My daughter showed me a story she drew this week.
I looked at the characters and said, "Oh, they look sad."
She smiled — this big, knowing smile — and said, "Actually, they're very happy."
And then she said something I haven't been able to stop thinking about: Just because you look like one emotion on the outside doesn't mean that's what you're feeling on the inside.
She's eight. And she handed me the whole newsletter in one sentence.
Her drawing is at the top of this letter, because it says everything I'm about to say — only better.
Here's the thing. She was talking about her characters. But she was also, without knowing it, talking about all of us.
You have probably done this recently — carried something heavy in your body while your face did something else entirely. Looked composed while your chest was tight. Smiled through a conversation while quietly holding yourself together underneath it.
That's not pretending. That's capacity. That's you doing the enormous, invisible work of getting through a hard moment without falling apart in front of everyone.
And our kids? They do the very same thing.
A child who looks angry might actually be terrified underneath. A child who's acting silly or loud might be two seconds from tears. A child who seems "fine" might be bracing for something they don't have words for yet.
This is where it gets tricky for us as parents — because our instincts are fast.
In my years as a doctor of psychology, I've watched this pattern come up again and again: we see the outside, and we name it like it's the whole story.
"You're mad." "You're upset." "You're being rude." "You're fine."
Sometimes we're right.
But sometimes we're naming the most visible layer — not the truest one.
And when we name too quickly, it can land on a child like a spotlight. Like being pinned. Like pressure to either agree with our version of what they're feeling, or defend themselves against it.
The goal isn't to stop naming things altogether. The goal is to name gently, with room — to hold what we see on the outside like a clue, not a conclusion.
Now — I want to tell you what happened when I read this back to my daughter.
She got quiet for a second. Then she said, "But wait. If you're telling them to say 'you look angry' or 'you look sad' — how is that helpful if you're also saying they might feel something different inside?"
I sat with that, because she was right to ask it. It sounds like a contradiction: name the feeling, but also acknowledge it might be wrong?
Here's what I told her.
Naming what you see still matters. There is real power in helping a child put language to what's happening in their body and on their face. That's not the part we let go of. What we add is space — space for that name to not be the final word. You say, this is what I see, and in the same breath, I'm also open to the possibility that something else is happening underneath.
And that combination? That's where the magic is.
Because when you do both — name it and leave room — you give your child something they will carry for the rest of their life: permission to correct you. Permission to say, "Actually, that's not what I'm feeling." Permission to know that someone can be wrong about their emotions, and they don't have to just go along with it.
That is a profound thing to build between a parent and a child. Because the child who practices that — who learns in the safety of your kitchen or your living room that they get to say, "No, that's not it" — grows into an adult who doesn't feel silenced. An adult who feels rooted enough to say, "You don't get to decide what I feel." An adult who doesn't let other people's assumptions about their emotions become the truth they live by.
This isn't just about a softer parenting moment. It's about who your child becomes when they no longer live under your roof.
A small River & Ember ritual: The "Maybe" Mirror
1. Name what you see — softly, as a maybe."You look serious right now." "Your face looks tight." "You're very quiet."
2. Make room for more than one truth."And you might be feeling something different inside." "You might be feeling more than one thing at once."
3. Offer a doorway — not a question."If you want, you can tell me with words." "Or you can show me with a drawing." "Or we can just sit close."
Then pause.
No follow-up questions. Because questions, even gentle ones, can accidentally become an interrogation when a child is still trying to understand their own inner world.
Your steadiness is the invitation. You're saying, without saying it: I don't need you to perform your feelings for me. I don't need the outside to match the inside. I'm here either way.
If you want one line to carry with you this week, try this:
"I won't decide too fast. I'll stay close."
For the grown-up heart
Sit with these for a moment — not to answer right away, but to notice what comes up:
- When I'm carrying a lot inside, what does my outside tend to show?
- What did I learn as a child about which feelings were allowed to be seen?
- When someone names my feelings for me and gets it wrong — what do I do? Do I correct them, or do I go quiet?
- What doorway helps my child most right now: words, drawing, movement, or quiet closeness?
P.S. The River & Ember Spring Edition is coming in April, and this theme — the gap between what feelings look like and what they actually are — runs right through the heart of it. If that sounds like something you need, stay close. I'll share more soon.
A gentle invitation: Hit reply and tell me — what's one "maybe" phrase you want to practice this week?
With warmth,
Tenisha
River & Ember
