to the reader the multiple voices at work within one early years context.

In Listening to Lola, the voice and agency of the practitioner and others are audible or visible in the text. Lola’s voice threads its way through the narrative in her actions and words; Ricky (her father), although physically absent, is present in my thoughts and fears. The invisible power of government is palpable in the knowledge that I carry about child protection and safeguarding, and the possibility of societal condemnation, should I fail, informs and permeates my fears.

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Inside the practitioner’s experience: emotional embodiment

A growing concern over the emotional demands on early years professionals (Andrew, 2015; Black, 2015; Edwards, 2016; Løvgren, 2016; Sumsion, 2001; Vincent and Braun, 2013) and the potential for subsequent emotional exhaustion parallels deeply worrying statistics on workforce attrition (Clandinin et al., 2014; Garner, 2015). The challenge of juggling the demands of work and life and the inner struggle experienced by many professionals, as they attempt to balance their own values with those inherent in their role, are frequently cited as reasons for leaving the profession (Clandinin et al., 2014). The complexity of these issues is further compounded by the persisting perception that care is a natural part of women’s work (Van Laere et al., 2014), giving rise to a sector that is misunderstood, underpaid and lacking the respect that it deserves (Osgood, 2012), while the issue of emotional work remains unproblematised and unaddressed on training courses (Vincent and Braun, 2013). Consequently, emotional work that is ‘invisible, unacknowledged, or devalued’ (Isenbarger and Zembylas, 2006: 123) remains a ‘personal burden’ (Lewis, 1993: 5).

Emotional demands

Several writers have argued that the emotional demands on early years professionals are unique and significantly more intense than those experienced elsewhere in the education sector. The need for close relationships that nurture attachment, belonging and well-being (Edwards, 2016; Quan-McGimpsey et al., 2011; Vincent and Braun, 2013); the regular interface that creates an intimacy between practitioners, children and their families; forging close bonds and intense relationships (Elfer and Dearnley, 2007); and the deep associations and embodiment of spatial locations – wrought through regularly meeting in the same room – collectively generate an ‘affectively charged’ setting (Watkins, 2011: 138) that demands emotional intelligence and awareness in order to maintain practitioner well-being.

Embodiment: troubling emotions

With an assertion that ‘emotion work practices become embodied over time’ and may lead to ‘burnout and staff turnover’, Andrew (2015) draws our attention to the process of embodiment, its relevance to early years work and possible detrimental consequences (p. 361).

Adding to our understanding of embodiment, Ahmed’s (2004) assertion that fear contracts the body, such as ‘in anticipation of injury’, suggests further concern for practitioners working in challenging contexts (p. 185). Conversely, wonder expands the body: ‘Wonder keeps bodies and space open to the surprise of others’ (Ahmed, 2004: 183). For practitioners working with young children surprise, wonder and curiosity form some of the key pillars to early years practice as they explore the world around them. The closeness of the relationship between practitioner and child often means that they engage in sustained shared thinking together, a sensitive space predicated on a responsive relationship between adult and child, as the child wonders and explores. Consequently, practitioners need to be open and to embrace uncertainty (Maier-Höfer, 2015) if they are to be responsive to children’s needs.

Andrew’s (2015) and Ahmed’s (2004) assertions suggest to me that practitioners engaged in close, sensitive work with young children are subject to a constant stream of inner experiences within the body at a level below conscious registration, vacillating between contraction and expansion. This leads me to suggest that working in challenging contexts, where trauma and emotional demands are more intense, may mean that practitioners internalise children’s fears along with the concomitant bodily contractions. Yet, the research lens in challenging contexts is usually focussed on children with little to no research to elicit the impact on practitioners (Edwards, 2016).

Body talk

Within research in general, the challenge of sharing the embodiment of emotions has long been burdened and overshadowed by the historical mind–body split, predicated on a privileging of cognition over affect and bodily experience (Pelias, 2011: 663). Subsequently, and to a large degree, this has silenced and marginalised those involved in professions that work with caring approaches and emotional engagement. Although it can be argued that voice itself does not ‘struggle for rights’ (Clough, 2002: 67), there is a need to make audible the voices that have been ‘depressed or inaudible’ (Clough, 2002: 67).

The consequences of what was purported to be an objective path to knowledge, through separating the mind from the body in research, led to an objectification of the body, a sense of ‘othering’ and detachment which in turn meant education research until recently failed to convey the degree to which early years practitioners were called upon to work with emotion. With the knowledge that early years contexts are ‘affectively charged’ (Watkins, 2011: 138), it is no longer acceptable to allow the mind–body split to persist and new ways of researching emotion in the workplace are called for to generate an epistemological base, predicated on the lived experiences of practitioners. There is nothing about human experience that ‘remains untouched by human embodiment’ (Gallagher, 2005: 247) and research needs to elicit, in particular, the degree to which this is an issue for those working in the field of early childhood education and care.

