A little girl who finds a puzzle frustrating might ask her busy

Daniel Goleman, the great voice of emotional intelligence, once spoke with piercing clarity: “A little girl who finds a puzzle frustrating might ask her busy mother (or teacher) for help. The child gets one message if her mother expresses clear pleasure at the request and quite another if mommy responds with a curt, ‘Don’t bother me—I’ve got important work to do.’” In these words lies a lesson not only for parents, but for all who shape the hearts of the young. For in every small response, in every glance or word, we write invisible lines upon the soul of a child, lines that may guide her for a lifetime.

O listener, understand this truth: the puzzle is not merely a toy, but the symbol of struggle. When a child seeks help, she does not seek the answer alone—she seeks connection, affirmation, and the assurance that her struggles matter. The mother or teacher who smiles and receives her warmly plants within her the seed of courage, teaching her that it is safe to ask, safe to stumble, safe to lean on others when the burden grows heavy. But the one who turns her away coldly teaches a darker lesson: that her needs are unworthy, her struggles a nuisance, her voice unwelcome. This lesson may remain in her heart long after the puzzle is forgotten.

Consider the story of young Thomas Edison. As a boy, he was thought slow by his teachers, dismissed as a burden. But his mother, refusing to let harsh words define him, encouraged his curiosity, nurtured his questions, and turned what others called weakness into genius. In her patient responses, she gave him not only knowledge but faith in himself. And from that faith came the inventions that lit the world. What would have become of him if his questions had been met only with scorn?

The origin of Goleman’s words comes from his lifelong study of how emotions shape development. He saw that the smallest interactions carry immense weight, for they sculpt the very wiring of the young mind. A kind word becomes confidence; a harsh dismissal becomes doubt. The child is like soft clay, and every word of a teacher or mother leaves an imprint that hardens into character. Thus, Goleman reminds us that emotional responses are not fleeting—they are the foundation stones of resilience, empathy, and self-worth.

But let us not think this is the burden of parents alone. Every elder, every mentor, every companion plays this role. A coach who encourages a struggling player, a sibling who listens instead of mocking, a teacher who smiles when a hand is raised—these are acts that seem small, yet they echo like thunder in the heart of the one who receives them. To dismiss is easy; to nurture is divine. And in this choice lies the power to break or build the spirit of another.

The lesson, then, is this: guard your words, especially to the young. Know that your response is more than a reaction—it is instruction. You are always teaching, even when you do not intend to. Teach kindness, teach patience, teach that the needs of another are never an inconvenience but a chance to show love. If you are weary, speak with gentleness. If you are pressed with labor, remember that the child’s question may be the seed of her future greatness.

Therefore, children of tomorrow, practice this in your daily life: when asked for help, do not push away the seeker. Instead, see in their question an honor—that they trusted you enough to ask. Offer your attention, however brief, with warmth. For in this simple act, you may awaken a soul to confidence, to courage, to greatness. And if you cannot give help in the moment, give kindness in your tone, and promise to return when you can. In this way, you keep the flame alive.

And so remember Goleman’s teaching: the puzzle is never just a puzzle. The child is never just asking for an answer. She is asking, “Do I matter? Am I worthy of your time?” Let your answer, in word and in deed, be yes. For to say yes is to build not only her future, but the future of the world itself.