The Voice of Their Souls: Listening to the Cry Beneath the Silence

Introduction: When the Door Closes

Every parent reaches a moment when they feel shut out. For some, it’s literal — standing outside a bedroom door that no longer opens as easily as it used to. For others, it’s more subtle — a child who used to laugh at dinner now barely makes eye contact. A son or daughter who was once eager to share suddenly retreats behind silence, sarcasm, or walls built out of headphones and hooded sweatshirts.

One mother shared how she found herself sitting quietly outside her teenage son’s door. He hadn’t looked at her in days. She didn’t know how to reach him. She didn’t even know where to begin. And so she did the only thing she could in that moment — she prayed. Not out loud, but inwardly: “Hashem, please... let me find my way back to him.”

There is a voice inside every soul. But it doesn’t always come out in ways we recognize. Sometimes it shows up in silence. Sometimes in defiance. In anger, withdrawal, sudden changes in mood or behavior. A skipped class. A slammed door. A blank stare. These aren't random or meaningless. They are signs. Signals. Unspoken messages trying to break through the noise — or through the fear.

Too often, our instinct as parents is to react quickly. We try to discipline, to fix, to redirect — often before we’ve taken a moment to understand. We label behavior before we ask what might be driving it. We respond to the surface without exploring what lies beneath.

But every behavior tells a story. Every outburst reflects a struggle. Every silence is a kind of cry. And more often than not, behind the behavior is a deeper question: Am I still seen? Do I still matter? Is anyone listening?

No matter how distant or difficult a child may seem, there is always a soul inside — one that is sacred, and one that longs to be acknowledged. The challenge, and the calling, is to learn how to hear it.

A Torah of Listening

The Torah doesn’t only teach us how to speak — it teaches us how to listen.

One of the most powerful examples of this comes from the story of Hagar and her son Yishmael. Lost in the desert and fearing for their lives, Hagar begins to cry out to God. But the Torah tells us something surprising: “And God heard the voice of the lad” (Bereishit 21:17). Rashi explains that it wasn’t Hagar’s audible prayer that reached Heaven first — it was Yishmael’s tears. His silent suffering is what Hashem responded to.

This is more than just a touching moment. It reveals a foundational truth in our tradition: Heaven hears what others might overlook. A child's pain, even when unspoken, is never ignored by Hashem.

Jewish thought has long emphasized this idea — that beneath the surface of every person is a holy voice, even if it's buried or blocked. The Baal Shem Tov taught that every soul contains a Divine spark — a sacred light that can never be fully extinguished. But that spark can become hidden beneath layers of shame, pain, or rejection. A child who has been hurt deeply may not know how to express their needs directly. Instead, they may shut down. They may act out. They may seem unreachable. But that Divine spark is still there, waiting to be noticed, waiting to be understood.

The Kotzker Rebbe once said, “There is nothing so whole as a broken heart.” It’s a powerful reminder that when someone is hurting, it doesn’t mean they’re beyond repair. In fact, that’s often when they are most open — even if they don’t show it.

Rabbi Nachman of Breslov echoes this when he teaches that even the cries we don’t speak aloud still reach Heaven. Even the pain we can’t put into words still has a voice. That means that a child who has gone quiet — who hides behind sarcasm, headphones, or anger — is still crying out. We may not hear it, but God does. And if we choose to listen differently, we might hear it too.

Rav Kook beautifully taught that the soul is always pure. Sometimes it’s just covered over by pain or confusion. But it never loses its essence. Our role — as parents, teachers, and people who care — is not to fix our children, and certainly not to label them. Our role is to help uncover what’s already there. To gently peel back the layers and say, “I see you. I hear you. I’m not afraid of your pain.”

This kind of listening takes time. It takes presence. And above all, it takes love. But when we listen with our soul — the way the Torah asks us to — we begin to see the soul in others. Even when they themselves have forgotten it's there.

From Distance to Relationship

One of the most painful experiences for any parent is watching a child pull away.

