7 Truths We Miss When Teaching Kids About Their Bodies

Why modern parenting gets health all wrong—and how to lay a better foundation

TL;DR

✔︎ Teaching kids about their bodies creates the mental architecture they’ll use to interpret pain, illness, and healing—for decades.

✔︎ Many of our default lessons are mechanical, outdated, and unconsciously inherited from a fragmented medical model.

✔︎ The endocannabinoid system (ECS) reveals the elegant truth: the body is networked, not modular.

✔︎ Kids need frameworks that validate nuance, not scripts that reward clarity.

…. In 3 days, Part 2 goes deeper into identity, normalcy, and the stories we didn’t mean to pass down.

What Are We Really Teaching Kids About Their Bodies?

We teach our kids a million little things before they can even explain what’s happening inside them.

We show them how to brush their teeth with a song. We say “ouch” when they bump into furniture to help them label pain. We gently coach them through sneezes, scrapes, and stomach aches. And eventually, we give them language like “I don’t feel good” or “My head hurts” to build a bridge between sensation and meaning.

But something else slips in too—quietly, habitually.

We teach them that pain is a problem.

That symptoms are glitches.

That health is a yes-or-no checkbox.

And most of us—physicians, parents, teachers, even the well-meaning wellness bloggers—don’t notice that we’re laying down the invisible blueprints of how they’ll interpret their bodies for the rest of their lives.

Blueprints that are often incomplete. Or worse—wrong.

The Invisible Curriculum of Health

We don’t say: “Your body will sometimes confuse you. And that’s okay.”

We say: “You’re sick—take this.”

We say: “That’s nothing—shake it off.”

We mean to soothe. But we’re also simplifying.

We collapse complexity into control.

And what gets lost in that? The idea that the body might be expressing something subtle. That discomfort doesn’t always mean damage. That healing isn’t always about removal—it’s sometimes about restoration.

By reducing health to fix-it moments, we train kids to expect fast answers.

So when the discomfort lingers—when no one can find a clean explanation—they begin to believe something even more dangerous:

That their experience must not be real.

The Doctor Will See One Piece of You Now

Let’s be honest: the current medical model didn’t fail because it was malicious—it failed because it was efficient.

Specialists were meant to help—finer resolution, deeper expertise. But the map got divided too many times. Neurology, psychiatry, endocrinology, dermatology—each with its own silo, language, and logic.

And guess what? Kids pick up on this.

They start to believe that if something doesn’t live in one clear category, it must not belong anywhere at all.

I can’t tell you how many young patients—thoughtful, articulate, curious kids—look at me after describing a perfectly legitimate constellation of symptoms and say, “I know it sounds crazy…” or “I’m probably just being dramatic…”

No. You’re not.

You’re just trying to fit an ecosystem into a filing cabinet.

A Patient Example: When the Body Won’t Cooperate

M was fifteen, sharp, perceptive, and exhausted. The kind of girl who still did her homework even when she could barely keep her eyes open.

She’d been to more appointments than school dances. Each specialist offered a new possibility: hormones, IBS, anxiety, maybe growing pains, maybe nothing.

One pediatrician even told her mother—kindly, but with that dismissive certainty we sometimes slip into—“She’ll grow out of it.”

She didn’t. She just grew tired of trying to explain it.

When she came to me, she didn’t ask for a diagnosis. She asked if I thought it was all in her head.

That question lands hard when it comes from a teenager. Especially when she’s done everything right. Everything reasonable. Everything textbook.

And still feels wrong.

What Helped: Shifting the Model, Not Just the Medicine

We didn’t “solve” her. We supported her.

We looked at the overlap—of sleep disruption and gut imbalance, of chronic low-level stress and flare-prone pain.

We acknowledged her body as a whole system. We started by improving rest. Then used low-dose cannabinoids to gently downregulate the overstimulation. Then simplified her food—not to restrict, but to reduce noise. And most importantly, we validated the mystery.

What happened next wasn’t miraculous. But it was meaningful.

She started waking up with energy. Her gut stabilized. The pain dulled enough to fade into the background.

She began to say things like: “I think I can handle school again.”

Or, my favorite: “I don’t feel afraid of my body anymore.”

That’s not nothing. That’s a reintroduction to self.

The Endocannabinoid System: Why It Changes Everything

Most people haven’t heard of the ECS. Fewer still realize it’s one of the most far-reaching systems in the human body.

It regulates mood, inflammation, pain sensitivity, sleep architecture, immune response, appetite, memory, and more. Not in the way that organs “do” things—but in the way that conductors guide orchestras.

And yet, we don’t teach it.

Not in health class. Not in doctor’s offices. Not even to most med students.

Imagine how differently kids would experience their own bodies if, from a young age, they heard:

• “Your body is trying to regulate, not malfunction.”
• “Your sleep, your stress, your stomach—they’re all part of the same conversation.”
• “You’re not broken. You’re complex.”

That’s a foundation worth building.

Modern Kids, Ancient Models

We’re raising a generation of kids who understand algorithms better than appetite, who can list their screen time to the minute but can’t describe the difference between hunger and anxiety.

They live in a world where health is increasingly digitized—steps counted, calories tracked, REM cycles color-coded. But even with all that data, they’re often left wondering why they still feel… off.

And then we hand them answers from a playbook that hasn’t been updated since rotary phones.

We say, “It’s probably hormones.”

We say, “Try not to worry so much.”

We say, “You’re young—you’ll bounce back.”

They hear: “You shouldn’t feel this way.”

They learn: If there’s no explanation, I must be imagining it.

And that is the moment the blueprint begins to crack.

So How Do We Start Teaching Kids About Their Bodies—Better?

We start by saying, “I believe you.” Even when the symptom isn’t measurable. Even when the story doesn’t tie up neatly.

We teach that bodies speak in sensations, not soundbites. That it’s okay to not know the answer right away. That we don’t have to rush toward diagnosis like it’s a prize.

We make room for the idea that discomfort isn’t always a glitch—it might be a whisper asking for attention.

We help them see that rest isn’t laziness, that a racing heart might need more breath—not more shame.

We remind them that pain without a test result is still pain.

And we let them grow into their complexity with tools, not just terms.

What That Teaching Might Actually Look Like

It might sound like this:

“You’re not broken. You’re still learning how to live in your body.”

“Sometimes your stomach hurts because your brain is full.”

“Let’s track how you feel—not just how you perform.”

“Let’s talk about what helped, not just what didn’t.”

Or sometimes, it sounds like… nothing.

It’s a quiet cup of tea instead of another urgent Google search.

It’s a doctor who says, “Tell me everything,” instead of, “Let’s just treat the top three symptoms.”

It’s letting a child believe that what they feel is real—because it is.

They Live Inside the Stories We Tell

The early lessons we give about health aren’t just informative. They’re formative.

They become the foundation our children stand on when something feels wrong at 3am.

They become the invisible blueprints they consult when pain lingers.

They become the scaffolding that either supports curiosity—or punishes ambiguity.

And if we teach only certainty? We teach them to distrust their own experience the moment it feels unclear.

So maybe the real question isn’t: “How do we fix our kids?”

Maybe it’s: What kind of foundation are we handing them in the first place?

What if the problem isn’t that their bodies are too sensitive…

…but that our model is too small?

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More to Come…

🕒 In 3 days: Part 2 explores the even murkier stuff—what we’re teaching (and not teaching) kids about gender, identity, neurodivergence, and what it means to be “normal.” It might get uncomfortable. That’s a good sign.

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