Social boundaries? …. Never heard of them

Social Boundaries? Never Heard of Her.

AKA: My Daughter Thinks Every Family Is Her Family

We’re in the gym club room. You know the type—soft play structure off to one side, clusters of parents slouched around coffee cups, the air tinged with a mix of sweat, fabric softener, and crushed oat bar. Most children, by some unwritten code, stick to their zones: from their own grown-ups to the play equipment and back again, like tiny commuter trains running predictable lines.

And then there’s my daughter.

She doesn’t do zones.

She happens to the room.

First, she charges into the soft play like it owes her rent, makes her rounds, climbs something she probably shouldn’t, then—just as suddenly—reappears. But not to return to me. Oh no. That would be far too linear.

Instead, she begins what I now call her Outreach Phase.

She drifts toward unfamiliar families with the confidence of someone who owns a clipboard and a lanyard. No hesitation. No preamble. She’ll crouch next to a mum like they’ve known each other since antenatal class, or start a full conversation with someone’s dad about whatever thought is currently pinging in her brain.

She never introduces herself, she assumes because she knows who she is they do as well. She just starts being there, part of the group.

Then she finds an empty table. Claims it. As if it’s been waiting for her. She lays out invisible blueprints, arranges chairs, waves at nearby children like a benevolent host welcoming guests to her exclusive club.

Children come. Of course they do.

She’s magnetic. They don’t know why they’re sitting down, only that she said so, and now here they are, part of something that did not exist five minutes ago and somehow feels like it always should have.

Meanwhile, I sit to the side, quietly watching. Not intervening. Not even surprised anymore.

If we dare bring up food at this point—she’ll wander over, take a bite, and vanish again mid-chew. Like a passing monarch, too busy for more than a nibble. Her table, her court, her people await.

Other parents glance over sometimes. I offer a sheepish smile, ready to leap in with a retrieval mission if needed, but they usually just smile back—equal parts bewildered and entertained. Some look relieved. (“Thank God someone else’s kid is weird.”)

And yes, it’s a little chaotic. A little boundary-less. A little oh please don’t lick that at times.

But it’s also magic.

I used to feel the need to tug her back, rein her in, whisper apologies and redirect her to our table. But over time, I’ve stopped. Because I realized this isn’t her being rude. This is her being exactly who she is—limitless in her curiosity, unafraid of strangers, entirely uninterested in conventional social rules.

She doesn’t cling. She connects.

She believes every space is hers to fill, every person a potential friend. She doesn’t see categories: family, stranger, mine, theirs. She sees people. Opportunities. Rooms full of possibility.

Yes, one day she’ll need to learn boundaries. She’ll need to recognize when to pause, wait, check in. But that can come. That can be taught maybe… or not maybe she’ll be a politician. 

What can’t be taught is this fierce joy in humanity. This ability to enter a space and belong to it without hesitation. To take an empty table and make it a kingdom.

So for now, I’ll keep packing the oat bars. Keep watching from a distance. Keep offering apologetic thumbs-ups to baffled parents who suddenly find themselves hosting a small, sparkly diplomat.

Because the world doesn’t scare her.

And maybe—just maybe—it needs a little more of that.