You can tell a lot about a school by its entrance.
Not the Ofsted poster or the policy displays—but the feeling you get when you step inside. Is there laughter? Do the corridors hum with purpose? Do parents linger a little longer after drop-off, sharing news, stories, a cup of tea? Are the displays filled with children's work and their voices?
At St Stephen’s, we’ve worked hard to become more than a school on a street.
We’re part of the street. Part of the homes. Part of the lives.
We’re a school rooted in its community, and that’s no accident. It’s a deliberate, thoughtful, and sometimes messy journey—but one that we believe is worth every ounce of effort.
Because children flourish when they belong.
And belonging starts not in a policy—but in people.
What It Means to Belong
Let me take you to West Bowling, Bradford—an area full of complexity, contradiction, and deep resilience. You’ll find tight streets of low-cost housing, multiple languages spoken on every corner, families who’ve lived here for generations and others just arriving to seek sanctuary.
You’ll also find St Stephen’s: a Church of England primary school that educates, supports, and learns alongside this community. And when I say alongside, I mean it.
Our vision—Nurture, Grow, Flourish—isn’t just wall art. It’s a commitment to making our school the hub of community life. We don’t just want to know our families; we want to walk with them.
From English classes for newly arrived parents to coffee mornings where we hear stories of strength and sorrow…
From school-led food banks and clothing support to restorative practice in the playground…
From the child who reads aloud for the first time, to the parent who says, “I finally feel heard”—
This is what it means to build a school with your community, not just for it.
Community Isn’t a Slogan—It’s a Practice
Lots of schools talk about "community engagement." But let’s be honest—sometimes it’s just a newsletter or a one-off event.
True community work is deeper, slower, and braver. It means:
Listening before speaking: Our parents help shape our decisions—from choosing our uniform to planning Refugee Week.
Being relentlessly welcoming: From the reception desk to our chaplain’s quiet presence, visitors are greeted with warmth, not bureaucracy.
Bridging the gaps: We act as translators (sometimes literally) between families and the systems that affect them—schools, social care, health, housing.
Learning alongside each other: We don’t come with the answers. We come with curiosity.
One parent said it best during our School of Sanctuary visit:
“This is a safe space. Teachers are our heroes.”
The Hard Work Behind the Harmony
Let me be clear: this isn’t soft work.
It’s not just smiles and samosas. It’s structure, stamina, and strategy.
To become a true community school, you have to:
Invest in pastoral teams that go beyond box-ticking support.
Design a curriculum that reflects and respects the children’s lived experiences—one that names Windrush, migration, and injustice.
Hold space for restorative conversations, where children reflect on their behaviour, listen to others, and take ownership.
Build partnerships—with churches, charities, social workers, mental health services—because schools can’t do it all alone.
And above all, you need a staff team who believe that the work of education is not just cognitive, but relational.
As one of our teachers once said:
“We don’t just teach children. We stand beside families and grow with them.”
The School as Social Infrastructure
Let’s say something bold:
Schools are some of the last truly public institutions left standing.
Post offices are closing. Libraries are underfunded. Youth centres have disappeared.
But schools? Schools remain.
That means we have a responsibility—and a possibility.
What if schools became the anchor institutions they already have the potential to be?
Places where parents find job support, not just newsletters.
Spaces where children feel emotionally safe enough to learn.
Buildings open for community events, services, learning and joy.
Hubs that model what shared life looks like across culture, faith, and background.
At St Stephen’s, we’ve worked with Shine (our church’s award-winning community charity), health practitioners, and Children’s Social Services to co-deliver support. That’s not "extra" work. That’s essential work.
Questions Worth Asking
As you read this, maybe you’re nodding—or maybe you’re wondering, “Could this work in my school?”
Here are some questions I invite you to sit with:
Is your school in the community—or of it?
Who decides what “community engagement” looks like—staff or families?
What services could you host even if you can’t run them?
What spaces in your school could become gathering places?
Do families see your school as somewhere they belong—or somewhere they visit?
If we truly want children to thrive, we must root schools in the soil of their communities.
Real Results, Real Relationships
When schools prioritise belonging, you don’t just see it—you feel it.
You feel it in:
The child who writes a “peace promise” and walks it to City Hall.
The parent who, after joining a coffee morning, says “I’m not scared to speak English anymore.”
The shared celebrations of Eid, Diwali, Christmas and more—not tokenistic but joyful, respected, and collective.
The buddy system that trains pupils to be emotional leaders and playground peacemakers.
And you see it in outcomes: improved attendance, reduced exclusions, and yes—academic progress.
Because children who feel safe, seen, and supported will rise.
Subscribe and Join the Conversation
If any of this has made you nod, pause, or raise an eyebrow, you’re exactly who this newsletter is for.
I write weekly about:
Building schools that nurture and challenge
Restorative leadership that holds children—and adults—accountable with care
Curriculum, culture, and community work that changes lives
So here’s your invitation: Subscribe. Comment. Share. Reflect.
Let’s build schools that don’t just sit in communities—they serve, sing, and shine with them.
Because the work isn’t done.
But together, we can get there.
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