Empathy During Temper Tantrums

Last week, I reminded my daughter to finish her daily chore of watering the plants outside. She grumbled and complained. I stayed patient, didn’t match her frustration, and let her feel upset, but I didn’t let her off the hook. She stormed outside, turned on the hose, and finished the job. 
 

After she finished, she came back inside crying, “Bugs chased me everywhere. I got water on my clothes!” Then she ran down the hallway into her room in tears.
 

Instead of snapping in response saying something like, “Don’t talk to me like that, this is a job I know you can do,” I paused and thought back over the past day.
 

The night before, I was gone at an event. That morning, I left before she woke up to meet a friend for coffee. By the time I returned, I hadn’t spent any real time with her, and I know this affects her. It doesn’t excuse her reaction, but it does shape it. I had jumped straight into handing her a list of tasks while I went on with my own responsibilities.
 

With that in mind, I walked into her room and sat on the edge of her bed. She was changing her clothes still crying, still upset. I simply waited and made myself available.
 

“Tell me more about why you’re crying…” I prodded.

She listed everything that felt wrong. “Things aren’t going well. I’m frustrated. I’m upset.”

“I can see that,” I said gently. “Would you like a hug?”

Her first response was sharp: “No, I wouldn’t.”


I tried again, easing the pressure. “I see you’re overwhelmed. It’s okay if you don’t want it, but I’ll ask once more. Sometimes a hug helps with that.”


She brushed away a tear, then came over and laid her head on my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around her. After a few minutes, her body softened into mine.
 

“Would you like me to stay and hold you a little longer? Maybe lay on your bed for a minute?” I asked. She nodded.
 

So we lingered just long enough for her tears to dry and her breathing to settle. We talked about her morning, why it felt overwhelming, and after some time I explained how grumbling often makes things harder for both of us.
 

I empathized with her, acknowledging that my absence had left her unsettled. But I also reminded her of what still needed to be done: laundry, wiping down counters, unloading the dishwasher.
 

The difference was this: before giving her the list, I gave her connection. Those few minutes changed the rest of our day. She could finally hear me, she was more regulated, and she still completed everything she was responsible to finish.
 

This is the nuance of empathy—not enablement.
 

If I had excused her from the chore, she would have lost the opportunity to build responsibility. If I had dismissed her emotions, she would have lost the safety that fosters growth. Presence in the middle of her frustration created connection and upheld responsibility. Both are essential for healing and maturity.
 

That moment with my daughter is a glimpse of what biblical, trauma-informed empathy looks like—presence without indulgence, compassion without compromise.