Teach them to Be Kind, Not Nice Love Given Under Threat is Survival

Faye sent me a reel.

Before I even watched it, she said something that immediately told me what kind of emotional territory we were about to enter.

“I want you to watch this so you can protect your children.”

There are certain sentences that arrive already carrying an atmosphere.

This one carried fear.

I watched the reel anyway.

The woman in the video was essentially warning parents that they needed to teach their children manners because while they might be raising their children one way, somebody else might be raising theirs in witchcraft. She talked about writing names in blood, putting names on an altar, curses—the kind of imagery specifically designed to make a parent think:

Dear God, what kind of people are my children interacting with?

Faye told me she had shared it with friends and family because she wanted to warn them.

Then she asked what I thought.

Had she not asked, I probably would have thanked her for thinking of me and kept moving.

But she asked.

And unfortunately for everyone involved, when someone asks me what I actually think, I tend to answer the question. 😂

At first, I told her I thought the reel was spreading fear.

We went back and forth for a while.

She said she wasn’t afraid.

She was warning people.

I said that if there were nothing to fear, there would be nothing to warn them about.

We talked about God, protection, peace, fear, other people’s beliefs, personal responsibility, parenting, boundaries, and probably six other things because apparently neither Faye nor I knows how to have a small philosophical disagreement.

😂

Then sometime afterward, it hit me.

We had both missed the point.

The real issue wasn’t witchcraft.

It wasn’t even fear.

The real issue was the lesson being taught to the child.

Be nice because you never know what the other person might do to you.

And I thought:

No.

Absolutely not.

Teach your child to be kind.

Not nice.

There is a difference.

A nice child can learn:

Don’t upset people.

Keep everybody happy.

Be agreeable.

Don’t make anyone angry.

Treat people well so they won’t retaliate.

That can look beautiful from the outside.

Quiet child.

Polite child.

Easy child.

Good child.

But underneath it can be fear.

And I know something about becoming the good girl because being good felt safer.

When I was little, I learned pretty early that certain behaviors brought consequences I didn’t enjoy.

I started adjusting myself.

Behave.

Don’t cause trouble.

Don’t make people angry.

Don’t become a problem.

Those lessons can absolutely help a child develop self-control.

But they can also quietly teach something else:

My safety depends on keeping other people pleased with me.

That isn’t kindness.

That is survival.

And the distinction matters enormously.

Because love given under threat is not love.

It is compliance.

If I am only kind to you because I am afraid you might curse me, hurt me, reject me, punish me, abandon me, or make my life difficult, then my behavior may appear loving—but love is not what is driving it.

Fear is.

That is not the kind of morality I want to teach my children.

I don’t want them walking through life calculating:

Who has enough power to make me behave?

I want something deeper rooted inside them.

I want them to understand:

The person standing in front of me is human too.

They have feelings.

They have a story I cannot fully see.

They have wounds.

They have hopes.

They have people they love.

They are carrying an entire interior world I know almost nothing about.

Therefore, unless circumstances require otherwise, I will meet them with dignity.

Not because I am afraid of them.

Because that is who I choose to be.

That is kindness.

And kindness has something that niceness often lacks:

a backbone.

Kindness does not mean becoming harmless to everyone except yourself.

Kindness does not mean saying yes when you want to say no.

Kindness does not mean remaining quiet while somebody mistreats you.

Kindness does not require you to tolerate cruelty.

Kindness can say:

“I love you, and you cannot speak to me that way.”

Kindness can say:

“I understand why you feel that way, and my answer is still no.”

Kindness can leave.

Kindness can report harm.

Kindness can defend someone.

Kindness can close the door.

Kindness can build a fence.

Kindness can disagree so thoroughly that two people have almost nothing in common except their humanity—and still refuse to become hatred.

That is what I want my children to know.

See the humanity in other people.

And equally important:

Do not forget the humanity in yourself.

Because teaching children to love everybody without teaching them self-love can become another kind of danger.

A child can hear:

Be forgiving.

Be nice.

Turn the other cheek.

Give another chance.

Don’t hold grudges.

Love everybody.

And grow into an adult who thinks love requires enduring anything.

No.

I want my babies to love themselves enough to recognize when someone is treating them unkindly.

I want them to know:

I deserve dignity too.

I can love someone and leave them.

I can forgive someone and not trust them again.

I can understand someone without volunteering to be harmed by them.

