Helping a child is one of the most natural acts in the adult world. It’s in the automatic reflex of bending down when we hear «I can’t,» in the hand that reaches out when we see something about to fall, in the voice that says «I’ll do it» before the attempt is even finished. The problem isn’t helping itself, but when we help too soon, too quickly, or too completely. There, without realizing it, we may be depriving the child of one of the most important experiences in their development: the opportunity to discover their own capabilities.

Sigue leyendo «To Help or to Let Them Try? The Delicate Art of Supporting a Child Without Solving Their Problems» →

Do young children have favorites within their family? The short answer is yes. The important answer is that it’s not rejection, it’s not manipulation, and it’s not a problem. It’s emotional development in action. From the first months of life, children begin to organize their emotional world not in terms of equality, but of security. And security, in the developing psyche, isn’t always distributed equally.
Babies and young children don’t love some people less because they love others more. Their brains don’t yet operate with abstract concepts like «fairness» or «emotional balance.» They operate with a basic and powerful question: Who do I feel most protected by when something happens to me? This is the basis of attachment theory, developed by John Bowlby, who explained that children tend to bond more intensely with the figure who responds most consistently to their physical and emotional needs. It’s not about who loves more, but about who is more available.
In the early years, attachment isn’t distributed democratically. A child might seek out their mother for sleep, their father for play, their grandmother for comfort, or an older sibling for exploration. These preferences change, overlap, and shift according to developmental stage, tiredness, context, and prior experience. They are not permanent labels, but rather emotional states.
Mary Ainsworth, a collaborator of Bowlby, showed that children develop greater security when a figure responds predictably. This predictability creates a secure base from which the child dares to explore the world. Therefore, when a baby cries and only wants to be held by a specific person, they are not rejecting others. They are seeking the familiar internal sensation, the one their body recognizes as regulating.
Here, a common scene emerges in many families: «He doesn’t want to be held by me, only by him,» «He always prefers his grandmother,» «He doesn’t want his father to hold him.» These situations often cause pain in the adult world, but in the child’s world, they don’t carry the emotional weight we attribute to them. The child isn’t making a conscious choice; they are responding from their nervous system. Children seek out the person who best helps them regain their equilibrium when they feel overwhelmed.
Age also plays a role. In the first two years of life, their preference is usually linked to the person who meets most of their basic needs: food, sleep, and comfort. Later, as children gain autonomy, their preferences may shift toward the person who offers play, exploration, or clear boundaries. This isn’t contradictory; it’s complementary. Each bond fulfills a different function in the child’s emotional development.

Another important factor is the child’s stage of life. When they are sick, tired, or scared, they tend to return to the figure who provides them with the most support. When they feel secure, they open up more to other relationships. This explains why sometimes a child seems to «reject» someone precisely when they are most encouraged to share or connect. Security isn’t imposed; it’s offered. Forcing a child to divide affection, cuddles, or attention equally can have the opposite effect. Instead of learning to share, they learn that their internal signals are not being heard. Donald Winnicott pointed out that a child needs to feel that their emotional needs are legitimate in order to later consider the needs of others. Empathy arises from being understood, not from being forced.

This doesn’t mean excluding or reinforcing rigid dynamics. Adults can foster connections without imposing them. Allowing children to approach relationships at their own pace, creating spaces for shared play, respecting their timing, and avoiding comparisons are healthy ways to expand their emotional network. Bonds grow when there is positive experience, not when there is pressure.
It’s also important to understand that preferences don’t define long-term love. A child who only loves one person today won’t be an adult incapable of connecting with others. On the contrary, early secure attachment often facilitates healthier relationships in the future. Security is expansive, not exclusive. Ultimately, children’s preferences tell us more about how the child feels than how they love adults. They are an emotional compass, not a judgment. If we can read them calmly and without taking them personally, we can better support our children’s emotional development.

And yes, sometimes they only want to give the cookie to one person. Not because others don’t matter, but because at that moment, that one person is the one who gives them the reassurance that the world is still a safe place.

Building a child’s understanding of right and wrong doesn’t happen overnight, nor is it achieved through long lectures or memorable punishments. It’s a slow, daily, and deeply relational process. It doesn’t originate from a list of rules stuck to the refrigerator, but from thousands of small experiences children have with the adults who care for them. From the perspective of child psychology, we know that morality isn’t taught like a school subject; it’s learned through experience.

