Before I became a mum, I thought helping a child through difficult emotions meant finding the right words.
The right advice.
The right solution.
If my daughter was upset, I wanted to make it better as quickly as I could. I think that’s what most parents want. We don’t like seeing our children hurt.
But somewhere along the way, I realised she wasn’t always looking for a solution.
Sometimes she just needed me to sit with her.
To listen.
To let her know that what she was feeling wasn’t “too much.”
As parents, we naturally want to protect our children from pain. If we could take away every disappointment, every worry, every anxious thought, we probably would.
But we can’t.
What we can do is help them feel safe enough to move through those moments.
One of the biggest lessons motherhood has taught me is that children don’t always tell us what they’re feeling.
Sometimes they show us.
A tummy ache before school.
A sudden reluctance to join an activity they once loved.
A little more clinginess than usual.
More frustration over something that seems small.
Or complete silence.
I’ve learned not to rush to conclusions.
Instead, I’ve started asking myself, “What might she be trying to tell me that she doesn’t yet have the words for?”
That simple shift has changed the way I parent.
It doesn’t mean I always get it right.
There are still days when I’m tired. Days when I answer too quickly or miss something I wish I’d noticed sooner.
But motherhood has taught me that our children don’t need us to be perfect.
They need us to stay curious.
That same lesson found its way into my writing.
When I created The Adventures of Morish, I didn’t want to write a child who was fearless.
I wanted to write a child who felt real.
Someone who became overwhelmed sometimes.
Someone who questioned herself.
Someone who needed encouragement just as much as courage.
Because I think that’s the kind of child many young readers recognise.
Stories have become a gentle bridge between my daughter and me.
Sometimes we’ve talked about a character instead of talking directly about a difficult feeling.
Oddly enough, that can make hard conversations feel a little easier.
It’s amazing how often children find the words for themselves when they don’t feel pressured to find them.
That’s why I’ll always believe books are about so much more than learning to read.
They help children understand themselves.
They help them recognise emotions.
They remind them that everyone feels afraid, uncertain, lonely, or overwhelmed sometimes.
Most importantly, they remind children that those feelings don’t define who they are.
If you’re reading this as a parent, I just want to say this:
You’re probably doing better than you think.
The fact that you’re trying to understand your child already matters more than you know.
And if you’re a teacher, librarian, teaching assistant or someone who works with children every day, thank you.
The patience you show, the books you recommend, the conversations you make space for… they often stay with children long after the school day ends.
Those small moments matter.
More than we always realise.
Thank you for reading.
I’d love for you to join the Morish Press community if you’d like more reflections on parenting, children’s books, emotional wellbeing, and the stories that help children grow.
Elorine