They laugh, they play, they forget things, they get bored easily. From the outside, children look like carefree, curious beings made of sunshine and giggles. But if we’re honest—truly honest—we'll admit that we've stopped looking beneath the surface. We rarely ask: what's going on inside that tiny head or fragile heart?

We assume they’re too young to be carrying any real burdens. We label their meltdowns as “drama,” their tears as “tantrums,” and their withdrawal as “just a phase.” But science—and life—tells a different story.
According to a 2023 UNICEF report, one in seven children globally suffers from a mental health disorder. Anxiety and depression are no longer teenage problems; they’re creeping into early childhood. And no, it’s not because kids have become “soft.” It’s because the world around them has become loud, fast, demanding—and we haven't changed our parenting or teaching models to match.
We’re still raising children the way we were raised: with tough love, long lectures, and the idea that kids should be “seen, not heard.” We still hold onto stories like, “In our days, we had no phones, no fancy toys, and we turned out fine.” But this isn't our day. The terrain has shifted—drastically.
Today's children are exposed to overstimulation, constant comparison, social media validation, academic rat races, fractured family time, and adult realities before they even hit puberty. Imagine having a developing brain and still being expected to self-regulate emotions, ace every subject, win medals, manage loneliness, and not ask for too much. That’s the silent curriculum of modern childhood. And most parents don’t even see it. Instead, we hand them a tuition schedule, a device, a pep talk, and sometimes even a boarding school admission—believing we’re securing their future. Maybe we are. But what if, in that process, we’re unsecuring their present?
Take boarding schools. Often considered a mark of privilege, opportunity, and discipline—and sometimes, they are. Children learn resilience, time management, coexistence, and cultural exposure. They build thick skin, and some even blossom. But what if they were never emotionally equipped to make that transition in the first place?
I speak not as a psychologist, but as someone who once carried a stuffed schoolbag packed with more fear than notebooks to a hostel too early. I was a deeply domesticated child—grounded in the everyday warmth of home, comforted by consistent routines, and emotionally rooted in the familiarity of family life. The sense of predictability, security, and emotional safety that came from home had created a strong psychological anchor—one not easily replaced by institutional walls or unfamiliar faces.
One morning, I was packed off to boarding school—no preparation, no emotional roadmap. Just a silent nod that “he’ll adjust.”
I didn’t.
I survived, yes. But barely. I still remember one Sunday, my parents had visited. They hugged me, left, and as the gate closed behind them, I felt something collapse inside. I sat in my room for a long time. Then came the plan. There was a spring downhill, just a short walk from the dorms. I’d pretend to slip, break a leg maybe, and then I’d have to be sent home. I was ready. Shoes on. Plot clear. And then… I fell asleep.
When I woke up, the day was gone. And so was the chance. Even now, I wonder—what if I hadn’t slept? What would have happened? Would I have gone? Would I have done something irreversible? Would someone have noticed, finally?
That incident wasn’t about attention. It was a silent scream—a boy who didn’t have the words to say, “I’m not okay.”
The damage wasn’t dramatic. It was slow, quiet, internal. Like most children’s damage is. And the saddest part? I never told anyone. Because no one ever asked.
We wait for signs of trauma to be loud—cuts, diagnoses, breakdowns. But trauma in children is often silent. It hides behind high grades. Behind “good manners.” Behind the words, “I’m fine.”
Let’s be clear: this is not just about boarding schools. Emotional unpreparedness is everywhere. A child forced into public speaking when they fear judgment. A daughter discouraged from crying because “strong girls don’t cry.” A son mocked for failing math instead of being helped. These aren’t just “parenting choices.” These are psychological wounds in slow motion.
So what can we do?
Let’s start by discarding the idea that kids are emotionally blank slates. They are emotional oceans—with waves they don’t yet know how to name. Our job is to teach them the language of feelings before we teach them the language of ambition.
If you're planning to send your child to a hostel, begin at least two years early. Let them sleep over at relatives’ homes. Let them feel mild homesickness and return. Let them name that ache in the chest. Talk about it. Don't shut it down. Prepare them emotionally the way you’d prepare them medically—gradually, gently, consistently.
Teach them to journal. To breathe. To ask for help. To say “I feel lonely” without fear of being labelled weak. And most importantly—build a home they’ll want to come back to, not one they’re eager to escape.
We must stop measuring parenting by the marks they get and start measuring it by the emotional literacy they carry. Because no amount of education, discipline, or exposure can replace a broken inner voice that says, “Nobody understands me.”
We must stop treating our children like smaller versions of ourselves. Their world is faster, louder, lonelier. And in our race to provide the best education or future, we are skipping the most basic need: emotional anchoring.
This is not a plea for overprotection. It’s a plea for intelligent, empathetic parenting. One that listens before acting. One that acknowledges struggle before correcting behaviour. One that prepares before pushing.
The cost of neglecting this? It’s not always visible. It may show up years later—in broken confidence, emotional detachment, or a haunting memory of a near self-harm incident.
So, let’s ask ourselves:
Do we really know what our children are going through? Are we raising emotionally strong individuals or just academically successful ones? Are we preparing them for life—or pushing them blindly into it?
Because in the end, the most dangerous silence is the one we mistake for strength.
Let’s listen—before they break.

Email:---------------------Shafatalidar@gmail.com