Gentle Parenting Reflection

Gentle Parenting Reflection

Have you ever heard of this newer method of parenting called "gentle parenting"? I hadn’t really heard much about it until recently, when my daughter began teaching me about it. Funny how life does that—how we think we are here to teach our kids, but often they end up teaching us. Gentle parenting, as my daughter described it, is about allowing space for the child to process emotions and learn through those experiences, rather than being hurried along or disciplined harshly. It’s about patience, about connection, about truly seeing the child and letting them work through their feelings.

When she first told me about it, I genuinely thought it sounded beautiful. I also realized that I had not parented this way when I was raising my children. I was a single dad, trying to manage two young kids with the help of my parents, balancing the demands of corporate life, and all the other pressures that life throws at a single parent. Patience? Well, I had some, but probably not enough. There were always tasks to complete, deadlines to meet, food to get on the table, bills to pay, laundry to fold, and somewhere in the middle of all that, I had to figure out how to love well.

In kindness, my daughter pointed out that, in my rush to handle everything, I didn’t always give her the time she needed to process her emotions. For the record, she never received a spanking (although I’ll admit there were moments when I’m sure she could have driven even Christ Himself to drink a little extra wine). But still, she’s right. I was often in a hurry—trying to make ends meet, trying to juggle everything—and that meant I sometimes missed those crucial moments of connection where I could have simply paused, listened, and allowed her to feel.

Looking back now, I realize that some of my choices and parenting style were more about survival than about flourishing. I have acknowledged this to her, apologized, and to her credit, she responded with so much grace. She told me she knew I was doing the best I could at the time. That meant the world to me. But if I’m honest, I still carry the wish that I could get a do-over. I wish I could have parented with the wisdom I have now. I know we all do our best with what we have, but I would have loved to have given my kids more space to be, to process, to grow without the rush.

But life doesn’t hand out do-overs. What it does offer is opportunities to grow, to love better today, and to reflect on how we can become more Christ-like in the future. Fast forward many years later, and now I sometimes find myself in situations where my daughter offers her feedback about my current personal life—whether I ask for it or not. She is quick to use her words to broadcast her opinions to others within our small family circle. And as I thought about it, something struck me: wouldn’t it be nice if she used those same gentle parenting skills on me? It feels a little ironic that the thing she longed for as a child—to be given time to process, to be heard without immediate correction—is something she now seems to offer me with very little patience.

Don’t get me wrong. I know her heart is in the right place. Like me, I believe she isn’t intending to hurt or overstep. She likely wants what she believes is best for me. But the irony is thick: she is doing the very thing she felt I did to her—offering opinions without an invitation, sharing thoughts with others before I had the chance to process for myself. The beautiful, humbling lesson here is that life has a way of turning the tables, giving us a chance to walk in the shoes we once put on our children.

As I sat with this realization, I recognized that boundaries were probably crossed in both directions over the years. Perhaps I wasn’t always clear about the space I needed back then. Perhaps I haven’t always been clear now. Maybe, in both experiences, the communication wasn’t as open or as direct as it needed to be. And maybe that’s the quiet thread that runs through all of this—a reminder that what we leave unsaid can sometimes echo the loudest.

I wrestled with whether or not I should bring this up to her—to gently explain how I feel, to ask for the same grace she teaches, to request that sometimes, it would be nice to process without unsolicited advice. But the more I prayed and reflected, the more I came to a different conclusion: some things are better left unsaid.

Not because they don’t matter, but because sometimes, saying them would cause more harm than good. Sometimes, real growth comes not from defending ourselves but from letting things go for the sake of the relationship. I’ve written before that, in our attempts to heal ourselves, we can sometimes cause pain to others. And I think that’s what I was about to do—to try to heal an old wound by opening one in someone else.

So this time, I choose silence. I choose love. I choose to turn the other cheek.

Jesus taught us this very thing in Matthew 5:39: "But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also." While this scripture is often misapplied, it is fundamentally about choosing love over retaliation, grace over ego.

In this moment, I realized that by choosing not to address this with my daughter, I am practicing the very grace I wish I had offered more of when she was young. I am giving her the space to process, even if her processing sometimes spills into my life in a way that feels uncomfortable. I am learning to love without needing to be right.

