When Honesty Stings: What a Child Taught Me About Speaking the Truth

I originally wrote this post in November 2023. I reflected on a child I once worked with. This experience still echoes through my thoughts. Though I’ve moved on from that job, I haven’t moved on from the lessons. Revisiting this piece, I’m struck by how deeply it still resonates with me. I wrestle with communicating with tenderness while being bold. It’s about seeing people for who they really are. I strive to stay soft in a world that often isn’t.

God continues to place me near certain types of people—those with sharp edges, big feelings, and untamed energy. It’s hard, but I understand the why now. I’m needed there. And maybe, I need them too. In rereading this, I almost envy the emotional rawness I once witnessed and wrote about. These days, I find myself quieter. Tongue held. Words tucked away. I may never say what I need to say aloud, and I’ve made peace with that. I live it out through others who can shout it from the rooftops. Good for them. I might never even whisper it.

But this post? This was my whisper.

Skelly ⛓️‍💥

Lessons From a Little One

At my school, there was a kindergartner who said whatever came to his mind and acted on every impulse. He was unpredictable—loud, bold, intense—and often scared the other kids. He was in foster care at the time, and it was obvious that his foster mom adored him. She gave him what he’d been missing: love, in all its fullness. But love doesn’t erase trauma overnight. For those of us with him daily, it was… a lot.

You could see it in his eyes. He was constantly in survival mode. He was always ready to defend himself against an invisible threat. I’m not a psychologist, but it didn’t take one to notice the emotional toll written all over him.

He was a kid of extremes. I used to think his future could go one of two ways. Either he’d end up in a documentary called How to Make a Murderer, or he’d become the most inspiring comeback story we’ve ever seen. I hoped for the latter. Hard.

He lived at a level 10 at all times. Never neutral. Never medium. Just all-in, in every direction.

Being around him made me reflect on my own inner tension—the tug-of-war between restraint and expression. Part of me envied his ability to say what he felt, right when he felt it. Most adults can’t do that. We dance around words, soften our tone, dress up the truth in politeness, and sugar-coat every edge so no one gets offended. And still—someone always does.

Lately, this communication circus had me frustrated. In my workplace at the time, it felt like speaking directly was a trap. You either coat your message in fluff until it’s meaningless, or you speak plainly and get labeled “harsh.” Either way, the point gets lost, and I was tired of feeling unheard.

One day, this little boy had had enough of being tattled on. Without blinking, he marched up to a group of older kids and shouted, “You’re a little piece of crap!”

Did I correct him? Of course. But I also turned away to stifle a laugh.

Because… were they being little pieces of crap? Maybe. They always seemed to relish watching him get in trouble. Never included him in fun or gave him grace, and I think they try to get him up for entertainment. And honestly, adults do this, too. Maybe the kid just said what we all sometimes think and don’t dare voice.

It was a moment that made me both chuckle and ache.

This child carried his emotions like wildfire—blazing through the room the second something struck a nerve. There’s danger in that, sure. But also freedom.

As adults, we’re expected to carry ourselves differently. But the older I get, the more I realize how hard people really are. Not just challenging, but downright cruel at times. And yet—some are astonishingly kind. I think of his foster mom, the counselors, the teachers, the aides. All imperfect, but trying. Showing up, loving fiercely, pouring into a child who tests every boundary.

I’ve come to see myself in both the child and the caregivers. I can be the storm and the shelter. The frustrated and the fixer. And truthfully, some days I’d love to call someone a little piece of crap… or even a big one! But instead, I give them a look and carry on. That’s what “maturity” looks like, right?

Still, I know this about myself: I have an unrelenting need to be honest, but I don’t always do it. And as much as people say they appreciate honesty, they rarely know what to do with it.

Everyone wants “truth,” but only if it comes wrapped in a bow.

But the truth? The real one? It doesn’t come in versions. It’s raw. Sometimes ugly. Always inconvenient. And when you find yourself on the wrong side of it, it stings. So, people avoid it. They run from it. But if we don’t face it, we lose the chance to grow. To heal. To choose differently.

And yes—sometimes the truth is that we are the piece of crap in the story.

There’s this thin, dangerous line between caring deeply and not caring at all. Between love and indifference. I haven’t figured out how to walk it well. Maybe I never will.

But I’ll keep trying. Because that little kid? He taught me more than a few lessons about being real, and it’s painful.

Even when it’s messy.

Even when it’s loud.

Even when it makes people uncomfortable. I thank that little guy for that.

SK-