Toni Morrison, in a conversation with Oprah, named something essential about what this can do to a child:

“When my children used to walk in the room when they were little, I looked at them to see if they’d buckled their trousers, or if their hair was combed, or if their socks were up. You think your affection and your deep love is on display, because you’re caring for them. It’s not. When they see you, they see the critical face. What’s wrong now?”

The first time I really felt this truth was the day I saw myself doing it.

My daughter walked into the room and before I even realized what was happening, my eyes had already started their scan.

Her hair was a little messed up.
The heel of her pants needed to be pulled down over her combat boots.
There was a faint milk mustache still on her upper lip.

I didn’t mean anything by it. I wasn’t irritated. I wasn’t disappointed. I was just… fixing. Automatically. Lovingly, I thought.

And then it hit me.

This is the face she sees first.

Not the open arms.
Not the relief of being welcomed.
Not the safety of being enough.

But the inventory.

And man—when I saw it clearly, I felt horrible.

Because yes, of course there are times we teach our children how to care for themselves. Appearance can be a signal of self-respect. We help them learn how to show up in the world. We guide. We model. That matters.

But what I’m talking about is something subtler and far more frequent.

The constant scanning.
The unconscious editing.
The reflexive fixing before connection.

What if—most of the time—what our kids need first is not improvement, but presence?

I saw this again during the science fair.

My daughter and her best friend created their project almost entirely on their own. They chose the topic. They designed the experiment. They built the display. They even misspelled a few words on the trifold board.

When I walked into the room, it was impossible not to notice the contrast.

There were beautifully polished projects everywhere. Perfect fonts. Clean edges. Elaborate designs. Parents standing close by—hovering, helping, adjusting—unknowingly stepping into the space where competence could have been born.

And there, in the middle of it all, was my daughter’s project. Slightly crooked. Imperfect. Earnest.

And something in me wanted to rush in. To fix the spelling. To straighten the board. To help her “compete.”

But another part of me paused.

Because what I was witnessing wasn’t failure—it was capability.

She had done this.
They had done this.
On their own.

Yes, we want our kids to excel. Of course we do. But the question is one we rarely slow down enough to ask:

How do we encourage growth without quietly teaching them that love is conditional?

Because this is how perfectionism is born—not from one big moment, but from thousands of tiny ones.

Moment after moment of being scanned.
Corrected.
Adjusted.
Improved.

Our brains are efficient. They shorthand.

And what gets coded underneath all of that fixing is simple:

I have to be perfect to be loved.

So many adults—especially women who come to work with me—are still living inside this belief without realizing where it began. They call it ambition. High standards. Being “hard on themselves.”

But underneath, it’s the same old math:

If I get it right, I’m safe.
If I mess up, I risk love.

And the truth is, most parents never intended to teach this. We were taught it too.

We scan ourselves the same way we scan our kids.

What’s wrong now?
What needs fixing?
What’s not enough yet?

Imagine the quiet power of doing something different.

Imagine your child walking into the room and meeting your eyes—before your assessment.

Imagine the first message landing as: You’re welcome here.

Open arms first.
Fixing later—if at all.

Because confidence doesn’t come from being perfected by others.
It comes from being trusted with our own becoming.

And maybe the most radical thing we can offer our kids—and ourselves—is this:

Love that arrives without conditions.
Presence that doesn’t require improvement.
A face that says, Nothing is wrong right now.

That alone changes everything.

Can you and I start by meeting ourselves in the mirror like this — not just with our kids?