The Language Olympics
What Modern Parenting Advice Gets Right—and Wrong About How We Talk to Kids
Modern parenting can sometimes feel like a linguistic obstacle course.
Don’t say “Good job.” Describe what your child actually did: “You finished that math problem even though it was really hard!”
Don’t shout “Be careful!” when your toddler climbs somewhere new. Stay quiet and let them assess the risk—or, if you need to intervene, offer a specific direction: “First, put your foot on the beam.”
And instead of saying, “Don’t throw sand,” we’re apparently supposed to say, “Sand stays on the ground.”
The advice is everywhere: Use positive language. Narrate behavior. Avoid unnecessary warnings. Give specific directions. Validate feelings. Encourage independence.
The principles themselves can be useful. But sometimes parenting starts to feel less like raising a child and more like competing in the Language Olympics, where every sentence is an opportunity to win or lose a gold medal in emotionally intelligent communication.
Why parenting language feels so high-stakes
It seems like everyone has a parenting phrase they have adopted—and another one that makes them absolutely lose their minds.
There’s nothing quite like hearing a mother loudly announce to her child, just loudly enough for the other parents to hear:
“We don’t hit our friends! Our hands are for helping!”
It is a grand performance of expert parenting. The behavior is clearly an anomaly, but don't worry—the parent knows exactly how to correct it.
Of course, this is preferable to screaming at a child or hitting them. But the pressure to say precisely the right thing to a small human—who feels no corresponding obligation to use precise language in return—can be exhausting.
And anyone who has spent an hour at the playground immediately before lunchtime knows that “exhausting” is doing a lot of work in that sentence.
When parenting advice becomes content
Many of these communication strategies have legitimate psychological and developmental principles behind them.
The problem is that social media has transformed parenting advice into content.
A useful idea can quickly become a rigid rule:
Never say “Good job.”
Never say “Be careful.”
Never tell your child what not to do.
Always validate before setting a boundary.
Use this exact phrase instead.
Some of these recommendations may have originated in thoughtful research or clinical practice. But online, they are often stripped of context and repackaged as Instagram-friendly formulas.
It can be difficult for parents to distinguish between evidence-based parenting advice and algorithm-friendly parenting content.
That distinction matters.
Because children are not algorithms, and parents are not robots.
What does “good parenting language” actually accomplish?
One of the most useful books I've encountered on this subject is How to Talk So Kids Will Listen & Listen So Kids Will Talk by Adele Faber and Elaine Mazlish.
What makes the book valuable is that it translates broad parenting philosophies into practical communication strategies.
The goal isn't simply to find a more sophisticated sentence.
It's to communicate with children in ways that help them develop emotional awareness, problem-solving skills, autonomy, and a sense that their feelings can exist alongside boundaries.
But even the best parenting philosophy becomes difficult to execute when your three-year-old is screaming because they don't want a flu shot.
At that point, you may find yourself wondering:
What is the actual difference between saying “You are okay” and “You will be okay”?
And, more importantly, does a parent who says the “wrong” version of that sentence cause lasting harm?
Probably not.
The problem with perfect parenting
There is something ironic about teaching parents to communicate with children in ways that reduce shame and anxiety while simultaneously giving parents another reason to feel anxious and ashamed.
If every interaction becomes a test of whether you used the psychologically optimal phrase, parenting itself can become a source of chronic self-monitoring.
You aren't just wondering:
Is my child okay?
You're wondering:
Did I validate correctly?
Did I use a positive directive?
Did I accidentally praise instead of describe?
Did I tell them to be careful?
Should I have said “You will be okay” instead?
At some point, the mental gymnastics become counterproductive.
Children need thoughtful parents.
They do not need parents who are terrified of saying the wrong sentence.
What parenting language can teach us about ourselves
As a therapist who works with adults, I often think about parenting language through the lens of reparenting.
Reparenting is a therapeutic concept in which people learn to respond to their own emotional needs with greater compassion, stability, and care—particularly when those needs were not adequately met during childhood.
In practical terms, reparenting can mean learning to speak to yourself in the way you once needed an emotionally available adult to speak to you.
Instead of:
“I can't handle this.”
You might practice:
“This is hard, but I'm safe.”
Instead of:
“I'm such an idiot.”
You might try:
“I made a mistake. I can figure out what to do next.”
Instead of:
“I'm failing.”
You might say:
“I'm struggling right now, and struggling doesn't mean I'm incapable.”
The structure is remarkably similar to the language we're encouraged to use with children.
Move from fear toward agency.
Move from helplessness toward self-trust.
Move from shame toward compassion.
Why adults struggle to use this language
One of the most interesting things about reparenting is how difficult it can be for competent adults to offer themselves basic emotional reassurance.
Someone can run a company, solve complex problems, raise children, manage a household, and navigate an endless list of responsibilities—and still struggle to say:
“You're doing your best.”
Why?
Because many adults learned early in life that self-compassion was indulgent, weakness was dangerous, or mistakes were evidence of inadequacy.
They became highly functional without necessarily becoming emotionally fluent.
So perhaps the parenting language conversation isn't only about what we say to children.
Perhaps it is also about the language adults have been missing inside themselves.
The phrases we teach children become internal voices
When we repeatedly tell children:
“It's okay to be sad.”
we are teaching them that sadness does not have to be eliminated immediately.
When we say:
“Let's figure this out together.”
we are teaching them that problems can be approached rather than feared.
When we say:
“You can try again.”
we are teaching them that failure is not necessarily final.
When we replace “Be careful!” with more specific guidance when appropriate, we're giving children opportunities to develop their own judgment and body awareness.
These aren't magic phrases.
There is no sentence that guarantees a psychologically healthy child.
But repeated interactions matter.
Over time, the language surrounding a child becomes part of the environment in which they develop an understanding of themselves.
The real goal isn't perfect language
This is where I think the Language Olympics become less interesting.
The goal isn't to find the perfect phrase.
It's to create a relationship in which children repeatedly experience adults as safe, responsive, appropriately boundaried, and emotionally available.
Sometimes that means:
“Sand stays on the ground.”
Sometimes it means:
“Stop. I won't let you hit your brother.”
Sometimes it means:
“You are really upset. I'm here.”
And sometimes, frankly, it means:
“Please stop throwing sand.”
Parents are human.
They get overwhelmed. They lose patience. They say things they wish they hadn't said. They forget every parenting strategy they've ever read about when their child is screaming in the grocery store.
That doesn't make them bad parents.
Repair matters, too.
You can come back after an interaction and say:
“I was really frustrated, and I yelled. I'm sorry. Let's try that again.”
That may teach a child something even more valuable than perfectly scripted emotional language: relationships can survive mistakes, and people can repair them.
The language we're really building
When I zoom out, I think that's the point of all this linguistic gymnastics.
We're not simply narrating playground safety or finding more sophisticated ways to respond to tantrums.
We're helping children develop a language of selfhood.
The phrases we repeat aren't only about behavior. They can become part of the framework children use to understand challenge, frustration, disappointment, and failure.
Eventually, parents aren't always going to be there to provide the words.
The child grows up.
The playground disappears.
The parent isn't standing beside them before every difficult conversation, disappointing grade, failed relationship, professional mistake, or uncertain decision.
Eventually, the child has to become their own voice.
And perhaps that's the most important parenting language lesson of all:
We aren't just teaching children what to say. We're teaching them how to speak to themselves when no one else is around.
That is a language worth getting right.
But maybe we don't have to get every sentence perfect along the way.
