You love your kids—but do you like them?

In a crowded, often chaotic Reddit thread under r/Parenting, one post quietly detonated a cultural mine. Titled “The dirty secret my parents never told me,” the user shares a confession: they love their children equally—but don’t like them all the same.

It wasn’t a cruel post. There were no insults. Just an observation that landed with a thud of recognition: one child reminded the parent of their best qualities. Another, of everything they disliked about themselves. A third stirred conflict, lied, and wore them out. And then came the line that made people exhale sharply through their screens: “But do I like being around them all equally? Hell no.”

The admission was raw, yes. But it was also architecturally honest. And maybe that’s the point. Not to expose favoritism—but to begin an emotional design conversation many parents never get to have.

We’re taught that love is unconditional. That it should flow equally to every child, without gaps, without pause. But what no one tells you—until maybe the third tantrum of the day—is that liking someone is conditional. It’s influenced by behavior, timing, and how full your emotional tank is in that moment.

This is where the confusion begins. We mistake fairness for sameness. We think that showing up with identical energy, patience, and tone is the proof of love. But emotional equity doesn’t always look symmetrical.

In family life, equity lives in system design—routines, rituals, repair. Love is the structure. Liking is the weather. Some days are sunny. Some days, one child creates a storm. The point isn’t to prevent storms. It’s to build a home that can hold them.

One of the most striking lines in the Reddit post wasn’t about favoritism. It was about guilt. The parent described feeling guilty for years for not “liking” one child the same way. And then, slowly, understanding emerged: love doesn’t always feel good. Liking doesn’t always stay steady. That’s not failure—it’s feedback.

In many homes, the emotional flow between parent and child is shaped by regulation. Which child self-soothes? Which one escalates? Which one mirrors our own emotional reactivity back at us like a megaphone?

The truth is, some children are easier to parent. That doesn’t make them more lovable. It makes them less triggering. And recognizing that can be the beginning of better boundary design—not an indictment of your bond. A child’s personality is not a reflection of your parenting success. It’s a separate pattern. Your job is not to fix the child who stirs your discomfort—it’s to regulate the system that holds you both.

What the Reddit post surfaced—perhaps unintentionally—is something parents rarely say aloud: sometimes, a child reminds us too much of ourselves. Not the filtered self. The younger, more chaotic version. The one who sought attention instead of clarity. Who spiraled under pressure. Who learned to perform to earn praise.

So when that version reappears in a child—needy, reactive, maybe dishonest—we recoil. Not just at the behavior. But at the memory it pulls up. One user wrote in response: “My whole life I felt this from my mom. That she loved me, but didn’t like me. And I could tell. We always can.”

It’s a haunting reminder. Children are astute readers of emotional availability. They don’t need you to say “I prefer your sister.” They feel it in tone, in touch, in who gets eye contact and who gets sighs. But here’s the reframe: the goal isn’t to feel the same way about every child. It’s to create a home system that holds difference without transmitting shame.

So how do you show love when like is unavailable?

You build rituals that don't depend on mood. Bedtime check-ins. One-on-one walks. Saturday breakfast with each child on rotation. A standing rule: hugs in the morning, even after a tough night. These aren’t performative. They’re regulatory. They teach both parent and child that relationship is anchored in consistency—not in how well the day is going.

And they serve a deeper purpose. They create a “floor” for emotional safety. When a child is acting out, lying, or becoming emotionally explosive, that floor matters. Because even if a parent is too depleted to meet the chaos with patience, the ritual remains. It says: You are hard to be with right now. But I’m not leaving. That’s not indulgence. That’s attachment-informed design.

One of the most common emotions in parenting—especially when emotional honesty shows up—is guilt. The guilt of snapping. Of dreading one child’s presence more than another’s. Of realizing your tone changes when your “easier” kid walks into the room. But guilt, left unchecked, spirals into shame. And shame isn’t useful for home design. It clogs emotional airways. It tells you you’re a bad parent, when in fact, what you are is overwhelmed.

So let’s make a subtle but powerful shift: replace guilt with structure. Instead of judging yourself for not liking one child’s energy, ask: What time of day am I most reactive? What interaction patterns send me over the edge?

Then, rework the schedule. Restructure transitions. Insert pause rituals. Not because the child is bad—but because the system needs reinforcement. This is what sustainable parenting looks like. It’s not perfection. It’s adaptability.

Fairness doesn’t mean equal attention every moment. It means every child gets what they need to thrive. That might look like one child needing more regulation rituals. Another needing more space. A third needing higher challenge paired with close supervision.

Imagine designing your parenting approach the way you’d design a room for multiple users. One needs dim lighting and soft textures. One thrives with bright light and strong boundaries. One needs movement space. If you designed that room with only one user in mind, the others would suffer—not because they’re neglected, but because they’re mismatched.

Children are not interchangeable. They’re not meant to be “parented the same.” And your bond with each will be different—not lesser, just differently structured.

The real gift of naming the difference between love and like isn’t for the parent. It’s for the child. When a child sees that you remain present even when they’re hard to be around, they internalize something profound: My worth is not tied to my likability. This helps break the performance loop many adults never escape. The constant need to be pleasant, helpful, successful, or emotionally low-maintenance to earn belonging.

By modeling sustainable love, not performative harmony, we teach children what healthy relationship looks like. Messy. Repair-oriented. Honest. And resilient. That doesn’t mean letting all behavior slide. Boundaries still matter. But punishment is not the same as rupture. And repair does not require affection—it requires presence and design.

One reason the Reddit post resonated is because it named something private in a public square. Online parenting communities often function as confession booths. Anonymous, raw, sometimes controversial—but also deeply human.

The reaction split across empathy and discomfort. Some said: “I feel this too, thank you for saying it.” Others warned: “Just be careful—kids can tell.”

Both are right. But perhaps the most valuable lesson from the thread isn’t the confession itself. It’s the reminder that sustainable love is not about perfect emotion. It’s about consistent systems. Rituals that hold us when we falter. Structures that reinforce care even when mood betrays us. This is what home design can do. Not aesthetic perfection. Emotional engineering.

So yes. You can love all your children deeply. And still not like being around them equally at every moment. That doesn’t make you a failure. It makes you human. What matters is what you do with that awareness.

Do you shame yourself into silence—or do you rebuild the system?

Do you hide the feelings—or design rituals that express love through rhythm, not approval?

Do you treat parenting like an emotional gamble—or like a home you’re designing to withstand all seasons?

Your children don’t need you to like them all the same. They need you to keep showing up with systems that say: You are loved. You are safe. We will grow through this together. Parenting isn’t a test of emotional sameness. It’s a design challenge in resilience. Love is the foundation. Ritual is the rhythm. Everything else is weather.