I can recognize their humanity without surrendering my own.

That is the balance.

Love outward.

Love inward.

Neither one requiring the destruction of the other.

And that brought me back to something else Faye and I had been talking about.

The reel had quietly created an other.

There was us.

And then there was them.

Our children.

Their children.

Our beliefs.

Their practices.

The safe people.

The dangerous people.

The right people.

The wrong people.

And this is one of the easiest things fear does.

It turns a human being into a category.

Once that happens, we no longer have to deal with the complexity of the actual person.

We can simply deal with the label.

Witch.

Christian.

Atheist.

Believer.

Unbeliever.

Conservative.

Liberal.

Rich.

Poor.

Whatever word allows us to place someone far enough away from ourselves that we no longer have to recognize the similarities underneath.

But if I believe—as I personally do—that the Divine can be encountered through humanity, then I cannot only look for God in people who resemble me.

I cannot say:

Every person carries something sacred—except those people.

That defeats the entire thing.

For me, “love thy neighbor” becomes interesting precisely when the neighbor is difficult to understand.

It is easy to love the neighbor who votes like you.

Prays like you.

Raises children like you.

Looks like you.

Talks like you.

Lives like you.

That is not exactly advanced spiritual training.

😂

The real test comes when your neighbor’s garden looks nothing like yours.

And then you have to decide:

Do I need their garden to be wrong before I can trust mine?

I don’t think I do.

Someone else can practice a spirituality I would never practice.

Someone can raise their children differently.

Someone can believe something I completely reject.

And I can still say:

That belongs to you. This belongs to me.

You do not need my validation to live your life.

I do not need yours to live mine.

That does not mean everything is morally neutral.

There are behaviors that cause genuine harm.

There are times when intervention is appropriate.

If someone is abusing a child, violating consent, threatening violence, or materially harming another person, “that’s their journey” is not enough.

Love protects too.

But difference itself is not harm.

Discomfort is not always danger.

And disagreement does not automatically create an enemy.

I can fundamentally disagree with you and still refuse to dehumanize you.

In fact, maybe that is one of the clearest signs that I truly trust myself.

I don’t need you to become wrong for me to remain right with myself.

That realization has changed the way I think about teaching children morality.

Because I don’t want to raise children whose goodness depends entirely upon consequences.

I don’t want:

Be nice or God will punish you.

Be nice or someone might hurt you.

Be nice or people won’t like you.

Be nice or you’ll get in trouble.

Those things may control behavior.

But controlled behavior is not necessarily character.

Character is what happens when the threat is removed.

Who are you when you could get away with being cruel?

Who are you when the person cannot give you anything?

Who are you when nobody important is watching?

Who are you when the cashier makes a mistake?

Who are you with the strange kid?

The awkward kid?

The unpopular person?

The employee who cannot advance your career?

The person whose beliefs make no sense to you?

The person who has absolutely no social power over you?

That is where kindness becomes visible.

Not because:

Something bad might happen if I mistreat you.

But because:

I don’t want to become someone who casually causes suffering.

That is a vote for character.

And strangely enough, this circles right back to something I’ve been learning about conscious living.

Awareness gives us a choice.

Fear may appear.

Judgment may appear.

An old belief may appear.

We may look at someone and immediately notice every difference.

That isn’t necessarily the problem.

The question is:

What do I choose next?

Do I feed the fear?

Do I turn the person into an enemy?

Do I make assumptions about an entire group?

Or do I remain present long enough to remember:

There is a human being in front of me.

I can assess actual behavior.

I can respond to actual danger.

I can set actual boundaries.

But I do not have to manufacture an imaginary war because someone is different.

There is enough real suffering in the world.

I do not need to create extra enemies.

And maybe this is where “nice” and “kind” separate again.

Nice wants everyone to agree.

Kindness can tolerate difference.

Nice may avoid conflict because conflict feels unsafe.

Kindness can enter conflict without becoming cruel.

Nice may smile while secretly resenting.

Kindness tells the truth.

Nice says:

“Whatever you want is fine.”

Kindness says:

“I care about you, and this is where I stand.”

Nice can be afraid of rejection.

Kindness is rooted enough to survive disagreement.

That is what I want to teach.

I want my children to know how to walk through this world without becoming either cruel or powerless.

I want them to know they can be soft without being weak.

Firm without being hateful.

Open without being naïve.

