For as long as I've known about the Reggio Emilia educational philosophy, I have wanted to experience it at the source.

For many years, I served as a teacher and later an atelierista at Little Gate, the early childhood division of the Louise S. McGehee School in New Orleans, Louisiana. As I stepped into the role of pedagogista, it became increasingly important to me to understand this philosophy more deeply. I wanted to know the community that embraces it. I wanted to understand the context from which it emerged and continues to evolve.

I was fortunate to travel to Reggio Emilia, Italy, alongside two fellow educators from the Louise S. McGehee School, an all-girls school in New Orleans with a coeducational early childhood program. Each of us brought distinct perspectives and questions to the experience. Our study abroad was supported by the Peggy McGehee Wisdom Distinguished Faculty Program, established by the late Adelaide Wisdom Benjamin ’50 in honor of her beloved aunt, Peggy McGehee Wisdom. A devoted supporter of McGehee, Adelaide strengthened and shaped the school in countless ways, ensuring that future generations would benefit from the education she described as life-changing. Through this enduring gift, McGehee educators are able to pursue advanced study around the world and bring their learning home to enrich the school’s curriculum and programs.

I already understood that Reggio Emilia is not a method or prescribed curriculum. It is often described as an attitude, a stance, or a way of being with children and with one another. Yet there was still something untouchable about it for me, something I couldn't quite grasp from books, conferences, or school visits outside of Italy.

I found myself wondering whether there were aspects of the philosophy that simply could not be replicated beyond the city of Reggio Emilia. Schools across the world describe themselves as "Reggio-inspired," but I wanted to know: What parts can travel? What parts cannot? And are those missing pieces essential?

To understand Reggio Emilia, it helps to understand the city itself.

The philosophy took shape in the aftermath of World War II, as families in a region devastated by fascism, violence, and loss began imagining a new way forward. Parents, many of them mothers, and community members made a bold decision: they wanted to build a different future for their children. They believed education could play a central role in creating a more democratic society, one in which citizens learned to think critically, engage in dialogue, and participate in community life.

In many ways, the Reggio Emilia philosophy was born from a community's determination to rebuild after conflict. It was not simply an educational movement. It was a civic one.

The philosophy continues to assert that children are not future citizens. They are citizens now. They have the right to participate in the life of their schools, neighborhoods, and city. The belief is that children who grow up feeling heard, respected, and included in civic dialogue are more likely to become adults who remain engaged in the communities they inhabit.

This image of the child, as capable, curious, and full of potential, can be seen throughout the city of Reggio Emilia. Children are viewed as researchers with the capacity to investigate meaningful questions about the world around them. Their ideas are not treated as cute or simplistic. They are taken seriously.

One example shared with us involved a group of children who became fascinated by street signs. What began as a conversation evolved into a long-term project in which children designed their own signs for the streets and places they play. One sign read, "Fermati e chiedi il nome a un bambina che non conosci per fare amicizia," or "Stop and ask the name of a child you don’t know to make friends." The city embraced the project, making space for children's ideas to become visible in public life.

Awareness of Reggio Emilia expanded internationally after a 1991 Newsweek article recognized the Diana School and Reggio Emilia's municipal early childhood program as among the most advanced in the world. More recently, the philosophy has drawn renewed international attention through the interest of Catherine, Princess of Wales, whose work in early childhood development brought her to Reggio Emilia earlier this year.

Our study group arrived little more than a week after her departure. Throughout the week, we met pedagogistas and atelieristas who had shared their work and thinking with her during the visit. What struck me, however, was how little interest the schools seemed to have in promoting themselves. They are remarkably generous in opening their doors and sharing their research with visitors from around the world, but their primary commitment remains to the children and families of Reggio Emilia. Again and again, the focus of the visit returned to children, families, educators, and the ongoing work of research.

That commitment is perhaps most visible in the amount of time they dedicate to dialogue. Pedagogistas spend significant portions of their year engaged in conversation, reflection, and collaborative research. One municipality-wide investigation centered on an unlikely topic: the chair. At first, my American sensibilities struggled to stay engaged in what felt like an extraordinarily long discussion about chairs. How could a chair possibly sustain meaningful research?

