A few days ago, my children had another fight.
At first, it felt really small, just another mix-up like tons of others. But this time, it didn’t get sorted out in a day. They stayed away from each other. The usual chatting just stopped. There was some awkward vibe hanging in the air between them.
So I waited.
Usually, they find their way back to each other on their own. But when several days passed, and the distance was still there, I knew it was time to step in.
I took a small object and handed it to one of them. “Whoever holds this gets to speak. The other listens. Start with: I feel…”
The first child began to speak slowly and carefully. There was still a defensive tone, still an effort to explain themselves without being misunderstood. Then the other responded. Then they switched again. Back and forth like that.
The atmosphere was tense, dramatic, and emotional. There were long pauses before the next sentence came out. Voices rose. Some sentences stopped halfway because they were simply too difficult to finish.
My role there was not to decide who was right. I was simply keeping the conversation alive. Making sure they didn’t interrupt each other, making sure they spoke from their feelings rather than accusations, and making sure each one truly listened to the other.
Slowly, something began to change.
What once sounded like attacks started to sound like explanations. What once felt like accusations turned into honesty. The distance between them began to soften. Eventually, they understood each other.
Not long after that, they hugged. Not because they were told to, but because there was nothing left they needed to defend.
In moments like that, I always feel deeply moved, not because the conflict is over, but because the relationship has found its way back.
Lately, I’ve been realizing something else. Most of their conflicts are not caused by bad intentions. Almost always, they begin with assumptions: feeling attacked when they weren’t attacked, feeling ignored when they weren’t ignored, feeling unloved when they were simply not understood.
That’s when I gently remind them that we cannot always control how others speak to us, how they see us, or how they treat us.
Sometimes people speak from their exhaustion. Sometimes from their fears. Sometimes from stories in their own minds that we know nothing about.
But we always have space to choose how we understand them, how we respond to them, and how we treat them in return. It is in that small space that relationships are often saved.
Because what deepens the wound is rarely the event itself, but the meaning we attach to it. We feel rejected when we may not have been rejected. We feel attacked when we may have been misunderstood. We feel unappreciated when we may simply not have been heard yet.
Often, what needs to change is not the situation itself, but the way we read it.
And when the way we read it changes, our response changes. Our tone changes. The distance between us changes. Sometimes it isn’t the other person who becomes softer. Sometimes it’s we who stop reading them as a threat.
In recent weeks, especially after Ramadan, I’ve begun to see more clearly what I may actually be trying to protect in our home.
Not that my children always agree with each other. Life will not always give us people who see things the same way we do, and even within a family, differences are inevitable.
What I want to protect is something simpler, but also harder: that they do not trust their assumptions too quickly. That they have the courage to ask before concluding. That they leave space for the possibility that what they understand may not be the whole story.
That they know relationships are not broken by differences, but by the moment we stop trying to understand each other.
Sometimes, I don’t have them sort things out on the spot, and honestly, maybe that’s not even my job.
What I try to protect is their ability to find their way back to seeing each other clearly, even when they are angry, disappointed, or feeling misunderstood.
Lately, I’ve also realized that I’m not only teaching them. I’m teaching myself.
I am learning not to judge too quickly, not to conclude too quickly, and not to believe the first story that appears in my mind.
Because in the end, “We suffer more often in imagination than in reality.” — Seneca
Eid Mubarak, everyone! May this Eid bring peace to our souls, happiness to your hearts, and success to our life.
Love,
Kirana
Please share your thoughts!