I Matter: Raising Children Who Know Their Worth

She sat down beside me, her tone both hesitant and proud.

“So… I told her, ‘Stay out of my business,’ and then I walked away.”
She paused. “Is that okay? That I said that?”

I smiled, not because it was funny, but because of the power tucked inside her words.
“You get an A+ in setting a boundary and taking care of yourself,” I said. “I have absolutely nothing to add.”

This wasn’t a one-time moment. This wasn’t a fluke. This was the culmination of an entire year of quiet, steady work. She had come to me again and again—after recess, in the hallway, during transitions—her face flushed with the sting of social dynamics gone awry. Whispers. Exclusion. Pressure to include people who made her feel small. Guilt when she didn’t feel safe. Confusion about whether standing up for herself was the same as being mean.

Each time, we had peeled back the layers: What happened? How did it feel in your body? What did you wish you could say? What stopped you?

And now, here she was—not asking for the right script, but showing me the one she had written for herself. And it was fierce. It was clear. It was hers.

What I wanted her to know—what I want every child to know—is that this isn’t just okay. It’s holy. It’s sacred. To recognize that your dignity has been touched without permission and to claim it back without apology? That is the work of a lifetime.

Most of us adults are still learning how to do that.

We teach children to be kind. To be generous. To share their snacks and their crayons and their attention. Yet we often forget to teach them the counterweight: how to say no. How to protect their energy. How to name what is not okay and leave the room—without guilt and without shame.

So many of us are running on fumes, quietly wondering if we’re allowed to want more. If our instincts can be trusted. If we are too much, or not enough, or both. And our children are watching.

So often, especially for girls, boundary-setting is tangled up with fear—fear of hurting someone’s feelings, of losing a friend, of being seen as mean. Many girls are praised for being agreeable, easygoing, or “good,” and they internalize the message that maintaining harmony matters more than honoring their instincts. When they finally set a boundary, it can feel like they’re doing something wrong. Learning to tolerate the discomfort of others—not in a cruel way, but with calm and integrity—is a necessary skill. It’s how we teach them that conflict doesn’t mean disconnection, and that speaking their truth doesn’t make them unkind.

Because kindness without boundaries is not kindness. It’s self-erasure.
And sensitivity without self-trust becomes a breeding ground for anxiety.

We cannot keep raising children—especially girls—to believe that their worth is found in how palatable they are to others. That to be “good” means being easy to be around, agreeable, soft-spoken, endlessly available. We are not here to raise daughters who shrink themselves into someone else’s comfort. We are here to raise women who take up their rightful space with presence, not apology. Women who stand in their knowing and say, I know who I am. I know what I need. I don’t need to justify that to you.

When she spoke those words—calm, clear, and unshaken—it felt as if something ancient was rising up in her. An unspoken knowing. A spark of the soul that says: I am not here to be diminished. I am not here to be small. That truth doesn’t need permission. It doesn’t need polish. It simply needs to be remembered.

Because the world will try to chip away at their worth.
We are the ones who must teach them how to protect it.

Here’s the truth: we cannot teach what we do not live.

If our children are going to learn that they are worthy, it will not be because we told them. It will be because they watched us live like it was true.

They will watch how we speak about ourselves when we make mistakes, how we apologize to keep the peace, how we shrink our needs to avoid discomfort. They will absorb how we advocate—or fail to advocate—for ourselves at work, in our relationships, in our own homes. They are always listening for what we believe about ourselves, even when we’re silent.

And if we are mothers, they will notice whether we have been taught—by culture, by our own upbringing—that love means disappearing. That good mothers do not have needs. That our value is tied to how little we ask for. Undoing that myth is not only an act of personal healing—it is an act of liberation for our children.

If we want to raise children who know they matter, we have to begin by daring to believe that we matter. Not someday, not when things are less busy, not when we’ve proven ourselves or earned a rest—but now. As we are. In this exact moment.

I didn’t grow up with the voice that said, You matter.
Not in the way I needed it. Not when the ground trembled beneath me.

For years, I didn’t believe I was lovable—not truly. Not in the quiet, unconditional way love is supposed to live inside a person. When you’ve lived with trauma that layers itself like sediment, when your body remembers what your mind tries to forget, when mental illness steals your voice and replaces it with shame—it’s almost impossible to find that part of yourself that says, I see you. I’m here. I won’t leave.

Self-worth doesn’t grow well in soil that’s been scorched. And mine had been scorched more than once.

There were years I spent trying to outrun the pain. I believed that if I could just become useful enough, good enough, needed enough—then maybe I’d be worthy of breath. Of space. Of love. But worth doesn’t come from what you produce. It comes from remembering that your existence is already a miracle.

And I forgot. For a long time, I forgot.

The path back wasn’t a single breakthrough. It wasn’t linear or clean. It was a slow gathering of strength, a spiritual and psychological reclamation. A patchwork of moments:
– Studying the human mind and heart through psychology
– Immersing myself in ancient wisdom and contemplative practice
– Sitting with mentors and guides who reminded me that healing wasn’t something I had to earn
– Rebuilding physical strength, step by trembling step, until I could feel myself anchored again in this body that had once felt like a battlefield

And slowly, I returned to my body. I began to move again—not as punishment or performance, but as prayer. I felt my strength return, not only in my legs or lungs, but in the way I stood taller, breathed deeper, trusted myself more fully. I was no longer a stranger to my own skin.

Then—somewhere in the quiet—I heard it.
That voice. The one I had been aching for all along.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t grand. But it was real.
I love you, it said. Even when you’re not okay. Even when no one sees. You matter.

And that changed everything.

Not all at once. Not with trumpets and drama. But slowly, like spring after a long winter.
I didn’t become someone new. I came home to myself.

This is why I teach the way I do. Why I fight for children to know their worth and for parents to reclaim their own. Why I listen deeply when someone whispers, “Is it okay that I said that?” Because I know what it costs to wonder.

So if you are reading this and you’re still not sure—if you’ve been told you’re too much, or not enough, or only lovable when you’re useful—let me say this plainly:

You are already worthy.
You don’t have to earn it.
You don’t have to shrink.
You don’t have to explain.

You can begin, right now, to live like it’s true. To speak as someone who matters. To parent from a place that is rooted and whole. To model for the children in your life what it looks like to protect something sacred—yourself.

They are watching.
If you model it, they just might believe it.
If they believe it, they’ll live like it.
If they live like it, the world changes.

One child.
One moment.
One quiet, steady voice that says: I matter.

נֵר יְהוָה נִשְׁמַת אָדָם
The soul of each person is a light of God.
(Proverbs 20:27)