You weren’t trying to listen.
You really weren’t. You were just walking to your car after a long day—your keys jingling in your hand, your brain halfway into what’s-for-dinner mode—and then you heard it.
“All you did was fail today.”
“You looked stupid out there.”
“Are you dumb?”
“You don’t deserve to be on that team.”
It came sharp and fast like gravel under a tire.
A parent. Talking to their kid. Loudly.
You don’t know what the context was—soccer practice, football drills, maybe even marching band for all you knew—but the words cut through the air with zero regard for who else was standing nearby.
You didn’t mean to eavesdrop.
But some things just hit you in the gut before you know what’s happening.
You kept walking, but not really. Your feet moved, but your mind froze. You wanted to unhear it, but your heart knew better.
Because that voice?
You’ve heard versions of it before. On the sidelines. In the bleachers. In the car on the way home. In your own kitchen, if we’re being honest.
And not just from other people.
It’s funny, in a not-at-all-funny way, how one phrase can stay with you for decades.
Like the time a teacher once said, “You’re a really clear writer.” You were maybe fifteen? And yet, to this day, you can practically feel the air in the room where it happened. You’ve carried those words like a little invisible trophy ever since.
But unfortunately, the flip side is just as sticky.
The snarky comment from a peer. The dismissive tone from someone you admired. The moment someone you loved said something so casually critical that it tattooed itself somewhere between your ribs.
Words don’t disappear.
They echo. They shape.
And kids? Oh, they hear everything.
Even when you think they aren’t listening.
Even when they’re pretending not to care.
Even when their eyes are rolling like prize-winning marbles.
They hear your tone. They internalize your phrasing. They start narrating their own inner monologue using the soundtrack you’ve unknowingly supplied.
And the part that really stings? You know this because you’ve done it too.
You’ve repeated the harsh things people have said to you in your own head.
You’ve let them narrate your failure reel.
And if you’re not careful, you accidentally pass that same language on to the people you love the most.
Now, let’s be clear. Wanting your kids to grow is a good thing.
Encouraging them to give their best? Also good.
Helping them develop grit, discipline, and self-awareness? Yes, please.
But it’s so easy to let that turn into something else.
Pressure.
Perfectionism.
Pushing them toward something because we want it.
Or worse—because we wanted it once and didn’t get it.
It’s the Uncle Rico effect.
You know, Napoleon Dynamite’s uncle who’s still stuck in 1982, reliving his almost-glory and swearing he could’ve gone pro if coach had just put him in.
We laugh, but the truth?
We’ve all got a little Uncle Rico in us.
Maybe we wanted to be the star athlete.
Or the lead in the school play.
Or the kid who got the scholarship, nailed the solo, won the science fair, or had a wall of trophies taller than they were.
So now, here we are—watching our kids walk through their own stories—and sometimes it’s hard to remember that their dreams aren’t supposed to fix ours.
This might be the trickiest part of parenting.
Not the logistics, not the schedules, not even the laundry (although… wow, the laundry).
No, the real challenge is in letting go of the idea that your kid is a smaller, shinier version of you.
You want them to love what you love.
To enjoy the things you’re good at.
To get excited about the things that light you up.
Because, let’s be honest, it’s just easier to relate to a kid who shares your interests.
You get them. You can help. You can cheer with actual enthusiasm when they win their third “Most Spirited Clarinet Player” award.
But maybe they don’t love music.
Maybe they love bugs. Or coding. Or lifting weights. Or designing tiny furniture out of hot glue and cardboard. Maybe they’d rather dig a hole in the backyard than read a book.
And that’s where your ego gets gently, lovingly knocked back a few steps.
Because parenting isn’t about turning your child into someone you understand.
It’s about learning to understand the child you have.
Over and over again.
It’s humbling. And exhausting. And sometimes it means cheering for goals you don’t fully get—but you cheer anyway, because their joy is what matters most.
So what do we do?
How do we show up as encouragers without becoming enablers?
How do we challenge them without crushing them?
We start by watching our words.
We ask ourselves if what we’re saying builds or breaks.
We pause before we react.
We admit when we get it wrong.
We remember that our voice is not just noise in their day. It’s part of their inner world. It’s part of the story they’re writing about themselves.
Are we narrating that story with hope?
With grace?
With truth and kindness in equal measure?
We may not always get it right. Lord knows, none of us do. But every moment is a chance to choose differently.
Because our voice becomes part of their playlist.
And long after the games are over, long after the report cards fade, they’ll still be humming that tune.
You think about the kid you overheard in the parking lot.
The one with the slumped shoulders and the silent walk.
You wonder what soundtrack is playing in their head right now.
And you hope—truly hope—that somewhere in their life, someone is speaking life into them. Someone is replacing the harsh track with something softer. Stronger. More true.
And you think about your own kids, too.
The ones who ask for snacks at 9:42 p.m.
The ones who forget their cleats or freeze up during a performance.
The ones who are still figuring it all out.
And you ask yourself:
What kind of voice do I want to be in their story?
Because they’re listening.
Even when we think they aren’t.
Even when we’re tired, or frustrated, or walking too fast through the parking lot to notice.
They’re listening.
So… what do you want them to hear?
Rachel L. Richard is a small-town farm girl turned suburbanite, a delightfully irreverent optimist, Mrs & Mama, floppy dog ear scratcher, lifelong learner, channel surfer, wanderer, believer, occasional creative, out-of-practice musician, cupcake addict, book devourer, and lover of all people.
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