During the first years of life, children don’t distinguish right from wrong as adults do. They don’t operate from an internal moral compass; they operate from experience. Jean Piaget explained that, in early childhood, children go through a stage of heteronomous morality, where right and wrong depend on external authority. Something is «bad» because the adult is upset, not because the child yet understands the impact of their actions. This isn’t a problem; it’s a necessary stage of development.

Herein lies the first common mistake: believing that a young child acts “with bad intentions.” In reality, their behavior is usually guided by impulses, intense emotions, and curiosity. A child who hits, lies, or breaks something isn’t questioning values; they are exploring boundaries. Therefore, more than punishment, what they need is emotional guidance and a sense of purpose.
The concept of right and wrong begins to develop when a child understands that their actions have effects on others. And this isn’t achieved through lectures, but through clear emotional experiences. Lev Vygotsky maintained that learning occurs in social interaction. In this case, morality is formed when the adult gives words, meaning, and support to what is happening. Saying “that’s wrong” doesn’t teach as much as saying “that hurts” or “look at how your friend feels.”
One of the pillars of moral development is example. Children don’t learn values ​​by listening to them; they learn them by observing them. If a child sees consistency between what the adult says and what they do, their brain begins to integrate an internal logic. If you see inconsistency, you learn confusion. An adult who demands respect but yells; who asks for honesty but lies; who talks about empathy but ridicules, conveys much stronger messages with their actions than with their words.

Donald Winnicott spoke of the importance of a good enough environment, where the child feels safe to explore, make mistakes, and repair the damage. Repair is key to children’s moral development. It’s not just about pointing out the mistake, but about teaching what to do afterward. When a child breaks something or hurts someone, the question shouldn’t just be «Why did you do it?» but «How can we fix it?» That’s how responsibility is built, not guilt.
Guilt paralyzes, responsibility mobilizes. When we punish without explaining, the child learns to avoid the punishment, not to understand the behavior. Carol Gilligan, a psychologist, argued that morality is also built from care and empathy, not just from rigid rules. Teaching right from wrong involves helping children empathize with others, recognize their emotions, and understand that we live in relationships.

Another fundamental aspect is emotional language. A child who can’t name their feelings has more difficulty regulating their behavior. Many actions that adults label as «bad» are, in reality, overwhelming emotions. When we help a child say «I’m angry,» «I’m sad,» or «I’m scared,» we are giving them tools to act more appropriately. Morality cannot be built without emotional regulation.

It’s also important to adjust our expectations to their age. We can’t ask a three-year-old for the same level of self-control or moral awareness as a seven-year-old. Children’s psyches mature in stages, and demanding values ​​they can’t yet integrate generates frustration in both adults and children. Educating isn’t about rushing processes; it’s about guiding them.
Over time, and thanks to the repetition of consistent experiences, children begin to internalize rules. They no longer do «good» simply because an adult is watching, but because they begin to internally sense when something is right or wrong. That is the true goal: to move from external control to internal self-regulation.
Raising children with a healthy sense of right and wrong doesn’t mean raising children who are obedient out of fear, but rather children who understand, feel, and choose. And that path is built every day, in how we speak, how we repair mistakes, how we set limits, and how we support them. Because in the end, morality isn’t branded; it’s woven with patience.

The relationship between children and pets is often filled with tenderness, expectations, and plenty of picture-perfect photos. But beyond the adorable aspects, this bond is a profound ground for emotional learning, responsibility, and respect. Children aren’t born knowing how to interact with an animal; they learn by observing, experimenting, and being guided by adults. Therefore, managing this relationship isn’t just a matter of rules, but of early emotional education.

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The relationship between children and their grandparents occupies a special place in the emotional architecture of childhood. It is not a secondary or merely affectionate bond; it is a relationship that can profoundly influence children’s emotional, social, and even cognitive development. Grandparents not only provide companionship, but also offer a different way of being in the world, and this difference is precisely what makes it so valuable.

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Imagine a city where all the animals live together in harmony, from polar bears to tiny mice. A utopia… or so it seems. Zootopia enters the lives of children and adults as a fun animated film about talking animals, but what it really delivers is a masterful essay on social prejudices, imposed expectations, identity, resilience, and the deep desire to find (or create) our place in the world.

