How Are You Being a Contribution?
And Other Questions That Shape How We Show Up in the World
There’s a moment every parent and educator recognizes. A child falters—on a test, in a friendship, in something they believed they could do—and then comes the look. Sometimes it says, Can you help me fix this? Other times, Am I still enough?
Our response in that moment matters. It shapes how the child understands success, motivation, resilience, and what it means to try again after falling short. So often, that shaping begins not with advice, but with the questions we ask.
Instead of, “What went wrong?” we might ask, “What went right?”
Rather than, “How was your day?” we could try, “Tell me something good that happened today” or “What felt meaningful?”
Rather than, “How can you help?” we can ask, “How can you be a contribution?”
These questions shift our orientation. They guide our children and ourselves toward growth, gratitude, and groundedness. They communicate, I see your effort. I trust your process. I believe in your ability to create meaning from this moment.
Each year that I taught middle school Judaic Studies, I began the very first day with an invitation: to think not only about what we would learn, but about how we would each be a contribution. I had designed a course that placed Jewish middot, ethics, and philosophy at the center, combining deep text study with real-world application. Our learning was never confined to the classroom; it reached outward, asking students to take what they learned and bring it to life in the world around them.
On that first day, I read them the Starfish story—the one where a child throws stranded starfish back into the sea, one at a time. When someone tells the child there are too many to make a difference, the child gently replies, “It matters to this one.”
That story became a guiding thread. Throughout the year, we returned to it often, as students reflected on what it meant to live Jewish values through action. One year, I invited them to create projects that embodied chesed, the Jewish value of lovingkindness. What emerged was a wide range of thoughtful and heartfelt initiatives. Some students cleaned up neglected areas of the school, taking responsibility for the shared space. Others ran a shoe drive for children in need, fundraised for the Clean Water Project, and packed essential items for women living in domestic violence shelters.
One group of boys chose to bake cookies and hand them out to strangers on the street. They planned every detail, packaged the cookies with care, and offered them with kindness and no expectation of anything in return.
A woman who received a cookie that day was so moved that she tracked down the school’s mailing address and sent a handwritten thank-you note. She wrote that she had been having an especially hard day, and the small gesture reminded her that there is still good in the world. Someone had seen her, and that mattered.
When I read the letter aloud to the class, the room went quiet. The students hadn’t set out to change anyone’s life. They had simply chosen to act with care and intention. Yet something shifted. It mattered to that one.
Throughout the year, I asked them again and again, “How are you being a contribution?” The question was never about academic performance or behavior. It was about presence—the quiet, everyday ways we make others feel safe, seen, and connected. It invited them to see contribution not as a one-time act, but as a way of moving through the world.
In my current work with children and teens, I see echoes of that same question everywhere. When a student shares frustration or disappointment, I often ask, “What went right?” or “Where do you see yourself as a contribution in this story?”
One boy came to me angry with himself for completing the wrong homework assignment. He hadn’t known it had been canceled and was flooded with shame and self-criticism. I asked, “What went right?” After a pause, he said, “I got extra practice.” The situation didn’t change, but the way he carried it did. He began to see himself not as someone who failed, but as someone who cared enough to try.
These reframes help children build resilience. Psychologists describe the “success cycle” as a rhythm of belief, action, results, and reinforcement. When a child believes they are capable, they are more likely to act. Small successes strengthen that belief and help build momentum. It does not take a major win to begin. A child who once gave up on puzzles finds one piece that fits. A quiet student raises a hand. When we reflect those moments—“You stayed with it even when it was hard”—we nurture their sense of self.
This process is also wired into the brain. Dopamine, our internal motivator, is released not only when we succeed but when we pursue something meaningful. Children light up when they see progress, whether in sticker charts, book logs, or practice journals. Their brains are registering, Keep going. This matters.
Today’s children are surrounded by instant rewards, which can make it harder to stay motivated through the slower rhythms of learning and effort. Anchoring motivation in the process, rather than the outcome, becomes a necessary course correction. When we say, “I can see how much you’ve practiced,” we help them focus on growth, not just results.
Even when all of this is in place, failure still arrives. That is not a flaw in the system; it is how growth happens. Neuroscientists call it a “prediction error.” The brain expected one outcome and got another, creating an opening for curiosity and new learning. This only happens when the emotional environment is safe. When failure is met with shame, children shut down. When it is met with curiosity, they try again.
Recently, someone asked me, “Do you think the spaces you’re in are better or worse now, given everything that’s happened in the world and in the Jewish community since 2020?” I paused. It’s difficult to measure this in a straight line. The children I work with have lived through a global pandemic, lockdowns, war, antisemitism, and the erosion of what once felt stable. Many of them carry more uncertainty than most adults realize.
Even so, what I see now is that they have language. They can name what they feel. They know how to say, “I’m overwhelmed,” or “That hurt,” or “I need a break.” They are learning to care for themselves and others with a depth that continues to surprise me. They ask questions that once might have gone unspoken—questions about fear, identity, belonging, grief, and hope. They are beginning to reframe their stories.
This matters deeply for Jewish families today. Parents are fielding enormous, painful questions from their children: What’s going to happen? What does this mean for us? Are we safe? Will this ever end? We don’t always have answers. What we do have is presence. We have tradition. We have language that holds both brokenness and light.
In our tradition, questions are not signs of doubt. They are signs of depth. The Talmud is built on them. Our ancestors asked questions in the wilderness. The Seder teaches our children to ask everything. We are not afraid of questions. We are shaped by them.
We may not know what comes next. Still, we can say, I’m here. We will keep choosing kindness. We will keep learning and asking and caring. We will keep being a contribution, because it matters. Even now. Especially now.
Children need us to show up—with steadiness, with compassion, with a language that honors who they are becoming. They need our questions. The ones that invite reflection, courage, and grace. The ones that help them notice their inner world and connect it to something larger. The ones that teach them to believe in the possibility of goodness, not in spite of hardship, but through it.
They need to know they already matter. That their presence is enough. That even in moments of struggle, they are still becoming.
So are we.
Practices to Try
If you’re wondering how to bring this into your own parenting, classroom, or conversations with children, here are a few small shifts that can make a lasting impact:
1. Reframe the question.
Instead of “How was your day?”, try:
– “Tell me something good that happened today.”
– “What’s something you’re proud of today?”
– “Who did you help or connect with today?”
2. Invite contribution.
Try asking:
– “How are you being a contribution today?”
– “What’s one way you brought kindness into the world this week?”
– “What value did you live out today?”
3. Name the effort, not just the outcome.
When offering feedback:
– “I noticed how long you stuck with that.”
– “You stayed calm even when it was frustrating.”
– “I could tell you cared about getting it right.”
4. Normalize failure as part of growth.
In moments of struggle, try:
– “What do you think didn’t work yet?”
– “What might you try next time?”
– “What went right, even in this?”
5. Create rituals for reflection.
End the day with a question that invites connection:
– “What’s something you’re grateful for today?”
– “Where did you feel most like yourself today?”
– “What’s one small good thing that happened?”
Over time, these small moments help shape how children see themselves and the world.
