Losing your patience and your temper isn't the most attractive

In the words of Peter Krause, we hear a confession familiar to all who walk the path of parenthood: “Losing your patience and your temper isn’t the most attractive thing, but as kids get older, you wind up raising your voice.” Though spoken simply, these words carry the ancient weight of human struggle—the balance between love and discipline, gentleness and firmness, patience and exasperation. It is the story of every parent, every teacher, every elder who has wrestled with guiding the young while still wrestling with their own imperfections.

For what is patience, if not a shield forged through love? It is the restraint that allows us to endure the chaos of childhood without breaking into anger. And yet, even the strongest shields crack. Krause acknowledges a truth that humbles us: no matter how much we aspire to calmness, there come moments when the heart surges with frustration and the voice rises like thunder. This does not make one a monster, but a human—still learning, still striving.

Consider the tale of Socrates, who, though famed for his wisdom, admitted that the youth of Athens often tested his endurance. He chose dialogue rather than shouting, yet even he knew the strain of guiding restless minds. His patience shaped disciples, but history remembers that his life ended at their hands. In this, we see both the power and the peril of trying to guide the young: patience is necessary, but it will always be tested, sometimes to breaking.

Krause’s words remind us that the raising of children is no mere duty, but a lifelong training in forbearance and forgiveness. The child pushes boundaries not from malice, but from curiosity and growth. The parent’s anger, though regrettable, is born not of hatred, but of exhaustion and care. To admit that one loses patience is not weakness—it is honesty, and within honesty lies the possibility of renewal.

Yet, we must be cautious. For though a raised voice may sometimes command attention, too much thunder erodes trust. Children, like tender plants, require both rain and sunlight. A parent who storms always will drown them; a parent who never rains may leave them untaught. Balance is the ancient teaching: firmness tempered with kindness, authority softened with love.

The meaning of Krause’s words is thus: the path of raising children demands both patience and humility. One must accept that imperfection is inevitable, that tempers will flare, but also that growth comes not from perfection but from persistence. To guide another human being is to stumble, to falter, to begin again. And in the process, both parent and child are transformed.

The lesson is clear: do not despair when you lose your patience. Instead, return to gentleness, ask forgiveness, and keep walking the path. Train your voice not only to command, but also to uplift. Remember that love is not diminished by moments of weakness, but proven by the choice to rise again with compassion.

So let Krause’s words be to you a torch of wisdom: accept your humanity, embrace your imperfection, and strive always toward patience. For in the raising of children, as in the raising of nations, greatness is not found in never faltering—but in faltering, and then returning again, with love, to the task.