Judy Hopps, the first rabbit in a police force dominated by large and powerful animals, is the perfect symbol of what developmental psychology calls self-efficacy: that internal belief that one can achieve whatever one sets out to do, even when the context seems to scream otherwise. From an early age, Judy is confronted with messages that invalidate her dream of being a police officer. But she embodies that ability to resist external pressure and cultivate an identity based on purpose, not labels. If Vygotsky were to talk about it, he would say that the social environment offers a gigantic zone of proximal development… as long as he can find mediators to help him cross it.

And then appears Nick Wilde, the fox. Cynical, relaxed, sarcastic, but also deeply wounded. He is a clear example of how internalized stereotypes can shape our behavior. Nick grew up hearing that foxes are dangerous and untrustworthy, and when he couldn’t find any other validation, he decided to play the role others had assigned him. Here, from a social psychology perspective, we are talking about self-fulfilling prophecies: when stereotypes not only affect us from the outside, but begin to direct our actions from within.

The film doesn’t stop at a personal narrative. It elevates its discourse to speak of fear as a tool of social control. When Zootopia’s predators begin to «run wild,» the discourse of fear begins to divide the city. And so, we see how prejudices, as Gordon Allport explains, feed on ignorance and fear, and are reinforced in times of crisis. The metaphor is powerful: one well-directed rumor can destroy years of coexistence. The story shows us how collective fear can be used to justify rejection, discrimination, and mistrust, even in societies that claim to be inclusive.

But the most beautiful thing about Zootopia is how it dismantles these ideas without sermons, but through the emotional growth of its protagonists. Judy realizes that, despite her good intentions, she can also have prejudices. Nick discovers that he doesn’t have to live locked away in the «swindler fox» label. Both learn to look beyond instinct, social discourse, and what others expect or fear of them. They grow, in the fullest sense of the word: they become aware of their biases and choose to act from empathy.

From a learning psychology perspective, we can say that both characters undergo a profound process of unlearning. Something that’s not only difficult, but uncomfortable. Letting go of beliefs that have accompanied us our entire lives involves grief. But it’s also liberating. And this is where the film becomes powerful for children: because it shows them that change is okay, that questioning what we’ve learned is healthy, and that identity isn’t a rigid mold but a dynamic construct.

Zootopia isn’t just a city. It’s a promise. The promise that we can live together, different but equal, without giving up our stories or our essence. It’s a call not to reduce anyone to their species, their size, their accent, or their past. It’s a reminder that we are all—yes, all of us—fighting some internal battle.

There’s a certain age when your body changes, your feelings explode, and suddenly you’re no longer the adorable little girl who obeyed everything Mom said. From one day to the next, something is activated: your voice changes, your tastes too, and you find yourself defending what you once accepted. In Turning Red, that «something» is literally a giant red panda that appears every time Mei gets too excited. I mean… almost all the time.

But what if I told you that panda is a perfect metaphor for adolescent emotional development? Let’s take it one step at a time.

The film is an emotional journey to that stage where identity becomes a battleground. Mei lives torn between what she wants to be and what her family expects of her. And that, dear readers, isn’t just a Pixar story: it’s one of the most classic conflicts described by Erik Erikson in his theory of psychosocial development. At 13, just as Mei transforms into a panda for the first time, people are sorting through the “identity vs. role confusion” stage. Who am I? Is what I like really mine, or is it what my parents want for me? Can I have big emotions without feeling ashamed?

Then the panda appears. Furry, clumsy, unpredictable, but completely honest. The panda represents everything Mei was taught to repress: her anger, her desire, her independence, her euphoria, her sadness. Emotions as powerful forces that, if not recognized and integrated, explode like a roar in the middle of the classroom. In Vygotsky’s terms, we could say that Mei is undergoing an internal reorganization of her psychic functions, where the social environment (school, her friends, her family) shapes the way she learns to regulate her emotions and build her self-concept.

And here’s something important: in the film, the panda can be “sealed” so that it never comes out again. It’s what the women in the family have done for generations. They’ve locked their pandas away, as if intense emotionality were something to be ashamed of. But Mei decides otherwise: she decides to live with it, learn to integrate it, use it to her advantage. Because as Carl Jung rightly says, «What you deny subdues you; what you accept transforms you.»

Turning Red isn’t just about puberty. It talks about how the process of individuation can be chaotic but beautiful. About how growing up hurts, but also liberates. And how often the emotions that scare us the most are, in fact, the ones that most connect us to who we are.

