How Kids See Us: The Broken Pot and the Strength That Followed

Today my daughter came home beaming, carrying her very first handmade pot from school. Her first ever finished piece of ceramics - polished, glazed, fired, and perfect in all its imperfect beauty.

It was bright, textured, and full of life. You could see her creativity all over it: the colours, the uneven edges, the brave mix of patterns. She was so proud of herself.

And I was proud too - not just of the pot, but of her.
Of the pride she felt in something she created. Of that beautiful sense of “I did this myself.”

She carried that pot home like treasure. Wrapped in a pillow. Cradled in her arms. Protecting it with all the care in the world.

We got home, and she kept her pot close, still glowing. And then, as parenting loves to remind us, the unexpected happened.

Our dog - big, loving, and wildly enthusiastic - saw her running toward him.
He jumped up to say hello.
And they collided.

The pot flew.
And broke.

The sound of it hitting the floor was one of those sounds that instantly sinks your heart.

Her face - pure shock. Then heartbreak.
Tears came fast. Real, heavy tears.
She ran straight into my arms, sobbing.

We sat on the floor for a long time. I held her. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t try to fix it or make it better.

I didn’t say, “It’s okay.”
I didn’t say, “You’ll make another one.”
I didn’t say, “It’s just a pot.”

Because it wasn’t just a pot to her.
It was pride, effort, joy - all shattered in a second.

So I let her cry.
I held her tight.
And I showed her I understood.

“I can see how much that hurts.”
“You worked so hard on it.”
“You have every right to feel sad.”

She didn’t get angry.
She didn’t lash out.
She didn’t try to hide or push away the pain.

She just let herself feel it.

After a while, she calmed a bit, then cried again. And I stayed with her. Quiet. Loving. Present.

And from her eyes?

She saw something important in me that day.
She saw that I had her back - fully, quietly, without judgement.
She saw that I didn’t lecture her, or minimise it, or rush her pain away.
She saw that I wasn’t disappointed in her, or annoyed about the pot, or trying to “turn it into a lesson.”
She saw that I understood.
Most importantly, she saw that she can bring her pain to me - the real, messy kind - and I will hold it with her, not against her.
She saw that I am a safe place to land.
And that is the kind of connection I hope she’ll remember long after the pot is forgotten.

And that’s when I realised something.

This painful, messy moment was a milestone.

Because she didn’t hide from her feelings.
She didn’t numb them.
She didn’t pass them on by being mean or blaming.
She lived through them.

That’s courage. That’s resilience.

It would have been so easy for me to jump in with “It’s fine!” or “We’ll make another one!” because watching your child hurt breaks something inside you. But this time, I was not trying to fix anything. I stayed.

And she managed.

That moment made her stronger.
She learned that pain can be survived.
That she can feel deeply sad and still be okay.

And I learned (again) that the effective parenting isn’t about cheering up, teaching, or rescuing.
It’s about sitting in the sadness together, holding space for it until it passes.

Because it always does.

And when it does, what’s left is something even stronger than pride:
resilience, connection, and love that held steady.