The Lie We Tell Ourselves: “My Kid Would Tell Me if Something Was Wrong.”

We all say it, quietly, almost like a prayer or an affirmation.
“My kid would tell me if something was wrong.”

It’s comforting.
It lets us sleep at night. And it’s complete BS.

It keeps us from asking the harder questions, the ones we’re afraid to hear the answers to.

Because most kids don’t tell us.
Not when it really matters.
Not when the thing they’re losing isn’t just interest or motivation.
It’s themselves.

We remind ourselves that everyone has off days. That they’re just tired. That it’s stress, hormones, school, or work.
Maybe it’s misaligned reassurance. Maybe if we say it enough, we start to believe it.

When Maddie said she was fine, I wanted so badly to believe her.
Because thinking otherwise felt unfathomable.
Because if I believed something was wrong, I’d have to face a truth I couldn’t bear.

But silence doesn’t always mean safety.
If they’re not talking to you, that is a sign.
A sign to dig in.
To listen carefully.
To hold back your own fears long enough to hear what they’re trying to say, or not saying.

What Real Listening Looks Like

Listening isn’t waiting for them to talk.
It’s creating space where they want to.

It’s asking again when something feels off.
It’s saying, “I know you said you’re fine, but I want to check in again.”
It’s staying patient when the words come slowly, or not at all.

Love isn’t fixing.
It’s staying close when it feels uncomfortable.
It’s setting aside time to just be together, with no agenda.

With Maddie, sometimes there was silence.
Sometimes she shared.
I had to fight the urge to jump in too soon, or at all.

I wish I had known the phrase Kevin Hines taught me:
“Is this a fix-it or a feel-it conversation?”

That one question is powerful.
It tells them you’re listening, not lecturing.
It builds trust.
And trust is the only bridge strong enough to carry real truth.

Offer advice too soon, and that bridge starts to crumble.

The Hard Truth

Your child might not tell you when something is wrong.
That doesn’t mean you’ve failed.
It means they’re human, and so are you.

But the next time you hear, “I’m fine,” don’t stop there.
Pause.
Look closer.
Ask again.

Then try this:
“Would you tell me if you weren’t?” And not in an accusatory manner, in a caring one.

I’ve used that question with my kids and with friends I worried about.
It’s a softer version of, “Are you thinking of hurting yourself?”
And studies show that asking directly actually reduces the risk.

You need to get comfortable asking it.
Not to make things awkward, but to say,
“I love you. I worry about you. I want to make sure you’re okay.”

Words sound different when they come from love, not fear.
Because the lie we tell ourselves feels safe, until the day it isn’t.

Why Mentorship Feels Different

It’s always easier to mentor someone else’s child.
When there’s distance, there’s clarity.
You can ask hard questions without fear of breaking something fragile.
You can listen without carrying the full weight of their pain.

But when it’s your own child?
There’s too much love.
Too much history.
Too much emotion tied to every word.

You don’t just want to understand them, you want to protect them.
And that makes it hard to simply listen.

Mentorship creates space.
Parenting fills it.

A mentor can stay curious without needing to fix.
A parent can’t help but want to.
The hardest lesson is that love sometimes means holding back.
That being present can matter more than solving.
That silence, when handled with care, can be healing too.

That’s the difference.
And that’s why it’s so hard.

And that’s exactly why The MentorWell exists.
We bring the balance parents can’t always have.
We’re a little more objective, a little less emotional.
And that gives your young person something powerful,
the comfort to share without reluctance,
without fear of disappointing someone they love.

Sometimes, the voice that reaches them isn’t louder.
It’s simply outside the storm.