Behind every scream, every fight with Mom, every drawing of cute boys in her notebook, there’s a very human need: to be seen, heard, and accepted just as you are… even when you’re a furry red ball that destroys ceilings.

There are movies that entertain, others that move, and a few that, without saying a word, teach you the essentials. Wall-E is one of those. A small, rusty, lonely, curious robot… with more humanity than many humans. On an empty planet, covered in trash, where civilization decided to leave because it was easier to escape than to repair, Wall-E continues doing his job. Day after day, silently, he picks up, arranges, cleans. And all the while, he collects things. Things others threw away. Things no one valued. Like someone who unknowingly keeps pieces of hope.

When children watch Wall-E, they’re not just seeing an adorable robot who falls in love with a modern space probe. They’re seeing the power of perseverance, of tenderness, of curiosity. They see what happens when someone, instead of giving up, decides to care. And to care without anyone seeing it, without anyone rewarding them, without applause or followers. Just because. Because it’s the right thing to do.

From a child psychology perspective, Wall-E touches deep emotional development. Wall-E lives in a desolate and silent environment, yet maintains a profound inner world. This reflects, in many children, the capacity to form emotional bonds even in cold or disconnected environments. Wall-E represents emotional resilience, the ability to sustain hope and connection even in isolation.

Furthermore, this little robot is fascinated by insignificant objects: a fork, a lightbulb, a Rubik’s cube. This is no coincidence. In childhood, symbolic play is one of the most important forms of emotional expression. When children «adopt» stones, draw faces on fruit, or construct stories with bottle caps, they are doing what Wall-E does: bringing the inanimate to life to fill their world with meaning.

When Eve appears, Wall-E transforms. Something similar is triggered to what happens in childhood when a child experiences a secure emotional bond: they seek contact, desire to nurture, experience separation anxiety, and expose themselves emotionally. They appear vulnerable, confused, and emotional. There are no words, but there are gestures that speak volumes. The film, without discussing attachment theory, illustrates this with brutal clarity.

Meanwhile, humans float in spaceships, completely disconnected from their bodies, their environment, and each other. Children and adults alike can identify a clear critique here: the excess of stimulation, the replacement of physical movement with digital movement, the loss of authentic human bonds. Wall-E, without being human, walks, touches, feels, dances, listens. And in doing so, he reminds everyone—the characters and the viewers—of what it feels like to be alive.

Wall-E also speaks of ecology, yes. But above all, it speaks of emotional memory. Of the importance of preserving what is small. It teaches children that not everything that is old should be discarded. That what is broken can have value. That caring for the world begins with caring for what’s right in front of you: a plant, a toy, a memory, a friendship.

Cookie of the Day:
Sometimes the most heroic acts don’t make a sound. They’re more like picking up what others threw away, planting something where nothing else grows, staying when everyone else has left. If you have a quiet, thoughtful child who is fascinated by strange objects, who cares for what others ignore… maybe you have a little Wall-E at home. Teach them that this is love too. That caring for the invisible is a superpower. And that, with luck, one day that simple gesture—a plant, a glance, a shy «hello»—can save everything.

“Anyone can cook.” That’s how Ratatouille begins and ends, but it’s not really a movie about food. It’s a movie about possibility. About breaking molds. About what happens when you let your desire be stronger than your destiny. And yes: it’s also a movie about rats. But, above all, about dreams that make their way, even through the cracks of a system that tells you no.

Remy is a mouse, an outcast even within his own colony because he has a more refined palate and a different view of the world. From a developmental psychology perspective, we could understand Remy as a subject in search of individuation, that process described by Carl Jung in which the self differentiates itself from the collective to assert itself as an autonomous and creative identity.

Remy doesn’t want to eat junk. He wants to create. He wants to feel. It’s not enough to survive. He wants to live, and living involves choosing. This puts him in constant tension with his environment, which represents security, tradition, the «that’s the way things are.» Instead, Remy chooses the path of art. Because yes: cooking, here, is art. It’s sensitivity. It’s expression.

Ratatouille also represents the figure of the «ideal self» (Rogers), that internal model that guides our actions toward what we would like to be. For Remy, that ideal is Gusteau, the dead chef turned into an inner conscience. A voice that accompanies him, that reminds him that it’s possible. To dream. To never give up. That even as a rat, he can aspire to excellence.

