“Here, Let Me Fix That”
They proudly bring over a drawing. It’s messy. Wobbly. Outside the lines. The colors are strange. But they’re beaming. You take it, pause, and say with love, “That’s beautiful.” Then your eye twitches.
The lines could be straighter. The sun’s purple. There’s no background. Your hand starts to reach, just to adjust a little.
They watch. You don’t mean to, but you start correcting. Smoothing. “What if we did it like this instead?” you say gently, penciling over their masterpiece.
And just like that, the joy drains from their face.
You didn’t mean to crush anything. You were just trying to help. Make it better. Teach them, right?
But here’s the hard truth: sometimes our “help” hijacks their progress. Sometimes our need to fix overtakes their need to grow. And when we do that too often, correct too quickly, adjust too precisely, we don’t just straighten crayon lines.
We flatten their confidence.
This article is about why it matters to let your child hand you something imperfect, and receive it with joy, not judgment. Because parenting isn’t about perfect output.
It’s about forming a soul who keeps showing up, keeps trying, and knows they’re loved long before they get it all “right.”
Progress Is Where Virtue Begins
We all want our kids to do things well: set the table correctly, fold the towels neatly, speak with clarity, finish the worksheet properly, write thank-you cards that don’t look like ransom notes.
And those are good goals. But they aren’t formation goals. They’re external wins, visible polish.
Real formation starts with small, slow, messy progress.
The child who finally remembers to hang up their coat. The one who speaks up for themselves haltingly. The seven-year-old who makes their own bed, with bumps.
These are milestones, not failures to tweak.
If you step in too early or too often to “fix” those rough edges, you don’t just correct behavior. You interrupt growth. You risk teaching them that it’s only good if it’s perfect. That effort without polish is unworthy.
But in reality, progress is where patience grows. Where confidence builds. Where virtue is born.
They don’t need constant refining. They need room to practice being human.
Overcorrection Is a Subtle Thief
Overcorrection doesn’t always come loudly. It can sound gentle, helpful, even loving.
“Almost perfect, just fix this part.”
“You forgot the period again.”
“You did the dishes, but next time stack them this way.”
“Thanks for cleaning, but it’s still a bit messy here.”
Alone, each comment seems harmless. But stacked daily, they can steal something vital: ownership.
The child starts to think: Why try if I’ll just get corrected anyway?
They begin to wait for feedback before acting.
They stop finishing things without checking if it’s “right.”
They begin to equate love with approval, and effort with risk.
The more we smooth over their work, the more we send the message: “It’s not really yours unless I fix it.”
And that’s not humility. That’s discouragement disguised as excellence.
Why It’s So Tempting to Fix Everything
We don’t overcorrect because we’re controlling. We overcorrect because we care.
We want them to do it right. We want to pass along good habits. We see their potential, and the path from A to Z seems so clear to us. It feels like love to guide, to polish, to jump in.
But often, our corrections aren’t about them. They’re about us.
Our discomfort with the messy. Our worry about how they’ll be perceived. Our desire for order. Our own perfectionism.
The truth is, letting your child hand you something wobbly and leaving it untouched, that takes more strength than fixing it.
It means swallowing the twitch. Holding the tongue. Trusting that formation is happening even if it’s not visible yet.
Because your goal is not to raise a perfectly-behaved project. It’s to raise a person who can keep going when things don’t come easy.
Celebrate What They Attempt
When your child brings you something they’ve done, art, chores, conversation, confession, they’re handing you more than an action.
They’re handing you a piece of themselves. A risk. A try.
Don’t rush to critique the form. See the courage.
Celebrate the attempt, not just the accuracy.
“This is your work? I love how you took the time.”
“I saw you set the table yourself. Thanks for jumping in.”
“That letter made me smile. You wrote it all on your own.”
These words don’t lower the bar. They lay the foundation.
Correction can come later. Quietly. When they ask. When they’re open. But the first thing they should hear is: You tried. I see you. And I’m proud of your effort.
Because kids who feel safe in their attempts become adults who risk greatness.
Perfectionism Is Contagious
If your children grow up in a house where nothing is ever good enough, not the room they cleaned, the homework they tried, the way they held their sibling’s hand, they learn a dangerous truth:
Trying is risky. Love is earned. Mistakes are failures.
And that lesson doesn’t stay at home. It follows them into adulthood:
They edit their personality to be liked.
They panic when they get things wrong.
They procrastinate out of fear of not doing it “right.”
They flinch at feedback, even kind feedback.
All because somewhere along the line, someone straightened the crayon lines too many times.
They never learned that effort is valuable even when the results are imperfect.
And they never felt the joy of progress unfiltered by someone else’s standards.
You have the power to break that pattern. By stepping back. By pausing before correcting. By honoring the courage of the attempt.
Correction Has Its Time, But It’s Not Always Now
This doesn’t mean you never guide. Or that kids should live in a consequence-free zone.
But correction has a time. And it’s not always right now.
There’s a difference between:
A teachable moment and a fragile one.
A coaching nudge and a soul-crushing critique.
An opportunity to shape vs. a reflex to fix.
Wait. Watch. Ask yourself:
Are they proud right now?
Are they inviting feedback?
Are they ready to grow, or do they need affirmation first?
There will be plenty of chances to refine the habit. But only one chance to respond in that moment to their vulnerable offering.
Choose encouragement first. The fine-tuning can wait.
Praise Progress, Then Build the Habit
Here’s the model:
Notice and affirm the progress: “You remembered your chores today, thank you!”
Let the moment land. Don’t rush in with the next layer.
Later, maybe that evening or tomorrow, circle back gently: “Hey, want me to show you a trick for folding the towels even faster?”
Now the feedback is welcome, not disruptive. They’ve felt seen. They’ve experienced the win. They’re ready to grow.
That’s how you teach excellence without crushing momentum.
Because the goal isn’t robotic perfection. It’s a heart trained in perseverance and joy.
Let Imperfect Love Land
Sometimes your child will show love in ways that feel… almost helpful.
They’ll wash a dish and leave the sink a mess.
They’ll try to write you a note full of spelling errors.
They’ll fold your laundry into neat-but-strange origami piles.
They’ll surprise you with breakfast, and leave the stove on.
In that moment, love isn’t efficient. But it’s real.
Let it land.
Don’t let your first words be correction. Let them be reception.
“Thank you.” “This means a lot.” “You’re so thoughtful.”
Then, later, when the timing’s right, you can teach. But don’t miss the gift in the moment.
Because correcting love before you receive it teaches them to second-guess the impulse to give.
And that is too high a price.
The Gift of the Messy Middle
Your child is not a finished product. They’re a work-in-progress. A soul-in-formation. And most of that formation happens in the messy middle.
The place between first attempts and polished habits. The space between intention and execution. The long stretch of practice where things are half-right, half-wrong, and fully beautiful in their effort.
If you jump in too quickly, fix too often, you risk stealing something precious: the joy of becoming.
Let the crayon lines stay crooked sometimes.
Let the corners of the bed be wrinkled.
Let the prayer they said at dinner be messy and halting.
Because the goal isn’t polished kids. The goal is courageous ones.
And those are formed not by constant correction, but by deep, delighted presence.
Say less. Smile more. Wait longer. Praise sooner.
Because you’re not raising a portfolio. You’re raising a person.
And progress, especially the wobbly kind, is the holiest ground of all.