It may happen gradually — a shift in tone, fewer shared moments, a new reluctance to make eye contact. Or it might feel sudden — doors closing, conversations ending before they begin, a child who was once open and affectionate now distant or withdrawn. Many parents find themselves wondering: Where did my child go? What happened to the connection we once had?

This emotional distance can be confusing and, at times, frightening. But more often than not, it’s not about rejection or rebellion. It’s about pain. When children begin to close off or act out, they’re often communicating something they don’t yet have the language for. Their silence or anger may be covering up sadness, fear, or a sense of unworthiness.

We are often taught to see rebellion as something to be stopped. But in truth, what we call rebellion is frequently a form of grief — grief over unmet needs, over feeling misunderstood, over not knowing where they belong. Rather than fight it, our first job is to understand it.

The Ramban, in his commentary on Shemot 20:12, reminds us that the commandment to honor parents is not just about hierarchy or control. It’s about relationship. It’s about preserving connection across generations — returning to our roots with reverence and care. And while children are obligated to honor their parents, the Torah also challenges parents to be honorable — to embody qualities that invite their children to return.

That means being steady. Being present. Being safe.

As Rabbi Shimon Russell, a therapist and expert in parenting struggling teens, puts it:

“The parent-child relationship doesn’t need to be perfect. It needs to be safe.”

We may not always have the answers. We won’t always know what to do or say. But we can control the environment we create. When our child drifts, we are not helpless. We can stay grounded. We can lower the emotional temperature. We can lead with calm instead of panic — with love instead of fear.

Real listening — the kind that allows connection to grow — is not about fixing. It’s not even about advice. It’s about being there, quietly and consistently. It’s about saying with your actions:

“I see that you’re hurting. I may not understand it fully, but I’m not going anywhere.”

That kind of presence becomes the bridge back. When children realize that their distance doesn’t make them unlovable — that they are still welcome, still wanted — something begins to shift. They may test the door. They may open it and close it again. But with time, and with trust, that door can reopen.

What Every Child Needs to Hear

Children today are growing up in a world that is louder, faster, and more demanding than ever before. They're constantly bombarded with messages — through social media, school, advertising, and peer culture — about who they’re supposed to be, how they’re supposed to look, and what it means to succeed.

Many of these messages are overwhelming. They create pressure, comparison, and confusion. In this environment, it's not surprising that more and more children and teens are struggling with anxiety, depression, and emotional exhaustion. They’re often unable to put their pain into words, so it comes out in other ways: withdrawal, irritability, shutting down, or trying to keep up appearances while silently falling apart.

Some kids try to blend in by becoming invisible. Others act out because it’s the only way they know how to express that something is wrong. Too many are suffering in silence — afraid to share who they really are or how much they're hurting.

And yet, for all the complexity of the world they’re navigating, what children need at their core hasn’t changed.

Every child — no matter their background, their behavior, or their beliefs — is asking the same fundamental questions. They may not say it out loud. They may not even be aware of it consciously. But these questions are always there, underneath the surface:

• Am I safe with you?

• Do I matter to you, even when I mess up?

• Will you still love me, even when I can’t love myself?

These aren’t small questions. They go to the heart of identity, security, and worth. And our children ask them not with words, but through their moods, their behavior, and their presence — or absence.

Our job, as parents, is to answer those questions with clarity and consistency. To let them know: Yes, you are safe with me. Yes, you matter. Yes, I will keep loving you — especially when it’s hard.

As Rabbi Dr. Abraham J. Twerski taught, self-esteem isn’t built by success or achievement. It’s built through love — real, unconditional love — especially when a child feels unworthy of it. That’s when the message matters most.

This is the foundation of emotional and spiritual safety. Not perfection. Not performance. Presence.

We don’t have to be perfect parents. We just have to be parents who show up with love, again and again.

This is the model we see from Hashem Himself.The Torah says, “You are children to the Lord your God” (Devarim 14:1). And the Midrash tells us, “As a father has mercy on his children, so too does God have mercy on us” (Tehillim 103). Even when we fall short. Even when we hide. Even when we run. Hashem still calls us His children.

Can we mirror that same love to our own children — especially when they’re struggling, especially when they’re different than we expected?

