By Natasha Puri
It was one of those days—the kind where the weight of an entire sector seemed to crash onto my shoulders. The phone had been ringing nonstop. Student after student, desperate to find placement. One girl called all the way from the west of Melbourne, practically begging for a chance to complete her mandatory hours. Another shared how centre after centre had declined her—not because she lacked the skills, but because of what had happened a month ago. The shadow of that incident had reached so far, so deep, that even learning had become conditional.
Aren’t we already chronically understaffed in ECEC?
Aren’t the few educators we have already stretched thin, burnt out, and exhausted?
And yet, here we are—too scared to mentor. Too scared to nurture the very people who will carry this profession forward.
But it got worse. A male student, qualified and ready to learn, was denied his right to education—not because he had done anything wrong, but because he was a man.
The injustice didn’t stop there. That same day, families began withdrawing enrolments from the centre. Their reason? They didn’t feel “safe” knowing there were male educators on the team. I sat there trying to remain composed, but inside, I was furious. I understand fear. I understand that parents want to protect their children. But what happens when your child goes to school? Will you protest the male teacher? The male principal? And if your son tells you he wants to become a teacher one day, will you suppress that dream out of fear?
Later that evening, I turned to the news for escape, only to find an article from a major Australian publication with the headline: “Why Male Educators Should Be Banned.”
I felt physically sick. The piece wasn’t written by someone from our sector—it was authored by someone with no understanding of what we do, telling the country that care, nurture, and empathy—the very foundations of our profession—could not be trusted in the hands of a man.
Not only was it ignorant—it was dangerous. Instead of educating the public, it fuelled fear. Instead of nuance, it weaponised prejudice.
I sat in that moment—exhausted, angry, grieving for a profession I love. A profession being slowly dismantled by suspicion.
It’s been nearly a month since the name Joshua Brown sent shockwaves through Australia’s early childhood education and care (ECEC) sector—a name now synonymous with betrayal. His alleged crimes fractured the trust between children, families, and educators, and shook the very foundations of a profession built on safety, integrity, and love.
The collective grief was palpable. Every educator I know felt it deep in their bones. Our work—centred on nurturing and safeguarding young lives—was suddenly overshadowed by the horror of one man’s actions. Fear crept into every corner: families, educators, service providers, students. A silent contagion of suspicion and self-doubt.
And then came something even more alarming.
In a response rooted in fear, one service provider reportedly moved to ban male educators from performing nappy changes or supporting children with toileting. It was an instinctive, panic-driven measure masquerading as policy. Not an evidence-based decision. Not a child-safety initiative. Just fear, dressed in the guise of protection.
From that moment, the trauma of a single case began to snowball into something broader. Something more insidious.
A profession turned on its own
I’ve heard from male educators—once respected colleagues—who found their shifts cut, their placements denied, their presence questioned. Some were told outright they were no longer needed. Others were dismissed more subtly—stripped of core duties, excluded from routines, left standing on the fringes of a profession they had trained so hard to join.
The message was deafening in its silence: If you are a man, you are a risk.
It didn’t matter if you had 20 years of experience, glowing references, a spotless record. Your gender became your guilt. You were no longer an educator—you were a threat.
This is happening in a sector already buckling under a nationwide staffing crisis. A sector plagued by low retention, chronic burnout, and a desperate shortage of qualified professionals. And now, we are actively driving away passionate, capable educators because of their gender?
It got so bad that universities began calling centres asking: “Do you still take male students?”
A deeper wound for the marginalised
For male students from culturally and linguistically diverse backgrounds, the impact has been even more acute. They are not just seen as men—but as outsiders. Othered. Watched. Whispered about. Their every move weighed against stereotypes, not substance.
These students did not come here to harm. They came to learn. To nurture. To serve.
And we are telling them—sometimes with words, sometimes with silence—that they don’t belong.
Diversity is our strength, not our threat
I came to this country with hope. Like many, I studied for my citizenship test and learned about Australia’s commitment to fairness, equality, and diversity. But today, I have to ask: Where is that promise now?
These students bring more than labour. They bring language, culture, empathy, and passion. They are not a risk—they are the future of early childhood education. And yet, they are the first to be abandoned when fear takes hold.
Let’s be honest: this is no longer about protecting children.
This is about prejudice.
Who really misses out? The children.
When male educators are pushed out—when passionate students are left on the sidelines—when fear is allowed to write policy—it is the children who suffer the most.
In Australia, one in six families are single-parent households, and almost 80% of those are led by mothers. Many young children grow up without a consistent male figure in their early years.
For some, the first man to nurture, to listen, to model empathy, is their male educator. He might be the first person to show them that masculinity can be gentle. That strength can also look like kindness.
And we meet him with suspicion?
“Why would a man want to work with children?”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Can he be trusted?”
These are not questions. They are accusations cloaked in bias.
What we need is reform, not fear
Let us be clear: one person’s actions—no matter how heinous—should not become a life sentence for an entire gender.
We do not need bans. We need reform:
- Rigorous recruitment grounded in values, not gender.
- Transparent and ethical training from day one.
- A national, portable background check system (currently under government consideration).
- Clear accountability for those overseeing qualifications and placements.
- Architectural safeguards—windows, cameras, open doors—not for surveillance, but for reassurance.
- Involved families, empowered to help build safe, trusting environments.
- Public education to dismantle harmful myths and reshape the narrative.
We already have mandatory reporting. We already have the 11 Child Safe Standards. But these must be more than policies on paper. They must be lived, breathed, and upheld with intention.
And above all, we must stop treating gender as a red flag.
Let care be human again
The Early Years Learning Framework teaches children about Being, Belonging, and Becoming.
But how can we teach belonging, when we tell male educators they don’t belong?
How can we talk about becoming, when students are denied the chance to begin?
This is a moment of crisis—but also one of reckoning.
An opportunity to lead with principle, not panic.
To build a system that holds child safety sacred without sacrificing the dignity of those who serve.
A system that welcomes every educator—of every background and gender—who walks in with ethics, love, and the courage to care.
To every male educator: You are not the problem. You are the proof that care is not gendered. That empathy has no chromosomes. That love is a universal language.
And you are needed—now more than ever.
To the sector: It’s time to rise.
To stop reacting with fear and start leading with courage.
If we want our children to believe in equity, they must see it:
In every face that welcomes them.
In every voice that guides them.
In every heart that teaches them.
Because care does not see gender.
And our children deserve nothing less.
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