But then the stories emerged.

Across the municipal schools, children investigated what a chair does, how it is made, who uses it, and what it can represent. They sculpted chairs from clay, drew them, deconstructed them, redesigned them, and used them as vehicles for storytelling and symbolic thinking. Eventually, each school transformed a chair into something that embodied the ideas and theories of the children. These creations were then brought into the community and shared publicly.

What became clear was that the project was never really about chairs. It was about learning to look closely. To wonder. To ask questions. To see possibility in ordinary things.

One of the most powerful moments of the trip came during our visit to Remida, a creative reuse center that partners with local industries to divert discarded materials from the waste stream and place them into the hands of children and educators.

I have never seen waste arranged in such a way as to inspire research, art, wonder, and possibility.

At one point, there was a long communal table constructed from reclaimed wood. Around it sat stacks of newspapers bound tightly with twine, serving as chairs. The entire installation was composed of materials others had deemed useless. Yet there it stood, beautiful, provocative, and full of possibility.

In many ways, that image has become a metaphor for the philosophy itself. The beauty often associated with Reggio Emilia is the natural outcome of a way of seeing. The environments are beautiful because the thinking behind them is beautiful.

Reggio Emilia is not about making things beautiful. It is about learning to see the beauty already present in ordinary objects, places, ideas, and people. It is about cultivating a habit of mind that looks at the world and asks, "What else could this become?"

As I write this, I keep returning to the idea that there is something intangible about this philosophy.

Even after visiting the city, walking through the schools, listening to pedagogistas and atelieristas speak about their work, and witnessing the philosophy in action, there is still something that feels just beyond my reach.

And perhaps that is the point.

Perhaps the Reggio philosophy is not something that can ever be fully captured or mastered. Perhaps it is meant to remain in motion. It asks us to think, revisit, question, reinterpret, and try again. It requires us to examine our assumptions, listen more carefully, and remain open to what we do not yet understand.

I wonder now if the intangible quality I was searching for is not something hidden within the philosophy at all.

Perhaps it is the philosophy.

The belief that there is always more to learn.

Always another perspective to consider.

Always another possibility waiting to emerge.

Always something we have not yet seen.

As I reflected on what it means for educators to remain learners themselves, my thoughts returned to Adelaide and the vision behind the scholarship program she gifted McGehee. By investing in teachers’ growth, she created opportunities for learning that extend far beyond any one educator or journey. 

As I walked the streets of Reggio Emilia, visited schools, listened to educators share their research, I found myself thinking about how Adelaide once said that she could never repay McGehee for all that it had given her. Standing in Italy, I found myself wishing I had known her so that I could tell her something in return.

I would have told her that the opportunities she created for educators at McGehee continue to ripple outward in ways that are impossible to measure. Every teacher who is given the chance to deepen their understanding, pursue their passions, and return inspired to their work carries that learning back to hundreds of children and families. The impact multiplies year after year, classroom after classroom, long after the journey itself has ended.

I wish I could have shared a cappuccino with Adelaide on a quiet street in Reggio Emilia and thanked her personally. I would have told her that her generosity is still creating possibilities. That the seeds she planted continue to grow.

And perhaps that is one of the deepest lessons of Reggio Emilia itself: that meaningful change begins with a belief in possibility, an investment in people, and a willingness to imagine what something, or someone, might become.

The children whose lives are touched by the educators Adelaide supported may never know her name, but they are nevertheless part of her legacy. Adelaide Wisdom Benjamin, a distinguished civic leader, lawyer, philanthropist, and graduate of McGehee’s class of 1950, died peacefully at home on May 30, 2026. 

I left Reggio Emilia with answers.

But more importantly, I left with better questions.

Thank you, Adelaide. 

 

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About the Author: Sarah Noland is Pedagogista at McGehee’s Little Gate, where she works alongside teachers to deepen reflective, Reggio-inspired practice. Before stepping into this role, she worked as a classroom teacher and Atelierista. A former Marine and environmental scientist, Sarah brings her love of nature, inquiry, and lifelong learning to her work with children and educators. She lives in New Orleans with her husband and two children.