There is a practice, quiet and sacred, found in many cultures—of speaking things over your children. Not just words, but truths that have not yet bloomed. Names they haven’t yet grown into. Blessings whispered like seeds into soil, long before the fruit is seen.

It’s a form of love that lingers like the scent of lavender on a pillowcase, gentle but lasting. It is the sacred art of calling things that are not as though they were. Not because we’re blind to the struggle, but because we believe in something deeper. Something truer. Something that waits beneath the surface.

I’ve learned that not everything we speak has to be earned first. Sometimes, we say it to plant it. You are brave. You are tenderhearted. You are steady. You are wise. We say it before they believe it. Before they live it. Sometimes before they’ve ever been asked to be it.

It’s not about pretending. It’s about planting.

I remember rocking a feverish baby in the dark, whispering, “You are strong,” even as his little body trembled. Or folding a note into a lunchbox that read, You are kind, after a hard day on the playground. I’ve spoken peace over tear-streaked cheeks, and joy over moody silences. Not because they were always acting out those qualities—but because I wanted those words to be waiting for them, like a light on the porch.

Because our words have weight. They settle into the soft soil of our children’s identity, shaping the way they see themselves when the world tries to write its own version of their story. And when the winds of insecurity blow, when the doubts come, when they fall short—they will still remember what was spoken over them.

You are chosen.

You are capable.

You are deeply, wildly loved.

Even when they are unsure. Even when their choices stray from the path you prayed over. Keep speaking. Not to control—but to cover. Not to push—but to plant. Because words, like faith, often take root in the unseen.

Call them brave when they feel timid. Call them kind when they’ve forgotten how to be. Call them home, even if they’ve wandered far.

Speak it anyway.

Because somewhere, in the soil of their soul, it’s growing. And one day—perhaps when they’re parents themselves—they’ll remember the way your voice sounded when you believed in the version of them they hadn’t yet become.

And they’ll speak it over someone else.