The Words we didn't mean

It began like any ordinary Sunday.

The fan hummed lazily above the dining table. Plates of half-eaten parathas lay scattered, along with a math notebook Riya had quietly pushed aside. At fifteen, she had mastered the art of appearing busy while feeling invisible.

“Still not finished?” her father asked, glancing at the open notebook.

“I’ll do it,” she replied softly.

Her mother added, almost casually, “Your cousin Aarav finished his syllabus last month. He’s so focused. You should learn from him.”

It was said in passing. Not harsh. Not loud.

But it landed.

Riya lowered her eyes. She nodded, the way she had trained herself to do when comparisons surfaced. The conversation moved on. The comment did not.

Over time, the statements became patterns.

“You’re too sensitive.”

“Why do you overreact to everything?”

“Girls these days have too many distractions.”

“When I was your age, I never answered back.”

Each sentence sounded like advice. Correction. Guidance.

But slowly, they formed a silent narrative inside her:

I am not enough.

My feelings are exaggerated.

My voice is too much.

What her parents didn’t realize was that these were microaggressions — subtle, repeated remarks that dismissed emotions, reinforced comparison, and shaped identity in quiet but powerful ways.

They loved her deeply. That was never in question.

But love without mindful communication can unintentionally wound.

The turning point came during a parent-teacher meeting.

“Riya is intelligent,” her class teacher said gently. “But she hesitates to participate. She rarely shares her ideas.”

Her father frowned. “At home she argues plenty.”

The teacher paused thoughtfully. “Sometimes when children feel constantly evaluated, they prefer silence over expression.”

The words lingered longer than expected.

That evening, something shifted.

Instead of instructing, her mother sat beside her.

“Can I ask you something?” she said softly. “Do we say things that hurt you?”

Riya stayed quiet. Her fingers traced invisible patterns on the sofa. After a long pause, she whispered, “When you compare me… it feels like I’m failing you.”

There it was.

Not rebellion.

Not attitude.

Just hurt.

Her father’s first instinct was to explain. “We only want the best for you.”

But he stopped.

For the first time, he chose to listen instead of defend.

That moment was uncomfortable. Honest. Transformative.

The next few weeks became a conscious experiment in communication.

Instead of “You’re too sensitive,” they tried,

“I may not fully understand your reaction. Help me see what you felt.”

Instead of comparisons, they asked,

“What do you want to work towards?”

Instead of dismissing emotions, they practiced validation:

“I can see this matters to you.”

It was awkward. Old habits resurfaced. Corrections slipped out.

But now they caught themselves.

And when they did, they repaired.

“I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”

Three words that rebuilt more trust than a hundred lectures ever could.

Gradually, Riya began speaking more at the dinner table.

One evening she shared an idea for a school presentation — something about social media pressure and self-image.

Her father resisted the urge to critique.

“That sounds interesting,” he said. “Would you like to walk us through your idea?”

Her shoulders relaxed.

It wasn’t about agreement.

It was about being heard.

Microaggressions in parenting are rarely intentional. They hide in everyday language:

Constant comparison with siblings or cousins.

Labels like “lazy,” “dramatic,” “stubborn.”

Dismissing feelings with “It’s not a big deal.”

Gender-based assumptions.

Statements that glorify the past while invalidating the present.

We believe we are motivating.

Often, we are minimizing.

Children internalize what is repeated.

Repeated dismissal becomes self-doubt.

Repeated comparison becomes insecurity.

Repeated invalidation becomes silence.

But just as microaggressions accumulate, so do micro-affirmations.

A pause before reacting.

Curiosity instead of accusation.

Validation before advice.

Repair after mistakes.

Communication shapes confidence more than achievement ever will.

Months later, Riya volunteered to anchor her school’s annual event.

Standing on stage, she spoke with steady clarity.

Her parents sat in the audience, watching not just their daughter perform — but their relationship evolve.

On the drive home, she said quietly, “Thank you for listening to me these days.”

Her father smiled. “We’re still learning.”

And that was the truth.

Parenting is not about perfection. It is about awareness.

The most powerful shift in a family does not come from louder discipline, stricter rules, or stronger control.

It comes from conscious communication.

From recognizing that small words can carry long shadows.

And that safety is built not through authority — but through respect.

Because when children feel heard, they don’t need to shout.

When they feel understood, they don’t need to withdraw.

And when we replace microaggressions with mindful dialogue, we don’t just change conversations —

We change futures.

Sandhya Lal

Communication Wellness Coach