The negotiated ‘I’, dissonance and dis-ease

As Denzin (2014) clearly states in his monograph on interpretive autoethnography, there is no straightforward way to share a lived experience, but post-structural researchers and writers can use performative autoethnography to disrupt what counts as knowledge, by making the invisible, visible. Autoethnographic narratives may be small, but they can be useful in helping to deconstruct complex social issues (Wall, 2016), particularly when the writer stays close to the ‘complexities and contradictions of existence’ (Flyvbjerg, 2001: 140), enabling readers to gain new insight beyond that afforded by theory.

For those working in professions that involve caring and emotion work, performative autoethnography has the power to draw the ‘body from the shadows of academe and consciously interrogate it into the process and production of knowledge’ (Spry, 2001: 725). The body then becomes an ‘enfleshed methodology’ (Spry, 2001: 725) that illustrates the visceral, felt moments of a life in the making, affording insight into moments of disruption, dissonance and personal tensions that may lead to dis-ease.

Narratives, firmly situated within the wider context of research, make it possible to witness the ‘rawness of real happenings’ (Clough, 2002: 8). Performative autoethnographic narratives extend that palpable rawness to illustrate the evolving ‘I’ of the writer within a context inflected with multiple voices, helping to illustrate practitioners’ ‘oscillating identities’ (Harwood et al., 2013: 10) and the dissonance experienced in the plurality of their roles. In the words of Duhn (2012), this helps contribute to our understanding of place as ‘something that is deeply entangled with self’ (p. 103).

Troubled research

Within the early years research field, there is, to date, a dearth of autoethnographic writing and a perceived reluctance to engage with less well-established methodologies (Nutbrown, 2011a). There are undoubtedly a number of factors contributing to this lack of engagement, some of which I assert are pertinent to the early years sector itself, while others relate more to autoethnography as a methodology and its challenges.

Early years challenges

The early years sector is notoriously underfunded and lacks the respect given to other sectors of education (Sumsion, 2004), leading me to ask whether early years professionals are perceived as having insufficient cultural capital (Andrew, 2015) with which to take risks in research. Would it be heard? Would it be taken seriously? Is the risk worth it? Is there sufficient investment in early years research to encourage practitioners to take this step?

In giving consideration to the level of support necessary to take such risks, it is, in my experience, a two-way endeavour between student researcher and mentor/supervisor to support and develop something new. However, if Ploder and Stadlbauer (2016) are right in their assertion that they have been warned off and discouraged from adopting autoethnography as a methodology in German-speaking cultures, how can writers and researchers such as early years doctoral students find the support to take the leap? Would it damage their careers?

Furthermore, with the historic limitations noted earlier, consequent to the mind–body gap in research, the persisting perception of care being women’s work and the challenge of reporting on the intensity of emotion work within the profession, early years practitioners face a sizeable challenge in their attempts to articulate their work and its tensions. How many have the time, resources or support to encourage them to do so?

Autoethnographic challenges

Adopting autoethnography as a methodology means grappling with inherent challenges. Personal narratives bring a degree of personal transparency that some may find disconcerting, especially when the writing may reveal weaknesses and flaws. For some writers, the risk of ‘being known’ (Gingras, 2012: 80) is a risk too far. Etherington (2004: 142) cautions that the transparency wrought through writing about self might encourage others to pathologise the vulnerabilities of writers. With no guarantee of sensitive readership, writers must therefore negotiate the degree to which they want to expose themselves. Nutbrown’s (2011b) caution, to be ‘vigilant to the possible futures of my work’, is relevant here for ultimately what I have written goes beyond my control and into the hands of my readers (p. 11).

Adding to this, Watkins (2011) reminds us we may experience the possible re-emergence of the ‘bodily impact of the teacher-student relation’ during writing or talking, manifesting in possible emotional injury to self (p. 137). ‘Opportunities to de-brief’ (Denshire, 2014: 841) are helpful here but also point to the need for supportive relationships that may or may not be available to researchers. An ethic of self-care is therefore pertinent when using autoethnography as a methodology – going beyond the conventional prerequisites for ethical forms and procedures, which also remain relevant.

