Last week, I completely lost it over spilled paint. Ellie had been working on a watercolor masterpiece at the kitchen table while I prepped dinner, and somehow an entire jar of purple ended up across the floor. I yelled. Not my finest moment. But what happened next? That’s what really mattered.
After cleaning up in tense silence, I found her hiding behind the couch, clutching her stuffed rabbit. She wasn’t crying about the yelling anymore. She was watching me, waiting to see what came next. That’s when it hit me—she wasn’t going to remember the exact words I’d shouted. She was going to remember whether I came to find her, whether I apologized, whether we reconnected or just let that awful silence stretch on forever.
The weight of what we don’t say
You know that heavy quiet that settles over a house after an argument? The kind where everyone tiptoes around, doors close a little too softly, and nobody makes eye contact at dinner? That silence speaks volumes to our kids.
When I was teaching kindergarten, I watched how differently children handled playground conflicts based on what they’d learned at home. Some kids would argue, then naturally move toward making up. Others would shut down completely, as if conflict meant the end of connection. It wasn’t hard to guess which homes had parents who modeled healthy repair after disagreements.
Our kids are watching us to understand if their world is still safe after conflict happens. When we let silence drag on, we’re essentially leaving them in emotional limbo, wondering if everything they count on might fall apart.
What silence teaches them about relationships
Growing up, my family ate dinner together every single night. Sounds ideal, right? But after any disagreement between my parents, those meals became exercises in polite avoidance. Pass the salt, comment on the weather, ask about homework—anything to avoid acknowledging the elephant in the room.
I promised myself I’d do things differently with my own kids. Yet here I am, sometimes catching myself doing the exact same thing Matt and I disagree about something, and suddenly I’m very interested in wiping down counters that are already clean.
But here’s what I’ve learned: when we don’t show our kids how to reconnect after conflict, we’re teaching them that disagreements damage relationships permanently. They start believing that anger means love goes away, that fighting means something is broken beyond repair.
Have you ever noticed how your kids act after witnessing tension between you and your partner? Mine get clingy, test boundaries more, or suddenly develop mysterious stomachaches. They’re trying to figure out if their foundation is still solid.
Breaking the cycle isn’t about being perfect
Can I be honest? Sometimes I still mess this up spectacularly. Just last month, Matt and I had a disagreement about screen time limits right in front of the kids. We didn’t yell, but the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. Then we both retreated to separate corners of the house.
Later, I found both kids in Ellie’s room, building an elaborate fort. When I asked what they were playing, my five-year-old said matter-of-factly, “We’re making a safe house for when people are mad.” My heart just about broke.
That’s when we called a family meeting. Matt and I sat with the kids and explained that sometimes adults disagree, but we always love each other and we always figure things out. Then—and this is the crucial part—we showed them. We talked through our disagreement calmly, found a compromise, and hugged it out right there in front of them.
The relief on their faces was immediate. E. Mark Cummings, a psychologist who studies family dynamics, confirms what I saw that day: “When kids witness a fight and see the parents resolving it, they’re actually happier than they were before they saw it.”
The repair is where the magic happens
So what does healthy repair look like? It doesn’t have to be a Broadway production. Sometimes it’s as simple as:
Walking over to your partner and putting a hand on their shoulder while the kids are watching. Taking a deep breath together before addressing whatever happened. Saying “I’m sorry I raised my voice. I was frustrated, but that wasn’t okay.” Actually solving the problem together, even if it’s something small like who forgot to take out the trash.
With my kids directly, repair might look like me sitting on Ellie’s bed after I’ve been short with her, saying, “I’m sorry I snapped about your toys. I was feeling overwhelmed, but that’s not your fault. How are you feeling?” Then actually listening to her answer.
The two-year-old obviously needs simpler language, but even he understands when Mama comes back for hugs after being grumpy. He understands when voices get soft again, when laughter returns, when the general feeling in our home shifts from tense to peaceful.
What matters most in the long run
Remember how I mentioned my family’s surface-level dinner conversations growing up? I’ve realized that wasn’t really about avoiding topics—it was about avoiding vulnerability. Real connection requires us to be honest about our struggles and show our kids that relationships can weather storms.
Does this mean we should have blow-out fights in front of our children? Absolutely not. But it does mean that when conflict happens (because it will), we need to be intentional about what comes next.
Your kids won’t remember every argument. They won’t recall the exact words said in frustration on a random Wednesday. But they will remember the patterns. They’ll remember whether conflicts got resolved or just buried. They’ll remember if apologies were real or forced. They’ll remember whether love felt conditional on everyone being happy all the time.
Most importantly, they’ll carry these memories into their own relationships. When they’re adults having their first serious disagreement with a partner, they’ll unconsciously reach for the template you provided. Will they know how to repair? Will they believe relationships can survive conflict? Will they have the skills to break silence with genuine connection?
Moving forward with grace
I’m still learning this myself. My strict upbringing left me with some unhelpful patterns that I’m actively working to change. Some days I nail it—we handle disagreements with grace, repair quickly, and everyone feels secure. Other days, I retreat into silence and have to consciously pull myself back out.
What helps is remembering that our kids don’t need perfect parents. They need parents who are human, who mess up, and who show them how to make things right again. They need to see that love isn’t the absence of conflict—it’s the presence of repair.
So tonight, if you’re lying in bed replaying an argument from earlier, thinking about that uncomfortable silence that followed, know that tomorrow is a new chance. You can still go back. You can still repair. You can still show your children that relationships are resilient, that love persists through disagreement, and that silence doesn’t have to be the final word.
Because at the end of the day, what your children will remember most isn’t the conflict itself. It’s whether you came back together afterward. It’s whether the silence was broken with gentleness or left to harden into distance. It’s whether home remained a safe place where people can be imperfect and still be loved.
That’s the real lesson we’re teaching in those quiet moments after conflict. Let’s make sure it’s one worth remembering.
