Honest feedback is an act of love — not a threat to it.
There are few things more quietly harmful in parenting than the well-intentioned lie — the “great job” delivered to a child who knows, on some level, that it wasn’t. We think we’re protecting them. We think we’re building them up. But what we’re really doing is teaching them not to trust us, and not to trust themselves. Honesty, offered with love, is not cruelty. It is one of the deepest forms of care a parent can give.
I have always been a stickler for helping my children understand their real strengths and real areas for growth. Not because I want them to feel small, but because I want them to become large — fully developed, clear-eyed, capable people who can handle the world as it actually is.
The Problem with Constant Praise
When we protect our children from all critical feedback, we are not building their confidence — we are inflating it. There is a meaningful difference between the two. Real confidence is rooted in an accurate self-assessment: knowing what you do well and knowing where you have room to grow. Inflated confidence is fragile. It shatters the first time a coach, a teacher, a supervisor, or a peer tells the truth.
Our children need to learn, early, that feedback is not rejection. Correction is not cruelty. Being told the truth about your performance is not the same thing as being unloved.
I Was That Parent on the Sideline
My daughters played basketball, and I was fully, unashamedly that parent. I cheered loudly for every child on the team — the stars and the struggling ones alike. But I also called it like I saw it. I was not the one saying “Good job!” after a child’s fourteenth turnover in the second quarter. You were more likely to hear me call out, “Take care of the ball!” Because that was the truth, and the truth was useful.
I applauded effort and excellence with equal vigor. The child who was not a natural athlete but played with heart every single game — she heard my voice too, maybe louder than anyone else’s. But I was not going to tell a player who kept missing layups to “keep it up” when what she actually needed to hear was: “Work on your fundamentals. Try a different shot.”
And here is what I know for certain: parents came up to me after games to thank me for the way I encouraged their daughters. My own girls told me the team and the coaches valued my honesty. Because children, even young ones, know when they are being told the truth. And it does not diminish them. It dignifies them.
What Honest Feedback Actually Looks Like
Let me be clear about something important. Telling the truth about performance does not mean being harsh, embarrassing, or critical for its own sake. The truth should be spoken with love, clarity, and a genuine desire to help the child grow. Love does not require us to pretend. Encouragement does not require dishonesty.
In our home, the conversations after a game look something like this:
My daughter: “How do you think I did?”
Me: “I think you tried really hard, and I think you made a real contribution out there. Your defense was solid, and you played with a good attitude the whole game. You’ve got to keep working on your layups and free throws, though.”
My daughter: “Okay, I got you. Thanks.”
No hurt feelings. No stuck-out lips. Just acceptance — because this is how we have always talked, and she trusts that my honesty comes from the same place as my love.
What We Owe Our Children
I tell my children that I am always looking for three things: effort, excellence, and an exemplary contribution to the team. Not a perfect performance. Not flawless execution. But genuine effort, a pursuit of excellence, and the willingness to show up for something larger than themselves.
This is what builds not just skill, but character. Not just competence, but wisdom. Not just children who can perform — but people who know themselves.
Some questions worth carrying with you:
Tell them the truth — because the truth, offered with love, will set them free.
