“You’ve had this way of thinking all along? How come I never knew?”

“I’ve always thought this way. Maybe it’s because whenever I tried to say it before, you interrupted me halfway.”

Recently, my child — now working and grown — said this to me in passing during a casual conversation at home.

I was momentarily taken aback.

“You never let me finish what I’m saying. So how could you know what I really think?”

In that moment, something struck me. I realised that I did not, in fact, truly understand my child. It felt like a quiet alarm bell sounding somewhere inside me.

Decisive. Efficient. Quick to act.

These are qualities I have always valued in my work. I like things to be clear and direct. I dislike wasting time on what feels unnecessary. Often, after hearing just the first half of someone’s sentence, I feel I already understand the whole situation — and the rest no longer seems essential. It may not be particularly polite, but in the adult world, it rarely affects the outcome.

And I have always known that what works in the adult world does not necessarily work with children.

But knowing something — and truly experiencing it — are very different things.

I had never realised that my “efficiency” could leave my child’s words suspended mid-air. Their thoughts were cut off before they had time to fully take shape. What they wanted to say never had the chance to become complete.

And I began to wonder: Could these interruptions also be affecting their language — their ability to think, to express? For the first time, I felt uneasy.

I have often told parents: Ask open-ended questions. Encourage children to speak in full sentences. Listen patiently.

But if I was the one constantly interrupting, wasn’t that a contradiction?

I remember that when reading stories with my child, I was able to slow down. Because I saw that time as “teaching time”, I took on the role of a teacher. I would follow the pages, ask questions, and patiently wait for each answer to be completed.

But in everyday life, I was often one step ahead.

“I don’t want to wear the green one—”

“Then wear the yellow one.”

I thought I had solved the problem efficiently — even democratically.

Only later did I realise: It was never about the colour. It was about the hood.

“Adam got a lot of Christmas presents, and—”

“Christmas isn’t really about presents, it’s about—”

I rushed to explain values, afraid my child might be influenced by material things.

Only weeks later did I realise:

At that moment, my child simply wanted to share how much fun they had playing with Adam.

My child once said to me:

“It’s not that I care whether I can finish a sentence. Sometimes it just feels like my thoughts aren’t even worth one minute.”

That stayed with me.

One minute.

To let a child finish speaking — it only takes one minute.

Why didn’t I wait?

I began to reflect.

How many of my child’s unique thoughts had I missed? If I only ever heard half of what they said, could I really understand their feelings?

Perhaps I had only come to know the version of my child that I could see from my own perspective. Because I never paused to listen, I had missed the child as they truly were.

Only then did I begin to understand the importance of listening.

And also how difficult it is.

I may never do it perfectly.

But then again, life itself is a continuous process of learning.