A child sees and copies
A child learns from us even when we think nothing is happening. They watch how we press the kettle button, how we roll our eyes when we are tired, how we laugh when we hear the voice of someone we love. They see how we say “thank you” or don’t say it, how we apologize or ignore, how we touch their shoulder when we want to calm them, and how we pull away when things are hard for us. For us, these are just moments. For them, it’s the language of the world. Through us, a child learns every day what life is like: calm or tense, warm or indifferent, safe or the kind of place where you have to stay on guard. And at some point they stop just observing and start repeating.
This repetition is not conscious. It is much deeper. A small child does not decide: “I will speak just like Dad.” The child’s nervous system is simply tuned to copy the adult they live next to. This is one of the basic mechanisms of development. A child cannot live separately from us, so they instinctively adapt. They synchronize with us: with our pace, our tone, our mood. If the mother is constantly in a hurry, the child learns to live in a state of hurry. If the father lives as if any mistake is a tragedy, the child learns to fear mistakes. If adults allow themselves to enjoy simple things, the child learns that joy is not something you have to earn. And that becomes their norm even before they can explain it in words.
Parents often say: “I’ve told him so many times that he can’t answer rudely, and he still talks sharply.” But the truth is that explanation is not the main source of learning. The main source is the atmosphere. If at home adults talk to each other in a harsh tone, even if they call it “it’s nothing, we’re just tired,” then harshness becomes the normal language. The child does not experience it as rudeness. For them it is a way to interact. They don’t see a contradiction between the words “be polite” and the reality where no one at home holds back irritation. They simply copy the environment. Their nervous system tells them: “This is how people survive here. This is how people speak here.”
We may think that a child notices nothing when we turn aside and whisper about someone. In reality, they do. They see how we treat people when those people are not present. They hear the intonation when we talk about a relative, a coworker, a neighbor. They read whether we truly respect others or just pretend to be polite to their face. From this, their own sense of human dignity is formed. Not from our speeches about kindness. From how we talk about others when we don’t have to be nice. A child learns moral habits not from lectures and not from children’s books. They learn the ethical tone of the home.
There is another thing that is rarely said out loud: a child does not learn only from one specific mother or one specific father. They learn from the entire system of relationships they live inside. From how the mother talks to the father. From how the father talks to the mother. From how both of them talk about the grandmother. From how the adults in that family solve conflicts with each other. Every day the child watches a tiny scene: something went wrong, and the adults either attack each other or exhale and sit down to talk. And that scene is their program for the future. Already now they are learning how they will behave ten or twenty years from now in their own relationships. In an argument with a partner. In a conversation with their own children. The ability to listen, to negotiate, to say “I’m exhausted, I can’t talk right now, let’s come back to this” — that is also a habit. And it does not come out of nowhere.
We also pass on to the child our way of experiencing stress. This is one of the deepest layers of imitation. If the child sees that in stress the adult always explodes, shouts, throws objects, slams doors, they learn that this is what strength looks like. For them, this is not an “unhealthy reaction.” For them, it is “this is how adults handle overload.” But if the child sees an adult who can say, “I am angry right now. I don’t want to say something hurtful to you. Give me five minutes to calm down and then we will talk,” they learn something else. They learn that emotions don’t have to be swallowed, but they also don’t have to destroy. That feelings are not forbidden, but they also don’t get to fully control us. This is called emotional regulation. And a child is not born with it ready. They absorb it from us, the way a sponge takes in water.
The most interesting thing is that even our attitude toward ourselves becomes part of the child’s identity. If a mother constantly criticizes herself out loud — “I look awful,” “I ruined everything again,” “I can’t do anything right” — the child hears that as background. For the mother it’s just letting off steam. For the child it becomes the way to talk to themselves. A daughter learns that a woman is supposed to be dissatisfied with herself. A son learns that someone close is always guilty. And then these children become adults who either don’t allow themselves to be fully alive, or who live in a constant shadow of shame. They won’t understand where it came from. But we do. It was born in the tiny kitchen phrases between a cup of tea and a work call.
The way we talk about money — that’s also a lesson. If a child constantly hears “there’s never enough money,” “money is a problem,” “everyone is trying to cheat us,” they learn that the world is dangerous and resources are always on the edge. If they hear only “money is the most important thing,” they learn that a person’s worth is measured in material terms. A healthier signal sounds like this: “money is a tool, and we have to use it responsibly, but it does not define who you are.” Meaning, we don’t turn money into a taboo, but we also don’t turn it into a constant source of anxiety. A child learns financial habits not from economics class, but from how we react to the utility bill.
The same is true for how we relate to the body. When adults talk about food with fear (“don’t eat that, you’ll get fat”), when food is either a reward or guilt, shape or target — the child learns tension around eating. They stop hearing their own hunger and start living in control mode. But if at home the message sounds different: “let’s listen, are you full or not,” “how does your body feel,” “let’s choose something that is both tasty and good for you,” — then the body does not become a battlefield. It becomes a home. And that habit can save years of fighting with disordered eating and hating one’s own reflection.
There is one more important thing we pass on — tempo. Every family has its own rhythm. For some it’s constant rushing, for others it’s tense silence, for others it’s warm steadiness. The child lives inside that rhythm and accepts it as “the normal state of life.” If at home it’s always hurry, constant “faster,” life feels like a battlefield for seconds. If at home everyone is exhausted and quiet but never talks about being tired, the child learns that needs are not something you talk about. If at home there is space for a pause — “sit, let’s have some tea,” “how are you feeling,” “tell me what felt nice today” — the child learns that their inner state matters. Not just grades, not just achievements, not “you’re good because you did something,” but “how is it for you in all of this.”
