Let Them Cry

In a simplified way, there are two kinds of crying.

The first kind is communication intended to alert us to a situation and ask for it to be changed: I am hungry, I am too hot, I am too cold, I am lonely and feel unprotected, my stomach hurts, I want to sleep and can’t, I am bored, and so on.

This kind of crying, of course, should be met with immediate action. There is no advantage whatsoever in allowing a baby to cry these messages for a prolonged period of time. On the contrary, the more immediately and fully a baby’s needs are met, the more the baby learns that the world is a good, abundant, and generous place. She learns to trust herself, her parents, and her caregivers. Then she can direct all her strength and resources toward the important challenges beyond mere survival—toward thriving and learning.

Of course, as children grow, responsiveness to their needs changes in its nuances. From an almost immediate response that overrides nearly everything else in the first days and weeks of life, to responding to the needs of an adolescent, for example, there stretches a long continuum of shades and variations. At age three, one can say, “I’d be happy to read you the story after I finish my coffee.” At age ten, one can ask whether that particular shopping trip can wait until next week. Everything depends on the art of balance and proportion in raising children.

I would like to look at and explore the second kind of crying—the kind that seeks to share with a parent the (difficult) experiences a child has gone through: there was a loud noise and I got frightened, someone took my toy and I felt hurt, I fell and now my knee hurts—and I also have a new scrape that is unpleasant.

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This kind of crying is very similar to the first, but it is not the same, and the difference is significant. It may contain experiences of pain, loneliness, physical or emotional discomfort, just like the first kind, but the motivation behind the crying is a desire to share and receive understanding, identification, and empathy, rather than a request for change and assistance.

The “natural” tendency of many caregivers—parents, paid caregivers, and especially grandparents—is to try to make the crying disappear as quickly as possible, mainly through distraction (and sometimes even deception): “Look, a bird!” They may also offer entertaining distractions, from presenting toys to offering food, often desserts and sweets.

(Which is a separate ill altogether—and, as an aside, food should never serve as compensation or consolation, especially not sweets. Surely we would not want our children—or ourselves—to turn to food whenever frustration arises.)

I would like to suggest a different approach. I would like both to present it and to explain what stands behind it and what its advantages are.

When we try to move a child quickly away from difficult feelings of sadness, pain, or distress, we do several things, none of which has any real advantage.

First, we ourselves react very strongly to crying or whining (or, at a later age, to troubling expressions and behaviors), and we communicate to the child—and you would be surprised how much the child perceives—that we are unable to bear the expression of their difficulties. Gradually, the child will learn not to share these things with us.

What will this do to their trust in us as supporters and protectors in times of trouble?

And why do we ourselves find it so difficult to bear their struggles?

Would we not want to use this opportunity as parents to learn how to be beside our child and hold their difficulties with them?

Second, we teach the child that such feelings are not socially or familially acceptable, that they are inappropriate and should be avoided.

Why?

Isn’t it entirely reasonable for a child to feel pain after falling, or to be frightened by a loud noise?

Wouldn’t the behavior that is not like that actually be the strange and unnatural one?

Third, we teach the child that such feelings are not good for them and that it would be better if they did not go there.

Again, why?

These feelings are an inseparable part of the full range of life experiences the child will continue to encounter. The wider the range of experiences and adventures they engage in, the more often they will meet feelings of these kinds.

It is highly desirable that they first become familiar with them within the sheltered and protective environment of their parents, and on a smaller scale. For example, it is better for a child to experience the loss of a toy before encountering a much more difficult loss later in life, when they are both inexperienced and unsupported.

We, who were perhaps denied this learning ourselves, fail to offer our children the opportunity to discover that every experience (both pleasant and difficult) has a kind of characteristic wave-form: the emotion rises, reaches a peak of intensity, and then gradually fades.

Moreover, together with the fading of difficult feelings, the first signs of a solution often begin to emerge, or a mobilization of inner resources, or help from outside that is sought through the child’s own initiative.

We act as though we fear that difficult feelings will last forever.

This is an important point.

Experiences of this kind come and go. It is important to give our children this knowledge and the confidence that better moments will arrive.

We prevent our children from learning the skill of standing within such experiences and becoming familiar with their natural course. We do not allow the child to build the knowledge and confidence that come from this experience.

When we do allow it, every child can gradually internalize that they know such situations, that they can cope with them, that they have successfully navigated them before, and will be able to do so again in the future.

And perhaps one final point:

When we prevent this process, we also send our children a clear message that we do not believe in their strength and capacities to cope on their own, and that we do not trust the choices they might make.

Such lack of confidence is, quite understandably, a self-fulfilling prophecy.

The approach I am suggesting is, of course, a path of respect and listening—a path of honoring the child’s place, perspective, and feelings.

We do not really know how painful, irritating, or upsetting that scraped knee is.

(When was the last time you experienced one yourself? I am quite sure you would be surprised by the disproportion between the size of the wound and the extent of its presence in your awareness.)

So telling a child, “Nothing happened,” or “It will pass in a minute,” is, first of all, an unfounded statement—how could you know? And secondly, it is deeply disrespectful to the child and can create further alienation and resentment.

It is better to use other kinds of statements as a way of creating closeness, building trust, and weaving connection.

Children who are not believed, and in whom others do not believe, become weakened. They often become more manipulative, and as a parent it becomes less pleasant to be with them.

Therefore, I suggest something very simple:

Just be with the child.

Listen.

Respond.

A child who is crying bitterly will not cry for hours if they genuinely feel that their crying is being held and respected.

In my experience, such a response often results in a child who cries intensely for twenty or thirty seconds and then stops on their own with surprising suddenness—and, if we do not interfere, they are not even embarrassed by that sudden shift.

In other cases, after the initial cries, there is a change in the pattern of the crying. It becomes more outwardly directed, more communicative. At that point, a loving, attentive, and skilled caregiver can put words to the child’s experience respectfully:

“You fell and hurt your knee. It really hurts.”

Usually, at this stage, the child intensifies the crying as if to confirm the accuracy of what has been understood, and then, after a remarkably short period of time, recovers on their own.

With this kind of response, we accomplish several things:

We help the child contain the experience.

We show that we understand both its nature and its intensity.

And we communicate confidence in the child’s right and ability to manage the crisis and to emerge from it in their own time, in their own way, and with the help of their own resources.

When an experience is difficult and complex, respectful reflection by a calm and experienced adult can bring order to the child’s inner experience. It can offer a way of understanding the experience not as threatening chaos, but as something that has an intelligible structure—a structure that makes things much easier for the child (and indeed for any person of any age dealing with a difficult experience).

If the child is able to put their own experience into words, we can simply reflect their words back to them—and once again communicate our trust in them.

It is very important to genuinely and wholeheartedly believe that the child will emerge from the experience strengthened.

You may be surprised by the speed and power with which children overcome pain and frustration—both physical and emotional—while simultaneously discovering a wealth of creative and effective ways to cope with and solve the problems they encounter.

If we allow them this experience, we also give ourselves the opportunity to witness the remarkable strength and uniqueness of our children.

And in that way, we too, as parents and caregivers, emerge enriched.

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See you,

Lilach