Because behind every closed door is a soul that wants to be welcomed back.Behind the silence is a question.Behind the pushback is a plea:

“See me. Love me. Believe in me.Even now. Especially now.”

Our Role as Parents

The Zohar teaches that a parent’s breath gives life to the soul of a child — not only in the moment of birth, but throughout their life. This isn’t just a poetic idea. It speaks to something essential: that what we give our children emotionally and spiritually — our presence, our attention, our compassion — helps shape their inner world. We are not just caretakers of their bodies. We are caretakers of their souls.

When a child is in pain, our instinct is often to jump in and fix it. We want to offer solutions, comfort, reassurance — anything to make the struggle go away. But real growth doesn’t always happen by removing discomfort. And our children don’t always need us to solve the problem. What they often need is for us to simply be with them inside the struggle.

Our role isn’t to rescue them from pain. It’s to remind them that they aren’t alone in it.

Being a parent means becoming a steady, safe presence — someone who holds space for their child, even when they don’t have all the answers. That might look like sitting quietly nearby when your child can’t talk. It might mean staying calm when they lash out. It might mean setting limits in a way that still preserves dignity and connection.

There will be times when the most supportive thing you can do is say very little — to let your presence speak louder than your advice. Other times, you’ll need to say “no,” but with warmth, not anger. Boundaries matter. But how we deliver them matters even more.

Most importantly, it means learning to listen — not just to the words, but to what isn’t being said. To the pain behind the behavior. To the emotion behind the silence. To the part of your child that may be struggling to reach you without knowing how.

There’s a story told about the Baal Shem Tov. A father once came to him, devastated over his son who had turned away from Torah. He described all that he had done to bring his child back — all the discipline, all the effort, all the frustration. The Baal Shem Tov listened, then quietly asked him one question:

“You’ve spoken a lot about your son’s behavior. But have you asked what his heart is trying to say?”

That moment wasn’t just a turning point for the child. It was a moment of teshuvah — of return — for the parent.

Parenting isn’t about control. It’s about connection. It’s not about managing behavior; it’s about nurturing relationship. It’s about helping your child feel seen — especially when they’re hurting, acting out, or struggling to be understood.

And sometimes, the most powerful thing you can offer is your steady presence. A quiet reminder that says:

“You’re going through something right now, but I’m still here. You’re still mine. I still see who you are — even if you can’t see it right now.”

A Final Thought

If there’s one message to carry from everything we've explored, it’s this:

When a child is struggling, the most important thing we can do is to listen — not just to their behavior, but to what might be happening beneath it. Behind the frustration, the silence, the distance, there is almost always something deeper. A voice. A question. A longing to be seen.

Struggling children aren’t problems to be solved. They’re souls asking to be heard. And when a parent chooses to listen — truly listen, with presence instead of panic, with patience instead of pressure — something powerful begins to shift.

It’s not just about helping a child heal. It’s about healing the relationship. It’s about giving a child the sense that they’re not alone, not broken, and not beyond love. That shift, even if it starts small, can ripple across the entire family. It can change the emotional atmosphere of a home. It can change the future.

Because when one parent chooses to stay close, to stay calm, and to stay curious — even when things are messy or painful — it opens the door to something greater: healing, growth, and deep, lasting connection.

That’s how change begins. Not all at once. Not perfectly. But slowly, in quiet moments of love and presence.

A new story doesn’t start with control. It starts with compassion. With listening. With seeing your child not as a problem, but as a soul.

And from that place… something sacred begins to grow.

A Blessing for the Journey

As you walk this path — whether you're in the middle of a storm or just beginning to notice the signs — I want to offer a simple blessing:

May you find the strength to stay present, even when it’s uncomfortable.

May you have the wisdom to hold space before rushing to fix or explain.

And may you never forget that your love — steady, patient, and real — is one of the most powerful tools your child has.

Every child wants to be heard. Every soul wants to be seen.

And every parent, no matter how imperfect, has the ability to start that process — just by showing up.

You don’t have to get it all right. You just have to begin.

Yaakov Lazar

Executive Director, Kol Haneshamot