And so I share this with you, because maybe you are facing something similar. Maybe someone in your life is offering you advice or correction that feels unfair, or maybe you are tempted to reopen old conversations that may not bring healing but only more division. It’s a delicate balance, but I hope this helps you to pause and consider whether silence, in some cases, can be the louder, more loving answer.

Here are three ways we can become better at turning the other cheek, with the goal of increasing the love of the Kingdom:

1. Pray for Perspective (Matthew 5:44)

"But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you."

Prayer changes everything. When someone frustrates or hurts us, our natural instinct is to push back, to correct, to defend. But when we pray for them—really pray for their heart, their journey, their healing—our perspective shifts. We stop seeing them as adversaries and start seeing them as fellow children of God, as people who, like us, are doing the best they can.

In my story, praying for my daughter didn’t just soften my heart toward her—it gave me the patience to recognize that she was likely acting out of love, even if it didn’t land perfectly. It gave me the ability to see that perhaps God is using her to continue teaching me even now.

2. Choose Silence Over Self (Proverbs 17:28)

"Even fools are thought wise if they keep silent, and discerning if they hold their tongues."

There is a holy wisdom in knowing when to speak and when to remain silent. Turning the other cheek is not about becoming a doormat—it is about discerning when words will build and when they will break. In my situation, sharing my frustration would have served me, but potentially at the cost of our closeness. Choosing silence here was not passive—it was active love.

There is power in trusting that God sees what is unspoken, that He understands our hearts even when we don’t verbalize them. Sometimes silence is not avoidance; sometimes silence is sacred.

3. Anchor to Love, Not Ego (1 Corinthians 13:5)

"[Love] is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs."

Love is not about keeping score. Love is about laying down our ego, about choosing connection over correction. It’s about recognizing that not every opinion needs to be addressed, not every slight needs to be defended, not every moment needs to be seized.

When we are anchored in love, we can absorb those moments that rub us the wrong way because our security is not in being right—our security is in Christ. And Christ’s love never falters, never keeps a tally of our mistakes, never waits to pounce when we misstep.

I think about how God parents us—not with a constant need to correct every misstep immediately, but with patience, with time, with opportunities to come back to Him again and again. And that is how I want to love my daughter. That is how I want to love everyone.

So maybe I didn’t always parent gently. Maybe I missed moments along the way. But today, I can choose gentleness. Today, I can turn the other cheek. Today, I can love better.

And maybe that’s enough.

I hope this reflection helps you in your own walk. May you choose Christ-like decisions, may you lean into love, and may your silence sometimes speak volumes in the Kingdom.

And as I sat with all of this — the memories of those fast, frantic single dad years, the gentle parenting conversations with my daughter, and now this present season where the roles have shifted ever so slightly — I realized something I probably should have seen all along. Life, at its very core, is a constant exchange of lessons. Sometimes we’re the teacher, sometimes the student, and more often than not, we’re both, stumbling around the same messy classroom, trying to figure out love, grace, and how to not lose each other in the process.

I won’t lie to you — there’s a part of me that still wrestles with pride when unsolicited opinions get offered up about my life. Especially from someone I raised. The little voice inside that says, “You wouldn’t even be here if I hadn’t sacrificed what I did” — yeah, that voice shows up sometimes. But here’s where God’s been working on me: that voice is pride talking, not love. And pride, if we let it, builds walls where God intended bridges.

It hit me the other day — maybe turning the other cheek isn’t just about letting offenses slide. Maybe it’s an invitation to see beyond them. To lean into humility so deeply that we stop tallying the wrongs altogether. Isn’t that what 1 Corinthians 13 promises? Love keeps no record of wrongs. Zero. Zilch. It doesn’t say love keeps a running tab, but only brings it up on special occasions. It says love lets it go completely.

Easier said than done, right? Especially when the words feel sharp, the assumptions sting, or you’re left standing there thinking, “I didn’t even ask for your advice.” But here’s what the Holy Spirit keeps whispering to me in these moments — love looks past the offense and sees the heart.

And when I quiet my pride long enough, I do see her heart. I see a young woman trying to navigate adulthood, relationships, and life with her own set of uncertainties and fears. I see her trying to use the tools she’s gathered — including gentle parenting — to make sense of a world that feels unstable at times. And in that, I see a reflection of myself — that young dad, tired, overwhelmed, doing the best he could with the tools he had, fumbling along the way but never lacking love.

Funny how it comes full circle, isn’t it?