Good writing

As a methodology, autoethnography draws on narrative, a literary practice that several writers agree demands ‘good writing’ (Clough, 2002, 2004; Pelias, 2004; Sparkes, 2009, 2013). While both ‘literary and rhetorical (persuasive) devices’ are present in both art and science research (Sandelowski, 1994: 53), meaning the self is present in both, writing autoethnographic narratives demands writing that can catalyse change in the interest of social justice. Commenting on narrative writing, Clough (2002) states that ‘the search is for the articulation of a persuasive voice which will challenge readers’ interests, privileges and prejudices’ (p. 68). Art and literature can convey complex issues in few words – reaching out beyond cognition and the coolness (Hydén, 2013) of abstract thoughts which may lead to ‘othering’, to speak straight to the heart (Pelias, 2004), but how many researchers feel able to write rich text resonant with a degree of verisimilitude which in turn confers validity and legitimacy of the research? Furthermore, the challenge of articulating something as mercurial as emotions and embodiment is another contributing factor that may have led to the dearth of autoethnographic early years research on the subject.

The corollary then is how to encourage and support students and researchers to engage with autoethnography in research and I would suggest this begins with building reflective practices on initial training courses that encourage students to critically appraise and make sense of their lives through writing. While language does not ‘suture over the experience of embodied existence’ (Todd, 2015: 70), it helps to talk about it, to develop a body of work that further increases our understanding of what daily nursery practice entails. Learning how we engage emotionally in our work through being reflective can ultimately help develop a tool for professionals who are working in under-resourced and stressful contexts (Andrew, 2015), a body of knowledge to share and discuss with peers. Hargreaves (2000) reminds us that we need to create a ‘critical space for pedagogical sensitivity and awareness’ for education is a deeply embodied practice (p. 860). Further reflective practices such as the use of documentation as described by Reed and Stobbs (2017) could also help lay the groundwork for the later development of texts that articulate early years practices and encourage critical reflection from the start of a career.

Silence, silencing, silenced

The overshadowing fear of being perceived as inadequate and unfit for purpose has often oppressed the desire of practitioners to speak out or seek help, generating what Connelly and Clandinin (1995) termed the secret stories embedded in ‘epistemological and moral dilemmas’ covered up to evoke a sense of certainty, competence and control in the workplace (p. 14). With few journals eager to publish autoethnographic narratives compared to other methodologies, researchers may want to think twice as to the impact on their careers. Similarly, there are few books on autoethnography in the early years field. The challenge of becoming published may therefore also be a strong factor in choosing not to adopt autoethnography as methodology, with an eye to future career pathways.

Recently I was asked by a colleague to contribute a chapter for a book on early years research. I eagerly set about my task only to find later that the publisher was unhappy with my text. I was, subsequently, asked to alter it to make it more palatable by removing any reference to violence, swearing or depictions of individuals as aggressive or challenging. I was utterly perplexed. How could I remove anything that was an inherent part of such a text to ultimately ‘sanitise and overly simplify the emotional landscape’ (Sumsion, 2001: 195) of my experience? How could I knowingly subscribe to this when in reality many practitioners experience early years settings as ‘sites of violence’ (Sumsion, 2001: 196)? Many writers contest that high levels of dissonance within a practitioner’s inner emotional landscape can prove too ‘costly’ (Osgood, 2012: 146) and impact on practitioner well-being, especially for those who have invested in an identity as a ‘caring-self’ (Osgood, 2012: 146). These are the voices that need to be heard yet are still being silenced. Needless to say, I withdrew my chapter. Silenced, again.

What can autoethnography add to Early Years research?

In my current role in early years work, I support practitioners in the field and often recognise, from a distance, the shock of a disclosure: the tension and grief on their faces, broken voices holding back tears, the struggle to maintain some semblance of decorum and the hollowed-out look of emotional exhaustion. I am now distanced by several years from the experiences that I share in my autoethnographic narratives, but the practitioners with whom I now work are engaging in social policies such as child protection and safeguarding on a scale that was not demanded of me. This is therefore no time to be silent. There is a pressing need to understand how to develop more salutogenic practices that empower and protect early years professionals for I have yet to read any research that suggests practitioners enter the field of early years work in order to engage with policies such as child protection and safeguarding, meaning that dissonance and tensions are inevitable.

Safeguarding young children is a recognised responsibility of practitioners in early years settings today, upholding children’s rights and promoting their safety and well-being. The role of the practitioner and the embodied consequences of engaging in social policies such as safeguarding are, however, not commonly voiced in research. We need more stories and autoethnographic research in the early years field is one way to provide such stories which not only stand powerfully alone but also resonate with the challenges of policy and practice – voicing realities beyond the reach of other methodologies.