My approach to parenting is that everything is open -

In the voice of Dawn French, we hear a confession as honest as it is instructive: “My approach to parenting is that everything is open—everything. I am not very good at covert, or subtle, and I have had to learn timing. I do blunder in a bit.” This declaration, humble and unpolished, carries a wisdom more enduring than the finest polished words. It teaches us that raising children is not a performance of perfection, but an act of authenticity. To be open with one’s children is to teach them that truth is stronger than pretense, and that even in clumsy honesty, love still shines.

The ancients often praised openness as a virtue of the soul. The Stoics, who prized sincerity, warned that deceit, even well-intentioned, corrodes the trust upon which relationships are built. In the writings of Confucius, we hear that harmony in the household begins with upright speech and transparent hearts. Dawn French, though speaking in the modern age, channels these eternal truths. She admits that she is not subtle, not refined in her delivery, yet she remains steadfast in being honest with her children. This openness, even when imperfect, builds bonds that secrecy would fracture.

History offers us a mirror to this truth. Consider the tale of Abraham Lincoln, who, though revered as a leader, was known to his children as a father who spoke plainly and sometimes awkwardly, yet with great sincerity. His sons saw in him not a flawless figure of authority, but a man of flesh and heart, willing to be vulnerable before them. That willingness to be open rather than distant forged a connection deeper than strictness or polish could have achieved. The story teaches us that the power of presence and authenticity outweighs the trappings of subtlety.

French’s words also reveal another lesson: that parents must learn the art of timing. Truth, though vital, can wound when given without thought, like medicine poured too quickly into a cup. To “blunder in a bit” is to admit that sometimes love stumbles, that words come clumsily, that moments are mistimed. Yet even here, there is a hidden strength. A child who sees their parent make mistakes, but also sees them remain steadfast in love, learns that imperfection is not failure. They learn resilience, forgiveness, and humility from the example of their parent’s flawed but sincere efforts.

The meaning of her confession is this: parenting does not demand that we be perfect sculptors of our children, chiseling with precision at every moment. Rather, it asks that we show up, honestly and consistently, even when we stumble. Children do not require flawless parents—they require real parents, whose openness teaches them courage, and whose humility teaches them grace. Better to blunder in love than to retreat behind walls of secrecy.

The lesson for us is clear. First, let us strive for openness, for it breeds trust. Second, let us learn timing, for truth delivered with gentleness heals more than truth delivered with haste. Third, let us accept our own blunders, knowing that children need not perfect parents, but present ones. Each stumble, if met with honesty, becomes another opportunity to teach that life is lived not without mistakes, but through them.

O seekers of wisdom, remember this: the child who grows up in a home of openness will carry a heart unafraid of truth. The child who sees their parent’s mistakes, yet also sees them rise again in love, will grow into an adult unafraid of failure. And the parent who dares to “blunder in a bit” may yet leave behind a legacy more enduring than those who never stumble—for their children will inherit both truth and resilience.

Thus, Dawn French’s words stand as both confession and teaching. Let us not hide behind the mask of perfection, but dare to be open, even awkward, in our love. For children learn not from flawless masks, but from the living, breathing truth of parents who love bravely, stumble honestly, and rise again with laughter and grace.