Playing the Long Game in Parenting

Last night, as I was leaving a friend’s house with all three kids, she called out with a laugh, “Whatever it is you do to get your kids to leave without a meltdown—please bottle it and sell it.”

I smiled. They had, in fact, left calmly. That kind of exit isn’t effortless—it’s built. It comes from ten-minute warnings offered with intention, whispered cues at the right moment, and a shared understanding shaped over time. Beneath that ease lies something deeper: years of quiet conversations at the kitchen table, in the car, at bedtime. Conversations that begin with “What does it mean to be a good guest?” and unfold into “How do we carry ourselves with care, even when we’re tired, even when we don’t want to go?” These are not one-time lessons. They are values practiced slowly, consistently, lovingly.

Each week, I sit with children who were never given that chance. Some walk into my office vibrating with unspoken emotion, heading straight for the punching bag to let their bodies speak what their mouths cannot. Others begin by saying, “I’m not allowed to feel sad,” and then collapse in tears that surprise even them. I’ve watched children tear paper into small pieces until they can breathe again, then quietly start building collages that hold their worry. These are not misbehaving kids. These are kids doing their best with what they’ve been given.

There are also children who resist. Some need to be coaxed—or even dragged—into the room. Some say they don’t want to talk, roll their eyes, test every adult in their lives just to see who’s going to give up first. I’ve had days when the door slams behind them and I wonder if anything I’m doing is working. Moments come where I question whether I’m holding the line or just holding on. Beneath all of it, I return to this steady knowing: they don’t need me to fix them. They need me to stay.

We start by tuning in. Not to fix or to fight, but to listen. I teach them to feel their feet on the floor. To notice the tightness in their chests or the buzzing in their hands. We practice breathing—not to calm down, but to get closer to what the body is trying to say. A clenched fist often holds a message of fear. A fast heartbeat might be a whisper of loneliness. This mindfulness work isn’t about stillness. It’s about connection. It’s about reminding children that their feelings are not too much, that their bodies carry wisdom, and that the ability to pause is a superpower they can always reach for.

"Structure is not the opposite of compassion. It is the vessel that holds it."

The deeper needs of these children are often missed. What looks like defiance, avoidance, or outbursts is usually a call for connection, structure, or safety. Adults often respond to behavior without pausing to ask: Is this child safe? Do they believe they still belong, even when they struggle?

What looks like defiance is often fear dressed in armor.

Far too often, kindness is offered without structure. Compassion turns into permissiveness in those cases. Children without boundaries do not feel free. They become untethered, floating in uncertainty and longing for someone to hold the frame steady.

Discipline, when rooted in relationship, becomes a language of love.

Upholding expectations and boundaries is not about punishment. It is about presence and consistency. When a child throws a chair, the most loving response is a calm removal and a clear message: “I won’t let you hurt anyone. When your body feels safe again, we’ll talk about what happened and how to make it right.” In a school setting, this must be paired with meaningful consequence and guided repair. Repeated behavior calls for deeper support and sustained partnership. Without follow-through, chaos becomes normalized. Without clear expectations, a child’s identity can become fused with their behavior.

Parents often ask, “How do you talk to your kids about grief, illness, injustice, fear?” My answer is always the same: I talk to them. Honestly. Openly. With room for curiosity and even uncertainty. Children do not need us to have all the answers. They need to know that their questions are welcome, that their feelings are not dangerous, and that even when life is hard, we will not disappear.

Supporting a child’s growth sometimes means holding the line when it would be easier not to. It means working with families to get the right help, even when the truth is uncomfortable. It means not allowing repeated harm in classrooms and communities while still holding a deep belief in every child’s ability to grow. This kind of discipline requires courage, patience, and consistency from teachers and caregivers alike. No one should be expected to carry it alone. Successful partnership only works when expectations are upheld, communication is real, and the goal is the growth of the whole child.

You are building something quiet and strong and real. Even in the tears and the chaos, you are in the holy middle of something becoming.

The goal isn’t short-term ease. It is long-term capacity. We are raising children who will know how to stay at the table when things get hard. Who will offer empathy at someone else’s dinner table. Who will return to center after losing it. Who will ask for help when they need it—and offer help when it’s needed.

That kind of strength doesn’t come from a single conversation. It comes from the small, invisible work that happens over time. From how we show up when it’s hard. From what we choose to hold steady. What my friend saw that night wasn’t a magic trick. It was a flicker of something we’d built—imperfectly, patiently—over years. That’s what the long game looks like from the outside. Calm. What it takes to get there is much harder to see.

So much of this work happens quietly—beneath the surface, behind closed doors, in moments that go unseen. Still, there are anchors. There are things we can do, even when we feel unsure.

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What Helps in the Hard Moments

(A Practical Guide for the Long Game)

• Name the feeling
  Use calm, direct language to help children identify emotions. “It looks like your body is telling us you’re feeling overwhelmed. Do you want to sit, squeeze something, or move around a bit?”

• Tune in to the body
  Invite children to notice their heartbeat, breath, shoulders, fists, or stomach. Ask, “What is your body saying right now?”

• Set the boundary clearly
  “You’re allowed to feel mad. It’s not okay to throw things.”
  Boundaries keep everyone safe—and teach children that big feelings don’t need to equal big harm.

• Follow through—without drama
  If you’ve set a consequence, hold to it calmly and clearly.
  “Since you hit your brother after I asked you to stop, we’re taking a break from the game for now.”
  No lectures, no raised voice. Just steady presence. Discipline isn’t a reaction to behavior—it’s a relationship-driven response that teaches what safety and respect look like.

• Repair and reconnect
  After discipline, return gently. A short check-in. A hug. A laugh.
  “That was a hard moment. I’m glad we’re okay now.”

• Circle back for reflection
  When calm returns, reflect with them:
  “What was going on for you?”
  “What might you do differently next time?”
  “What do you think you needed in that moment?”

• Model value-aligned behavior
  Let your children see you breathe through frustration, apologize when needed, and hold your own boundaries with clarity and kindness.

• Stay steady, especially when it’s hard
  Your steadiness shows them that you believe in their growth—even when it’s messy. Especially then.