Every day when I fetch my kids from school, I ask them the same questions: How was your day? What did you guys do?And every day, I hear the same vague, distant replies: I don’t know. I can’t remember. I don’t want to tell you.
At first, I thought maybe they were just tired. Maybe they genuinely didn’t remember. Maybe it wasn’t worth prying. But then I realized something—something that struck deep in my heart as an INFP, as an Enneagram 4, as a father who wants his children to grow up with full access to their emotions.
In a world that tells boys to be strong and hide their tears, and tells girls to smile and keep the peace, my kids are already learning to shrink their feelings into the smallest, most acceptable answers. Fine. Okay. Normal.
And I can’t let that happen.
The Language of Emotion
I want my children to feel their feelings—to know that every sensation, every thought, every spark of joy or pang of sadness is worth acknowledging. That feelings are what feelings are, and that it’s totally OK to feel them, for what they are. But I also realize that maybe I’m asking the wrong questions. Maybe How was your day? is too big. Maybe Was it good or bad? is too binary. So I’ve started experimenting with a new way of uncovering their emotions—one that invites them to reflect without forcing them to expose more than they’re ready for. Cause maybe our feelings are way more colourful than simple yes or no answers give them credit for. Maybe our feelings require a song, or a painting, or a walk.
Instead of asking if their day was good or bad, I ask:
- Was your teacher laughing today or shouting today?
- Was your day fast or slow?
- Was today full of laughter with your friends or full of tears?
- Did your heart beat faster or slower today?
- Did today feel like a sunny day or a cloudy day, even if the sun was shining?
- If your day was a color, what color would it be?
- Was there a moment today that made you feel big, or a moment that made you feel small?
And something beautiful has been happening.
Finding the Truth Beneath the Surface
When I ask my kids if their teacher was laughing or shouting, I don’t just learn about their teacher—I learn about their classroom environment, their comfort level, their sense of belonging.
When I ask if their day was fast or slow, I can usually guess whether they felt engaged or bored, excited or restless. I’ve learned that for my son, fast usually means good—it means soccer at break, a fun art project, or a new game with his friends. For my daughter, fast sometimes means overwhelming—too much stimulation, too many changes, too many people.
When I ask if their heart beat faster or slower, I start to see where excitement and anxiety blur together. My heart beat fast when we had a surprise test, my son once told me. My heart beat fast when I ran with my friends, my daughter said another day. Same sensation, different emotions.
And when I ask about colors, I glimpse their inner world in ways words sometimes fail to capture. It was a green day, my son once said. And when I asked what that meant, he shrugged, I don’t know. Just green.
I let that be enough. Because naming a feeling—even in color—is still naming it.
Teaching My Kids (And Myself) That Feelings Matter
One of the hardest things about being an Enneagram 4 is feeling so deeply in a world that often dismisses deep feelings. I see it already in my kids. My son, who is full of energy, has already been told that boys should be tough, that showing emotions makes him weak. My daughter, who is sensitive and observant, has already learned that girls should be sweet, that being too expressive might be seen as dramatic or overwhelming. But emotions are not burdens; they are bridges—ways we connect deeply with ourselves and others.
Empathy begins with allowing ourselves and those around us to feel without judgment. When we create space for emotions, we cultivate an understanding that stretches beyond words. True connection comes from being seen and heard in our most vulnerable moments, and I want my children to know that their emotions—whether joy, sadness, frustration, or fear—are valid. I want them to learn that deep feeling is not just a part of life but a strength, one that allows them to love, to create, to stand up for what matters, and to build relationships rooted in authenticity and compassion.
But I want them to know this: Your feelings matter. All of them.
I want them to know that feeling sad is as important as feeling happy. That excitement and fear can coexist. That emotions don’t have to be justified to be real.
As Brené Brown says, “We cannot selectively numb emotions. When we numb the painful emotions, we also numb the positive emotions.” If I teach my kids to ignore their sadness, they will also lose touch with their joy. If I teach them to brush off anger, they will struggle to feel true passion.
Susan Cain, in her book Bittersweet, writes, “The secret that our poets and philosophers have been trying to tell us for centuries, is that our longing and our sorrow are not only necessary but also the gateway to joy and love.” I want my children to understand that feeling deeply is not a flaw, but a gift—a path toward richer connections, toward a world that feels alive and meaningful. Cain also says, “If we could honor sadness a little more, maybe we could transform it into something beautiful.” I want my children to know that sadness is not something to escape, but something to honor, because it, too, shapes who we are and how we love.
So, I tell them: Feel everything. The good, the bad, the confusing, the weird. Feel it all. And when you’re ready, tell me about it.
Creating a Safe Space for Emotion
Of course, even with all these new questions and insights, some days my kids still answer, I don’t know. And that’s okay.
Because my job isn’t to force them to talk. My job is to make sure they know they can talk when they’re ready.
So I create space.
Sometimes, instead of asking questions in the car right after school, I wait until bedtime, when the lights are low and their guards are down. Or Daniel will just randomly start talking while we’re playing cricket outside, answering a question I asked him 2 hours ago…
Sometimes, instead of words, we use other ways of expressing emotions. We draw. We play. We listen to music and talk about how it makes us feel.
And sometimes, when words feel impossible, we just sit together in silence. Because even silence, when it’s safe and understood, can be its own kind of conversation.
The World Will Try to Silence Them—But I Won’t
I know that as they grow, the world will keep trying to flatten their emotions into fine and okay.
The world will tell my son that boys don’t cry. The world will tell my daughter that anger isn’t pretty.
But in our home, in our car rides, in our bedtime talks, on the cricket filed, in the dance studio, they will always have a place where their emotions—every messy, vibrant, complex emotion—are welcome.
I will keep asking new questions. I will keep giving them space. I will keep teaching them, every single day, that their hearts and minds are worth knowing.
And maybe, just maybe, when they grow up, they won’t need to unlearn the things the world tried to erase.
Because they will already know: Their feelings were always meant to be felt.
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