There’s another layer God’s been peeling back for me, too. Boundaries. Healthy, biblical, grace-filled boundaries. For the longest time, I thought turning the other cheek meant becoming a doormat. Smile. Nod. Let people walk all over you. But that’s not what Jesus modelled. Turning the other cheek wasn’t about surrendering self-respect — it was about surrendering retaliation. It was choosing peace over pride. But even Jesus had boundaries. He walked away from crowds when needed. He retreated to quiet places. He didn’t feel the need to explain Himself to everyone who misunderstood Him. That’s been freeing for me to remember.

And so, in my situation with my daughter — and maybe this applies to your life too — I’ve realized I can turn the other cheek and still set a boundary. I can quietly decide not to engage in certain conversations that aren’t invited or helpful, while still loving her unconditionally. I can guard my peace without wounding hers. It’s a delicate dance, but with the Holy Spirit’s help, it’s possible.

And here’s the thing I want to say, especially to the men reading this — dads, grandpas, uncles, spiritual fathers — this whole idea of gentleness, patience, and humility? It’s not weakness. Don’t let the world convince you otherwise. It takes far more strength to hold your tongue, to pray instead of react, to let love lead when your pride wants to drive. Gentle parenting, gentle relationships, gentle living — these are acts of bold, Spirit-filled courage.

Proverbs 15:1 says, “A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.” That applies whether you’re talking to a toddler, a teenager, or your grown adult child who suddenly has opinions about your personal life. Gentleness de-escalates. Gentleness opens doors pride keeps locked. Gentleness reflects Jesus.

I’ve often thought about how Jesus handled His most difficult relationships — with His family, with His disciples, with those who misunderstood Him. He had every right to correct, to defend, to set the record straight. And sometimes He did, but so often, He chose silence, grace, or a question that revealed more than a lecture ever could. His power wasn’t diminished by His gentleness — it was magnified.

So, what does all this mean for you and me as we walk through complicated family moments, unsolicited advice, and the echoes of past parenting decisions? For me, it means three more practical things I’m committing to, maybe they’ll help you too:

1.     I will lead with curiosity, not assumption.
When feedback comes — even when it stings — I’ll ask, “What’s behind this?” rather than assume the worst. Maybe there’s fear. Maybe there’s love. Maybe there’s misunderstanding. But I can’t know unless I’m curious.

2.     I will protect my peace, not my pride.
That means setting boundaries where needed. Walking away from unhelpful conversations. Choosing silence over sarcasm. Guarding my heart — not out of anger, but out of wisdom.

3.     I will remember my identity isn’t found in anyone’s opinion but God’s.
Whether praised or criticized, my worth is unshaken. Ephesians 2:10 reminds me I am God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works. That truth anchors me when emotions rise.

And maybe, just maybe, the greatest legacy I leave for my daughter, and for others watching my life, isn’t about how perfectly I parented — spoiler alert, I didn’t — but about how I’ve let God reshape me as I grow. It’s about showing that even old dogs, or tired single dads, can learn new ways to love, forgive, and live with grace.

I’m not perfect at this. I still wrestle. I still catch myself wanting to fire back when words feel sharp or unfair. But I’m learning. And as I often remind myself — and maybe you need this reminder today too — spiritual maturity isn’t measured by how quickly we get it right, but by how consistently we let God make it right within us.

To anyone walking a similar road — maybe your kids are young, maybe they’re grown, maybe the dynamics feel complicated or strained — I want to encourage you: it’s not too late. It’s never too late to parent with gentleness. It’s never too late to respond with grace. It’s never too late to model Christ in your family, no matter how tangled the history.

The Kingdom of God advances not just through big sermons or grand missions, but through small, ordinary moments of choosing love over offense, peace over pride, humility over control. It happens when a dad listens instead of defends. When a daughter speaks, and her father sees her heart, not just her words. When both choose to lay down their assumptions and pick up the cross — together.

So today, I won’t share my quiet frustrations with my daughter. Not because I’m suppressing them, but because I’m surrendering them. To the One who sees both our hearts. To the God who’s still writing redemption stories in families like mine — and yours. And I take comfort in that.

I hope this share encourages you to do the same. To process gently. To love fiercely. And to remember that with every decision to turn the other cheek, you’re not just avoiding conflict — you’re building the kind of love the Kingdom is made of.

And that, my friend, is worth every quiet surrender along the way.