Sometimes Matt and I talk about heavy things.

Not because we want to. Because the world is heavy. And because pretending it isn’t doesn’t actually protect anyone.

We are also never without children. Which means little ears catch fragments. A sentence here. A word there. A tone shift. And eventually, questions.

Why are women paid less?
Why are people hurting animals?
Why are there wars?
Why are people mean to other people?

We don’t shut it down. We don’t say “you’re too young” and move on. We answer honestly—filtered through what their age and nervous systems can actually handle. No graphic details. No adult language. But no lies either.

Kids know when you’re dodging. And dodging teaches them that some truths are scary and forbidden. That’s not a lesson I’m interested in passing down.

So we talk about fairness. About power. About kindness and cruelty. About how some people hurt others, and how that’s wrong. About helping where we can and protecting ourselves where we must.

There is exactly one thing I don’t explain honestly yet.

Pedophilia.

Because to explain that truthfully, they would need to understand sex. And they don’t. And they shouldn’t. Not yet.

So in our house, around the little ones, pedophiles are called cannibals.

Cannibals are adults who hurt children.
Cannibals are very dangerous.
You cannot tell who is a cannibal by looking at them.
Cannibals don’t always look scary.
They eat things they are not supposed to eat—your safety, your innocence, your sense of self.

That framing works. It lands. It protects without terrifying.

We teach them rules that matter:

You never go too far away.
You never go with anyone unless we give permission.
If you get lost, here are the safe people you can go to: a mommy with kids, a store worker, someone behind a counter.

Never someone who looks like Daddy.
Never police.

That part makes people uncomfortable. I don’t care.

I know what police do with children. I know from experience. And I will not teach my kids to run toward authority just because it wears a uniform.

We teach them this too:

If someone tries to take you, you yell.
You scream.
You curse.
You bite.
You kick.
You scratch.
You say, “THIS IS NOT MY PARENT.”

You do not worry about being polite.
You do not worry about being loud.
You do not worry about getting in trouble.

Your body is more important than someone else’s comfort.

Some people will read this and think it’s too much. Too dark. Too extreme. Too honest.

But here’s the truth: the world does not wait until kids are “ready.” Harm doesn’t ask permission. Predators rely on silence, confusion, obedience, and politeness. I refuse to raise kids who have been trained into stillness.

We don’t raise them in fear.
We raise them in awareness.

They are still joyful. Still playful. Still silly and loud and soft and loving. Knowing how to protect yourself doesn’t steal innocence—it guards it.

So yes, we talk about hard things.
Yes, our kids overhear.
Yes, we answer their questions.

Because safety doesn’t come from ignorance.
It comes from knowledge, trust, and being believed.

And in this house, their voices matter.