They say tough love builds character. That life is hard, and children need to learn that early. That if we don’t teach them about consequences, the world will do it, and it won’t be kind. That a little discipline now can save them from pain later. But what if we’re wrong? What if what we call discipline ends up shaping a voice in their head that tells them they are not enough?
I watch my daughter cry sometimes, and it does something to me that words can’t touch. Her face, her little hands rubbing her eyes, the sobs that come in waves like she’s drowning in feelings too big for her small body—it shakes me to my core. People tell me not to coddle her. That if I respond to every tear, she’ll become weak or manipulative. But that’s not what I see when she cries. I see a human being asking for help the only way she knows how. I see need, not manipulation. I see honesty, not weakness.
What if her crying has a reason, even when I don’t understand it? What if every tear is a chance to show her that feelings are not something to fear or suppress, but something to feel, to sit with, to move through? What if responding to her sadness with tenderness doesn’t make her fragile, but instead teaches her to hold space for her own heart one day?
There’s this idea that love needs to be tough to prepare children for life. That if we don’t harden them, the world will crush them. But I wonder—do we really need to make our homes feel like the world at its worst, just to get them ready for it? What if instead of making them tough, we make them whole? What if instead of preparing them for battle, we give them shelter? Not to shield them from everything, but to remind them that no matter what happens out there, there is safety somewhere. There is softness. There is love that does not shrink away when they are messy or loud or scared.
Some people fear that gentle parenting means permissiveness. That if we don’t draw hard lines, children won’t respect us. But I think respect is taught less by fear and more by modeling. When I respect my daughter’s emotions, she learns to respect others’. When I speak with kindness, even when I’m frustrated, she learns that strength and gentleness are not opposites. Boundaries can be firm without being sharp. Correction can be clear without being cruel.
I know that children test limits. That they scream, and push, and make mistakes. And I know that parents get tired. That we snap sometimes. That we don’t always say the right thing. But tough love isn’t just about the occasional bad day. It’s a philosophy. A way of seeing children as people who must be shaped, even against their will, for their own good. It sees tears as manipulation. Anger as defiance. Sensitivity as weakness. And I wonder—how does that shape a child over time?
I think of the things we say when we’re trying to teach a lesson. Things like “stop crying,” or “you’re being dramatic,” or “you should know better.” They sound small, maybe even reasonable. But what if those words sink in deeper than we think? What if they become the inner dialogue our children carry into adulthood? What if the voice we use when they mess up becomes the voice they hear when they fail later in life?
I don’t want my daughter to grow up with a voice in her head that doubts her every move. I don’t want her to look in the mirror and see all the ways she didn’t measure up. I want her to know that mistakes are part of growing, not signs of unworthiness. I want her to feel safe in her own skin, even when she’s struggling. I want her to believe that love isn’t conditional on good behavior.
Sometimes people say that children need to be “humbled.” That they need to be reminded they’re not the center of the universe. But children already feel small. They already look up at a world they don’t fully understand, trying to find their place in it. Maybe our job isn’t to shrink them further, but to lift them up. To remind them that they matter. That they are loved, even when they’re messy and loud and unpolished.
Of course, I want my child to grow into a person with character. I want her to be kind and respectful and responsible. But I don’t believe shame and fear are the best teachers. I believe character is built through connection. Through watching others treat people with dignity. Through being held accountable in ways that preserve our worth. Through knowing that no matter how bad a day was, love is still waiting.
Tough love might change behavior in the short term. But what does it do to the heart? What happens when a child learns that love can be withdrawn? That affection depends on obedience? That vulnerability is punished? They might learn to hide their emotions. To smile when they’re hurting. To lie rather than disappoint. To disconnect from themselves to stay connected to us. And that is too high a price.
It’s tempting to think that being strict or withholding affection will toughen kids up. But the truth is, children don’t become resilient because they were hardened. They become resilient because they were loved. Because someone believed in them. Because when life got hard, someone showed up and didn’t look away.
There’s a quiet kind of strength in being soft with a hurting child. In sitting with their sadness instead of rushing to fix it. In saying, “I’m here,” instead of “stop crying.” It’s not weak to comfort. It’s not indulgent to care. It’s human. And it teaches them to be human, too.
When my daughter cries, I remind myself she’s not giving me a hard time. She’s having a hard time. And it’s my job to meet her where she is, not where I wish she were. I want her to learn that her feelings are not too much. That her needs are not a burden. That love does not disappear when she’s at her most difficult.
There will be time for lessons. For conversations about choices and consequences. But those conversations don’t have to be laced with coldness. They don’t have to carry the weight of rejection. We can guide without wounding. We can discipline without distancing.
Children are always learning—from what we say, yes, but even more from what we do. From how we respond to their pain. From how we speak in moments of frustration. From whether we choose connection over control. They are watching, absorbing, becoming.
I don’t want my daughter to grow up learning that love feels like silence when she cries. That her pain is something to hide. That she has to be tough to be worthy. I want her to grow up knowing that she is safe, even when she’s at her worst. That love stays. That softness can be strong.
They say tough love builds character. Maybe sometimes it does. But it can also build walls. Self-doubt. Shame. A quiet voice that says, “Don’t be too much.” And once that voice is there, it can take a lifetime to quiet it.
What if, instead, we build something else? What if we build children who trust themselves? Who know that being sensitive isn’t a flaw? Who can sit with pain without running from it, because they were never taught to fear their own tears?
That’s the kind of strength I want for my daughter. Not the strength to never cry, but the strength to cry and keep going. Not the strength to hide who she is, but the strength to show up fully. Not the strength to push through without help, but the strength to ask for it when she needs it.
So no, I won’t choose tough love. Not the kind that ignores tears or calls them weakness. Not the kind that shames in the name of discipline. My love will be gentle, even when it’s firm. Present, even when it’s tired. Unshaken, even when tested. Because I believe that love doesn’t have to be tough to be strong. It just has to stay.