The bond with Linguini, that clumsy human who can’t even fry an egg, functions as a metaphor for the synergy between the instinctive and the structured, between passion and form. Together they cook not because they are perfect, but because they learn to trust. From a Vygotskian perspective, we could say that Linguini is the cultural mediator that allows Remy to transition from internal thought to social language. And vice versa.

The kitchen, rigid, hierarchical, and hostile, represents the adult world: that space where creativity is often repressed by the fear of error. But Remy breaks through with flavor. His final ratatouille—that humble, peasant, unpretentious dish—is the masterstroke: because it moves, because it connects, because it says «this is me.»

And here appears one of the most beautiful moments from the perspective of emotional psychology: the scene in which Anton Ego, the feared critic, tastes the dish and is emotionally transported back to his childhood. That sudden connection with an early memory, evoked by flavor, is a clear example of the phenomenon of episodic memory and the power of the senses as an activator of affective memories. A stimulus that, as Proust would say, restores lost time. Ego, who represents cold reason, eventually surrenders to emotional authenticity.

And of course, Ratatouille also has its «cookie crisis.» Or rather: its «hat crisis.» When it’s revealed that the cook is a rat, everything collapses. The system doesn’t accept anything different. Talent, if it comes from an unexpected place, is discarded. But the film insists: value doesn’t depend on packaging. It depends on dedication, intention, passion.

And so, Ratatouille becomes a vital lesson for children and adults alike. It tells us: it doesn’t matter where you come from. What matters is what you have inside. What matters is what you do with it. Because anyone can cook. Anyone can create. But only those who dare to be true to themselves… manage to move.

There are films you see with your eyes, but they live on in your heart. Soul is one of those. It speaks to us about the meaning of life, the fear of not fulfilling a «mission,» the vertigo that comes with thinking we came into the world for something… and that we haven’t even done it yet. What if it turns out life wasn’t a destination, but a journey?

Joe Gardner, the protagonist, is a frustrated jazz musician who, like so many adults (and many teenagers too), has internalized the idea that his life only has value if he manages to fulfill his «purpose.» In other words, he believes his identity is defined by his vocation. This is a widespread notion in our culture and one that psychology—from Viktor Frankl to Erikson—has problematized: what happens when our identity is tied to a single function? What if we don’t fulfill it? What if we do… but don’t feel anything?

Joe lives in the stage that Erikson called generativity versus stagnation, typical of middle adulthood: an internal struggle between leaving a mark on the world or feeling like one is just surviving. Joe wants to transcend, but in that quest, he forgets how to live. The film literally confronts him with death to force him to see his life from the outside.

And here appears the soul 22. A being who doesn’t want to be born, who sees no meaning in human existence. And, although it may seem strange, it represents many children and adolescents who don’t fit in, who aren’t «passionate about anything,» who fear living because they feel they have no «spark.» But the film takes a brilliant turn: that spark isn’t a purpose, but a willingness to live. You don’t have to be born knowing why you came. You just have to want to try.

Based on Lev Vygotsky’s theory, we could say that 22 needs emotional scaffolding to encourage him to live. Joe, unknowingly, provides that support: it allows him to explore, feel, and test the world with curiosity. At first, 22 refuses to come down to Earth because she believes she doesn’t have what it takes. But, in reality, the problem isn’t her: it’s the system that has made her believe she has to shine from day one.

One of the most beautiful moments is when Joe, after achieving «her big dream» (playing with Dorothea Williams), realizes that she doesn’t feel any different. That the moment she’d been looking forward to didn’t change her soul. It was just… a moment. And that’s where Soul gives us its strongest lesson: it’s not about one great achievement, but about the sum of small experiences. It’s not the night of the concert, it’s the ray of sunshine on her face, the falling leaf, the taste of a pizza, the shared laughter.

The film also touches, albeit subtly, on imposter syndrome, the fear of failure, and anxiety about the future: very common phenomena in young people today. Joe fears not being good enough. 22 fears being «too much of nothing.» And in the midst of this, they both discover that the important thing isn’t being exceptional, but being present.

Soul is, at its core, a film about the here and now. It reminds us that living isn’t about achieving, but about feeling. That meaning isn’t found in a distant goal, but in the full awareness of the moment. As Jon Kabat-Zinn would say, using mindfulness as a way of thinking: «While you’re alive, there are more things right with you than wrong with you.»