Loving without becoming available for abuse.

I want them to understand that every person deserves basic human dignity, but access to their life is earned.

That someone can be sacred and still unsafe for them.

That they can wish someone well from a considerable distance.

😂

I want them to know:

Love is not the absence of boundaries.

Sometimes the boundary is precisely how love prevents resentment from turning into hatred.

And I want them to trust themselves enough that difference does not automatically frighten them.

You don’t have to copy everyone.

You don’t have to approve of everyone.

You don’t have to participate in everything.

You don’t even have to understand everything.

Sometimes you can simply say:

That isn’t for me.

And keep walking.

No fear required.

No superiority required.

No enemy required.

Just self-knowledge.

Maybe that is one of the greatest gifts we can give a child:

an internal compass instead of an external threat.

Rather than:

Do this because something terrible might happen.

Teach:

This is how we treat people because this is who we choose to be.

Rather than:

Those people are dangerous because they are different.

Teach:

Pay attention to behavior. Use discernment. Do not confuse unfamiliarity with danger.

Rather than:

Love everybody no matter what they do to you.

Teach:

Love humanity, including your own.

And rather than:

Be nice.

Teach:

Be kind.

Because kindness can survive adulthood.

Niceness sometimes cannot.

Niceness burns out.

Niceness becomes resentment.

Niceness keeps saying yes and wondering why everyone keeps taking.

Kindness knows when to help.

Kindness knows when to stop.

Kindness can say:

I see you.

And also:

I will not allow this.

That is the kind of love I want to practice too.

Not love because I am afraid God will punish me if I don’t.

Not love because I need to prove I am spiritually evolved.

Not love because I need everyone to think I am a good person.

Love because, increasingly, love feels like the most honest expression of who I want to be.

And perhaps that is what I wish I had said from the beginning when Faye handed me the reel.

Not:

You are spreading fear.

But:

What do we actually want our children to learn here?

Because maybe she and I were standing so close to the surface of the argument that neither of us could initially see the lesson underneath.

The lesson wasn’t:

Be careful because witches exist.

The lesson wasn’t even:

Don’t be afraid.

The deeper lesson was:

Teach your babies to love.

Teach them to see another human being before they see a category.

Teach them to remember that disagreement does not cancel dignity.

Teach them to love themselves enough to leave what harms them.

Teach them that boundaries and compassion can exist in the same body.

Teach them that kindness is not obedience.

Teach them that fear is not morality.

Teach them that being “good” so nothing bad happens to you is still a form of survival.

And teach them that real love cannot be forced from them by threat.

Because love given under threat is not love.

It is survival.

And I don’t want my children merely surviving other people.

I want them knowing who they are.

Standing firmly in themselves.

Seeing clearly.

Loving freely.

Setting boundaries when necessary.

And meeting the person in front of them with enough presence to remember:

You are human.

I am human.

Neither of us has to disappear for the other one to exist.

That is the kind of kindness I believe changes things.

Not niceness.

Not fear.

Not compliance.

Love with a backbone.

And if I can teach my children that—

I think I will have taught them something worth carrying.

Closing Reflections

Think about what you were taught “being good” meant when you were young.

Was goodness connected to love?

Or was it connected to avoiding punishment, rejection, disappointment, conflict, or fear?

Ask yourself:

Was I taught to be kind, or was I taught to be nice?

Do I treat people well because it reflects my values, or because I am afraid of what might happen if I don’t?

Where has niceness become self-abandonment in my life?

Do I know how to remain compassionate without tolerating mistreatment?

Can I disagree with someone without turning them into an enemy?

Can I recognize another person’s humanity without surrendering my own?

What would “love with a backbone” look like in my relationships?

And if you are raising children, consider:

What do I want them to believe about kindness?

Do I want them to think:

Be good so nothing bad happens to you.

Or:

Be kind because that is who you choose to be.

Teach them that every person deserves dignity.

Teach them that difference is not automatically danger.

Teach them that boundaries do not cancel love.

Teach them that they can say no.

Teach them that they can walk away.

Teach them that they do not owe access to anyone who repeatedly harms them.

Teach them to see the humanity in others.

And teach them never to forget the humanity in themselves.

Because love that requires fear is not love.

Love that requires self-erasure is not love.

And being nice just to survive is not the same thing as being kind.

Teach them to love.

Teach them to discern.

Teach them to stand.

Teach them to stay human.