Home as safety
This is why family rituals are so powerful. They are not about aesthetics, not about looking good on Instagram, not about being the “perfect family.” They are about repetition that creates a sense of safety. A child who knows that in the evening there will be a shared dinner without phones has an anchor. A child who knows that after kindergarten or school there will be time just to be together has support. A child who knows that before sleep someone will definitely hug them and won’t say “that’s enough, go to bed now,” but will say “I’m with you,” has stability. This is not just cute. It regulates the nervous system. It lowers anxiety. It builds resilience. These are exactly the moments the child will later call “home.”
Family rituals can be very simple. For example:
- dinner with no gadgets and no news playing in the background, where everyone briefly shares what felt good today;
- a short walk together even on a weekday, so the body feels movement and not just sitting;
- a ritual of apology after an argument, when the adult doesn’t pretend nothing happened but says: “I was harsh, I’m sorry”;
- shared care for the space: not “clean this up right now,” but “let’s tidy this together with music on”;
- a friendly touch when saying goodbye and hello: a hug at the door not as a formality, but as a way of saying “I’m glad you’re here.”
These things seem small. But they become the first language of love. Through them a child literally feels with their body: I am not a burden. I am not a task. I am part of this family. I belong.
Safe parents instead of perfect parents
Now — the hard question. What if our habits are already not ideal? What if we shout? What if we ourselves live in stress? What if we are full of fatigue, irritation, anxiety — and we know perfectly well that the kids see it? Does that mean we’re ruining everything? No. It means that there is work in front of us that no one else can do. But that work is not “become the perfect parent.” It is “become the safe parent.” There is a huge difference between perfect and safe. Perfect parents don’t exist. Safe parents are those who can stop, notice themselves, and say: “Right now I am not okay. I don’t want to take it out on you. I love you. I need a minute.”
The ability to admit our own limit is one of the most powerful lessons we can give a child. We teach them not to be afraid of being tired. Not to be ashamed of tears. Not to clench their teeth when it hurts. We show them that yelling is not the only way to be heard. That asking for help is not weakness. That saying “I can’t right now, but I will come back to you” is more honest than the automatic “you’re fine, stop whining.” And that too is a habit. The habit of emotional honesty. It doesn’t show up in one day, but it protects relationships for decades ahead.
It is important to repeat: a child does not need flawless parents. They need adults who can repair connection after it breaks. Because conflict will always exist. Outbursts will always happen. But the way we come back after that is what builds a child’s sense of worth. When an adult says: “I raised my voice. I don’t want to talk to you like that. I’m sorry,” — that is not a “loss of authority,” the way parents often fear. It’s the opposite. For the child, it’s the message: “you matter so much that I am learning to be better with you.” From that, self-respect is born. The child understands: you can’t treat me any way you want, even if I’m a child.
Maria Montessori wrote: “Children absorb not our words, but our spirit.” And that may be the most honest sentence about parenthood. A child literally tunes their inner state to ours. If inside us there is constant anxiety, they live in anxiety. If inside us there is constant bitterness, they walk with a heaviness they cannot name. If inside us there is constant guilt, they learn that love must be earned. But if next to them there is an adult who is allowed to be tired but warm, sad but honest, demanding but never humiliating — that child grows up in a world where love is not something you have to pay for.
We also have to talk about digital habits. Today, a child doesn’t only see how we speak and act in real life — they also see how we exist online. They see what the phone does to us. They see whether we can put the screen down when they ask for attention. They see whether we react to their story with the same attention we give to a message notification. They see whether we ourselves escape into endless scrolling when we are sad. A child understands very early what matters more to us: their words, or an incoming call. And that is not a small thing. That shapes their sense of self-worth. If the screen is always first, they learn to be second. And later, when they are teenagers, we’re surprised that they “live in their phone.” But they are only repeating the script they watched from their first years: “attention is a resource I must share with a device.”
When we honestly admit that a child imitates us in everything, it can feel frightening. Because it means we are responsible not only for our actions but also for their future habits. But that fear can be turned into strength. No one is asking us to be heroes. The only thing asked of us is this: live as if your gestures matter. If I’m shouting right now — that’s a lesson. If I’m hugging right now — that’s a lesson. If I say “thank you” to the taxi driver — that’s a lesson. If I say to the child “I love you just because you are here, not because of your grades, not because of your behavior, not because you’re convenient,” — that is the greatest lesson they will ever receive.
Childhood is already life
A child is not a project and not a copy. A child is a mirror. They show us what we ourselves don’t see or don’t want to see. Our rushing. Our impatience. Our tenderness — the tenderness we have even if we’ve learned to hide it. They pull all of it to the surface. And even though that can hurt, there is great hope in it. Because next to them, we have a chance to grow into the version of ourselves we would like to leave them as an inheritance. We can give them not perfection, but dignity. Not sterility, but living warmth. Not the script “endure and be quiet,” but the script “speak honestly and listen with love.”
And maybe this is the most important thing: childhood is not preparation for real life. It is real life. What a child is living now is already their experience of closeness, trust, safety, love. They are not waiting for some bright future. Every day they look at us and learn how to live. And if we want them to grow tomorrow into someone who can care for others and for themselves, we need to show them today that care is not weakness, apology is not humiliation, tenderness is not a threat, and love is not something you have to earn — it is something you receive because you exist.
Detailed guidance and research-based resources for parents can be found on the official UNICEF resource dedicated to parenting and child development.