I’ve been thinking along about what we teach, what those around us learn from us, and how the lessons we intend to teach are often not the lessons received. This week, I am at Bearskin Meadow Camp training the counseling staff, trying to prepare them to help kids and families have a meaningful experience at camp. Fundamentally, the most powerful method we have of teaching is our own example. More than what we say, more than what we believe, our actions are the loudest way we communicate.
In the clinic, this often comes up when I’m talking with parents—fathers in particular. I’ll hear, “I have to be strong for my kids.” When I press further, that usually means not showing emotion, not reacting, not demonstrating sadness in the face of tragedy. The belief is that children need to see how we, as parents, are able to bear suffering and difficulty. But what if that’s not the lesson they learn? If Dad doesn’t cry in the face of tragedy, maybe that means it’s not okay to be sad. Or worse, that we shouldn’t have emotions at all.
A similar scenario often occurs around conflict, “I don’t want the kids to see us fight.” While I’m not suggesting that our children should be privy to every argument, having all conflicts occur behind closed doors might give the impression that couples don’t have disagreements. That lesson– that people who love each other never fight– is a hard one. When our kids grow up, and have arguments with their partners, something must be inherently wrong with the relationship, right? After all, my parents never argued.
If we want our children to be emotionally fluent—to be able to feel and navigate joy and sadness, worry and peace—then we have to show them the way. We have to demonstrate, through our actions, that these emotions are part of the human experience. What do our kids learn when we say it’s okay to feel sad, but they never see us express sadness ourselves? What do they learn when we say it’s ok to have strong feelings, but then never see us have strong emotions?
This idea extends far beyond emotion. If we want to teach curiosity, we must demonstrate curiosity. If we want to teach humility, we must be humble. If we want our children to take risks, to fail, to embrace a growth mindset— we must embrace that in our own lives. While our words matter, our actions speak louder.
Teaching through our actions doesn’t mean being perfect. The opposite is true—we all fall short of our ideals. At times, we are less than brave, kind, or caring. But even then, how we respond teaches something. Patients will sometimes tell me, “I messed up, and I tell my kids to do something different, to not follow my example.” But that doesn’t work. If we want to really impart the pain of our failures, we have to be vulnerable in sharing our own regret and heartbreak– telling someone to do something different won’t do the trick.
While actions speak loudest, words still matter. We can use our words to discuss our mistakes, to share our struggles, to convey how we feel we disappointed ourselves or others. Words allow us to bring others into our inner world, to narrate the meaning of our experiences and to connect beyond the surface. When we name our failures out loud, we break the illusion that growth is seamless or easy. We show that it is possible to fall short and still be worthy of love, still committed to learning. Words give us the opportunity to be transparent, to own our intentions even when our actions miss the mark. They allow us to say, “This is what I was trying to do. This is where I got it wrong. This is how I hope to do better.” When paired with honest self-reflection and continued effort, our words reinforce and deepen the lessons our actions are meant to teach.
When we are in a position of leadership, we often want to shield others from our past, to pretend we’ve lived mistake-free lives. But what does that teach? It teaches that mistakes aren’t okay. It teaches hypocrisy. Instead, we can model what it looks like to wrestle with our shortcomings and try to course correct. We can show what it means to forgive ourselves and make peace with having fallen short. That, too, is teaching, and an acknowledgment of reality: none of us is perfect. The path forward is to be honest about that, to grapple with it, and to live in alignment with it.
Teaching, leading, parenting, being a camp counselor—these are practices, not performances. The goal is not to perfectly fill a role, but to practice growth alongside others. We don’t need to be finished products—we just need to be engaged in the process. That said, these roles require real courage. They require us to allow others to see us as we are—insecurities, anxieties, mistakes, and all. And the courage to show that is contagious. When we allow ourselves to be seen, we give others permission to do the same.
The strongest way to transmit our values is to live them. We can’t teach hard work if we don’t work hard. We can’t teach kindness or self-forgiveness if our own internal voice is harsh and judgmental. But we don’t have to be perfect. We can teach the value of striving toward a high ideal by striving ourselves—and then being honest about where we fall short. That too is a lesson worth teaching.
Cheers,
Doc