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A simple word that means everything
By Alena Schaim
Keeping kids safe is one of our deepest instincts as adults. And some of our most powerful opportunities to support that safety show up in small, everyday moments—often without realizing it.
It happens when we are trying to get out the door in the morning and our child refuses to wear a coat. When they resist taking medicine. When they have a big reaction to noise at a family gathering. We are not usually thinking about safety. We are thinking about timelines, our child’s health, social expectations, and whether we are handling the situation the “right” way. And yet it is often in those ordinary and sometimes frustrating exchanges, that something much bigger is being learned.
We tend to picture safety in terms of the big, visible risks—the kinds of situations that feel clear and easy to recognize. But much of the foundational ways to increase safety in life develops in more mundane ways. It develops through everyday experiences that teach children whether they can trust their own internal signals and whether those signals matter.
Most parents are trying to navigate a complicated balance. We want children who can advocate for themselves and speak up when something doesn’t feel right. At the same time, we do not want to raise children who refuse every request, struggle with flexibility, or cannot move through everyday expectations. Worries about social repercussions for our kids and us as parents can sometimes drive us to focus on how our children are expressing boundaries rather than what their expressions are communicating.
One challenge is that before children can learn how to express boundaries effectively, they first have to learn that their internal experience matters. Their discomfort matters. Their hesitation matters. Their preferences matter. Their “no,” in whatever form it appears, is something worth paying attention to.
Children communicate boundaries long before they can say the word “no.” Turning away. Going still. Reaching toward or away from something. Crying. Freezing. Escalating. Even children who communicate well with words often continue to use behavior to communicate discomfort, especially when they are overwhelmed. They may pull away from touch, leave a room, cover their ears, shut down, or melt down. These responses are not separate from communication. They are communication.
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When adults respond to these signals with curiosity instead of override, the child learns that their internal experience is readable. That it affects what happens next. That it matters to someone else.
When a child communicates a boundary—whether verbally or through behavior—we aren’t just responding to the content of what they are saying. We are also teaching them what happens when they express it.
If my child moves away when I go to touch their cheek, I have a few options. I could chalk it up to being overtired and move on, or I could simply note it and not do it again. Or, if I want to reinforce that their boundaries matter to me however they are communicated, I could say aloud, “Oh, it seems like you don’t like it when I touch your cheek.” Depending on development, they can clarify if that’s true or not, and either way, I can appreciate the information and say I’ll work to change it in the future—which may take practice if it’s new.
In moments like this, I am showing my child that their signal was received, that it changed my behavior, and that they did not need to escalate to be heard. Over time, this supports a child’s ability to express discomfort earlier and more clearly rather than through shutdown or escalation. It teaches: I can signal something small, and it will matter.
There are also moments when a child’s “no” cannot be the final answer. Times when something is necessary for their health or safety—taking medicine, getting into a car seat, bathing, etc.
In those moments, a child’s resistance is still meaningful communication. It tells us something about what they’re experiencing: Fear, discomfort, sensory overload, uncertainty, or overwhelm. We can hold the limit and still respond to the message:
“I see you don’t want to take your medicine. We do need to do this. Would you like to take it sitting up or lying down? With a cup or a syringe?”
The outcome is not optional, but the child is still given voice within it.
We can continue to name what we see:
“I hear you. This is hard.”
“I know you don’t want this.”
“You’re letting me know—you really don’t like it.”
We can acknowledge the reality of their experience and problem-solve for how to lessen the load together. This combination matters more than it may seem. It tells a child that their communication matters because it helps shape how we approach the situation, even when the larger goal still needs to be met.
Over time, this builds something foundational. A child learns: My signals are noticed. My experience is real. I can stay connected to myself—and others—even when something is difficult or cannot be changed.
This creates the foundation for strong and confident boundary-setting as they grow up.
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Children do not learn strong boundaries by being corrected into perfect expression. They learn them by experiencing that their needs are taken seriously, even when those needs are messy, inconsistent, or imperfectly expressed. When children trust that we will listen, they are less likely to rely on getting bigger, louder, or more shut down in order to communicate.
This perspective also asks something of us as adults. There are moments when a child’s “no” feels inconvenient or hurtful. There are moments when we ourselves are worried, rushed, embarrassed, or overwhelmed. We may find it tempting to focus on stopping the behavior rather than understanding the message underneath it.
But when we can stay connected to the communication beneath the expression, something important happens. We become better able to respond before a child needs to escalate. We begin to treat imperfect communication as meaningful communication. And paradoxically, children often become more capable of expressing themselves calmly and clearly over time—because they learn that smaller signals are enough.
A child whose “no” is acknowledged—not always agreed with, but consistently taken seriously—is learning to notice and take their own signals seriously. That skill does not stay contained to childhood. It shows up in friendships, peer pressure, and dating. It shows up in moments when something feels off but is difficult to explain. It shows up in whether a child speaks up or overrides their own instincts.
We often think about safety as something we build through supervision, rules, or warnings about risks. Those things matter. But some of the most important safety work happens in the space between a child’s signals and an adult’s response.
Not because every “no” should determine the outcome. But because every “no”—spoken or unspoken—is information. And children are always learning whether that information matters. What we are building in those moments is something that extends far beyond childhood: A child’s ability to trust themselves. Because children are always learning whether their internal signals are worth listening to. And one day, when no trusted adult is standing beside them, that lesson may matter more than we can possibly know.
Alena Schaim. Executive Director, Resolve