What’s Really Inside

Challenging the Assumptions We Place on Our Kids

Before I could drive, my mom would take me to her salon to get my hair cut.

On one particular visit, while she was paying, I stood near the checkout desk, admiring the shelves of perfectly arranged products.

I don’t remember who suggested it or why my mom said yes, only that on that visit, I got to choose a shampoo and conditioner of my own.

Aveda. Spearmint. Expensive.

I was instantly devoted.

That clean, herbal smell had me walking through my days feeling a little more polished and a lot more grown-up.

I treated those bottles like something worth saving. So when they were empty, I refilled them with my drugstore products. I loved catching the last traces of spearmint and reaching for something that still felt special, long after what was inside had been replaced.

Months later, when we were back at the salon, I asked my mom if I could get them again.

She said no. The reason seemed obvious: I hadn’t finished the last ones she bought me.

I never corrected her.

Maybe I was embarrassed by how much I cared and how far I’d gone to preserve something that was never meant to matter that much. Or maybe the moment got lost in whatever came next.

But she walked away sure she knew what was true.

I walked away holding the real story by myself.

And over something as ordinary as shampoo, we were separated.

Just a little.

When Interpretation Stops Helping

When our kids are little, so much of good parenting depends on interpretation.

Before they can explain themselves, we learn to read the cry, the off look, the small change in tone that tells us something needs our attention. In those early years, we’re trusted, even praised, for understanding what our kids can’t yet say.

We know when they last ate, how badly they slept, who hurt their feelings at preschool. Our knowing has context.

And for a while, it works because we’re close to almost everything.

But as our kids grow, more of their lives unfold outside our view. They come home with disappointments we only partly understand, pressures we didn’t see build, and stories we may not be trusted with yet.

So the skill that once helped us starts to mislead us.

This transition is often harder than we admit.

Not knowing can feel like failure or lost access, like we’ve gone from the person who could once read the whole room to the person hoping to be let in.

But part of loving someone as they grow is accepting that they can become more separate from us without becoming less connected to us.

What once ran mostly on instinct now requires restraint.

And that restraint requires humility.

Assumptions With a History

Some assumptions aren’t guesses. They’re old conclusions we forgot to revisit.

Sometimes what we call knowing our kids is actually refusing to update our understanding of them.

We freeze them in an image that once made sense: the sensitive one, the easy one, the kid who never follows through.

The most convincing assumptions are the ones with a history behind them. We can point to the past and feel reasonable, even when the past is no longer the whole truth.

That’s what makes them so hard to release. They let us feel certain before we have actually looked.

And when certainty is easier to reach for than a fresh look, we are no longer understanding our kids.

We are mistaking recognition for accuracy.

Of course kids change. We’re raising them to do exactly that.

The kid who used to fall apart may be trying hard to recover faster. The one we labeled irresponsible may be carrying more than we realized.

But if we keep reaching backward, those changes have to compete with the record we’re keeping. Before our kids can show us who they are today, they have to get past who we decided they were.

For them, trying to be known differently starts to feel like disproving a case they didn’t realize we were building.

The loss isn’t only that we misunderstand them once.

It’s that, over time, they may stop showing us who they’re becoming.

The Work of Being Misunderstood

A child who is constantly explained eventually stops trying to explain themselves.

They may still talk to us about the ordinary surface of their lives. From the outside, it can look like we still have access.

But they begin to learn what’s worth the effort and what isn’t. If they already know where our assumptions are waiting, they may leave out the softer motive, the unexpected context, or the part of the story that would require too much clarifying.

This is different from secrecy. It’s self-protection. They’re tired of being misunderstood and having to guide us back.

So they let the wrong story stand. If we decide they’re lazy, they may not have the energy to explain that they’re overwhelmed. If we decide they don’t care, they may not want to admit how badly they do. And “fine” becomes useful because it ends the conversation.

This is how distance grows while everyone still looks close.

Our child is still at the table, still answering, still giving us enough to keep the relationship functioning. But the more exact truth has gone somewhere else.

We tend to notice distance only after it becomes hard to miss.

But distance usually starts earlier than that, in the small calculation a kid makes when they realize we are more attached to our assumption than to their explanation.

Being Known Incorrectly

There’s a particular kind of loneliness kids can feel when they are known incorrectly by someone who loves them.

Being misread by a parent can be confusing in its own way. They love me. They’re paying attention. And still, they’re responding to a version of me that’s slightly off.

Not false enough to reject entirely. Not true enough to feel seen.

That’s where the ache lives.

Because being loved doesn’t automatically mean being accurately known. And when a child keeps hearing an almost-right version of themselves reflected back, they can start to feel alone with what we keep missing.

This is why our assumptions matter. Not because every missed read becomes a wound, or because parents are supposed to interpret every feeling perfectly. We won’t.

But when our kids are repeatedly misunderstood by the people closest to them, they learn something about the limits of our knowing. They learn which parts of themselves we seem able to recognize and which parts they may have to carry alone.

This is where the question turns back to us: have we been close enough to notice our kid, but too certain to see them clearly?

The gap does not close by loving our child more. It closes when there is enough room in the relationship for the truth to change what we thought we knew.

Leaving Room Before We Decide

As our kids grow, one of the harder tasks is learning to leave room between what we notice and what we decide it means.

We may think we’re seeing disrespect when what’s underneath is embarrassment, or read rejection in something that’s really sadness. Even the things we admire can mislead us: confidence may be pressure, and silence may be loneliness.

We don’t have to catch all of it perfectly.

But we do need to pause before we make our first read the final one.

That pause isn’t passive. It gives our kids room to author the story before our version hardens.

Leaving room doesn’t mean letting everything go. Our kids still need limits, responsibility, and a clear understanding of how their choices affect other people.

But we can’t guide well from a false premise.

And we can’t stay close to someone we keep misreading with confidence.

Keeping the File Open

My mom meant no harm. She made a decision based on the information she had.

But that’s what makes the moment worth remembering. Every family has moments like this, when the visible story becomes the whole story.

A child asks for shampoo.
A parent remembers unfinished bottles.
A conclusion forms.
The real story stays hidden.

And years later, the strange ache of being wrong in someone else’s mind is still remembered.

Not because haircare products matter. Because being known does.

We stay close by remembering there may be more beneath the first explanation.

As often as possible, our kids should feel that we are willing to come closer before we conclude. Our love should be sturdy enough to survive the first story not making sense. Humble enough to be wrong. Willing enough to revise.

When we leave that much room, something honest becomes possible.

Our kids give us the odd reason, the real reason, the half-formed reason. They risk being seen before they’ve cleaned up the explanation, trusting we won’t make them smaller to make the story easier for us.

And over time, they learn that home isn’t the place where the old story gets the final word.

It’s where being known is allowed to change as they do.