What We Know About Talking to Anxious Kids—And What We Forget to Tell Ourselves

All three of our children, like most kids, have been afraid of the dark as young children. Fear of the dark is what is often called a “prepared fear,” meaning that it’s one that was likely wired into us by evolution because for most of human evolutionary history, the night was genuinely, lethally dangerous, and most especially for babies and young children alone in the night. 

With our oldest, I tried logic: “Of course there’s nothing to be afraid of, sweetie. We’ll be right here in the next room.” If you’re also a parent, you can probably guess exactly how well that worked. By the time our second and third children came along, I was a little bit wiser. Instead of saying “you’ll be fine, don’t worry about it,” I started saying, “it makes sense you’re nervous—it feels scary to be alone in the dark, even when you’re safe with us.” Sometimes I didn’t even say anything at all, I just met them with warm presence, letting them know I was right there and that it’s hard when your body feels scared.

Now when my 6 year old wakes from a scary dream in the middle of the night, I don’t waste any time trying to talk her out of her fear. I acknowledge, “That felt so scary and real. But I’m right here and you’re safe with me.” When I do that, I can immediately feel our daughter soften and relax into my arms just having her fear acknowledged and being reminded she is not alone.

I think about this often, because it’s also a pretty accurate diagnosis of what most of us do to ourselves the moment anxiety and fear show up. We skip straight to “you’ll be fine,” or “don’t be ridiculous—there’s nothing to be afraid of here.” We rush past the feeling on our way to fixing it, managing it, or arguing ourselves out of it. And then we wonder why the anxiety doesn’t seem to go anywhere.

The research isn’t really about kids. It’s about how anxiety works.

Decades of research on emotion coaching, much of it from John Gottman and colleagues, finds that children whose worry is named and acknowledged—rather than minimized or dismissed—develop stronger emotional regulation, better peer relationships, and higher self-esteem. Critically, this advantage holds up even when the worry itself doesn’t go away. The benefit isn’t in resolving the feeling. It’s in not being alone with it.

That seemingly small shift in language—“it makes sense you’re nervous” instead of “don’t worry about it”—does something specific. It validates the feeling instead of arguing with it, and it opens a conversation instead of closing one down. The first response tells a child their internal experience is wrong or inconvenient. The second tells them it’s information worth looking at together.

Now read that paragraph again, but picture it as something happening inside your own head on a Tuesday afternoon during a spike in your pain or before a hard conversation, a deadline, or a doctor’s appointment. Most of us are fluent in the “come on, don’t be silly” language when we talk to ourselves. Far fewer of us have cultivated the ability to respond to our fear and anxiety with gentle acknowledgment and warm presence.

Worry itself was never the problem

When I realized this, it felt like a weight lifting off my shoulders: some anxiety before something new or difficult is normal and expected, even when you’re an adult. Researchers describe it as a forward-looking process—the mind checking whether you’re ready and what you might need. Worry becomes a problem when it’s intense, persistent, or when it pushes you to avoid things that are actually safe and appropriate for you to do.

That distinction matters because so many of us treat the presence of anxiety as the emergency, rather than asking what the anxiety might be tracking. If you’re nervous before a hard conversation, that’s not a malfunction. That’s your nervous system doing exactly what it’s built to do. The question worth asking isn’t “how do I make this feeling go away,” it’s “what is this feeling pointing at, and what does my nervous system actually need right now in order to feel safe?” Almost always, it’s not more logic or thinking that can help us move forward, it’s warm acknowledgment of how hard our brain and nervous system is working to keep us safe.

Confidence doesn’t come from reassurance. It comes from evidence.

Self-efficacy is the genuine belief in your own ability to handle something, and it is built through completing something difficult, even while the fear and anxiety are there, while feeling supported and then reflecting on what you managed. A 2023 study of more than 9,000 adolescents found that these mastery experiences explained more of kids’ self-belief than encouragement or social support did on their own. Reassurance alone didn’t build the same foundation.

In other words: telling a kid “you’ve got this” matters less than the kid actually doing the hard thing and then noticing, afterward, that they did it.

We do this backwards with ourselves constantly. We try to talk ourselves into confidence before we’ve done anything, and then feel cheated when the pep talk doesn’t stick. But confidence was never going to arrive that way. It shows up after we’ve done something difficult, fear and all, and come out the other side—especially if someone, even an internal someone, stayed close enough to make it feel manageable.

What this looks like in practice

You don’t need a perfect script for this, with your kids or with yourself. The research is clear that emotion coaching doesn’t require having the exact right thing to say next. Just yesterday during a virtual session with a client, the client’s dog heard a noise outside her apartment in the hallway. The client and I both knew her dog was making a mistake with respect to the threat, but I watched as the client intuitively knew exactly what to do to soothe her dog. Of course she didn’t try to explain to the dog that it was just someone delivering mail. She reached over and petted her and spoke in warm, reassuring tones, and her dog immediately began to relax just through the client acknowledging, “yes, you’re scared, but I’m here and you’re safe.”

When meeting your own fear and anxiety, that might sound like: “It makes sense I’m anxious about this.” “This is genuinely hard.” “What do I actually need right now—more information, more time, or just to feel less alone in it?”

That’s the whole intervention, most days. You don’t have to take the worry away from yourself any more than you’d need to take it away from your child. You just have to make sure you don’t have to carry it alone.

What should I say to an anxious child?

Start by naming and accepting the feeling. You might say, “It makes sense that you feel scared,” or, “That felt really frightening.” Then remind the child that they are safe and that you are with them. This helps the nervous system settle because the child feels understood and supported.

Why does telling a child “don’t worry” often fail?

Telling a child not to worry can make the feeling seem wrong or inconvenient. Anxiety does not usually disappear because someone argues with it. A child is more likely to calm down when the fear is acknowledged and they feel less alone with it.

Does validating anxiety make it worse?

Validating anxiety does not mean agreeing that the danger is real. It means recognizing that the fear feels real in the child’s body. Acknowledgment can reduce shame and defensiveness, which makes it easier for the child to take in reassurance and move forward.

How do children build confidence when they are anxious?

Children build confidence through experience. They do something difficult while feeling afraid, receive support, and later notice that they handled it. Encouragement can help, but real self-belief grows from repeated evidence that they can face hard things.

What is emotion coaching?

Emotion coaching is a way of helping a child notice, name, and understand what they are feeling. The adult stays calm, treats the emotion as meaningful, and helps the child decide what to do next. The goal is to build emotional regulation over time.

How can I respond to my own anxiety in the same way?

Begin with gentle acknowledgment. Try saying, “It makes sense that I feel anxious about this,” or, “This is hard right now.” Then ask what would help you feel supported enough to take the next step. The goal is to meet the fear with steadiness instead of criticism.

Beyond the insight.

Knowledge is the first step; integration is the work. If you're ready to move these concepts into your actual life, let's talk about a strategic path forward.

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