Keeping Room in Your Heart: What The Little Prince Taught Me About Parenting

Keeping room in your heart for the unimaginable—for who your children are becoming, not just who you assumed they'd be.

A few weeks ago, my oldest daughter Calli sent me something from Paris that stopped me in my tracks. It was an Instagram post from @itsall.fluff—a split-screen image showing a woman at her wedding in one frame and young girls screaming at a concert in the other. The concert photo was from the 1980s, my coming-of-age decade. The text read: "The moment you realise your mother is more than a mother, she is just like you. Experiencing the beauty of life for the first time."

I stared at that post for several minutes.

Calli is turning thirty next month. She's my toughest nut to crack when it comes to really knowing what she's thinking, especially about me. We love each other fiercely, but our relationship has always required me to stay curious rather than assume I know her. And here she was, from across an ocean, telling me she sees me. Not just as her mother, but as a whole person with a life prior to being her mom. Someone who has had a lifetime of firsts before having my "First Baby" (I call her to this very day!). Although she has seen me dance and sing at concerts since being her mom (I flew to Paris to see my favorite band The Revivalists with her in a small venue in October 2023), she was sending a clear message.

It was a gift I didn't know I needed.

The Book That Shaped Everything

If you've been reading my blog for a while, you know I weave in research, positive psychology, and my thirty-plus years as a speech-language pathologist. But today I want to tell you about something else that's been quietly shaping my approach to parenting and relationships since I was seventeen years old: a slim French novella about a little prince who travels from planet to planet, asking questions and tending to a single rose.

I first read The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry in high school French class. I was seventeen, fumbling through vocabulary I didn't know, asking my teacher for help with tricky grammar and sentence structure. But even through my clumsy translations, something about that book reached into my chest and settled there.

The lessons were so simple: Relationships matter and need to be tended to in order to thrive. What matters most often cannot be seen but only felt in the heart. Stay imaginative and full of wonder, like a child, to see the extraordinary in the ordinary (or as Annie Ernaux would later say, "the profound in the simple"). Stay curious and open. Appreciate questions.

I'm sure that when I stumbled into speech-language pathology as a career path years later, having learned these lessons from The Little Prince played a role in the path I chose. I know for certain I practiced these lessons in the way I parented my five children. And the lessons continue to matter to me now, as those children have scattered across three continents and I'm learning what it means to carry them with me in new ways.

One of two mugs I brought home from Paris on two different visits to see my daughter Calli. This one reads: "You will have stars like no one else has..."

The Mugs I Carry Home

The last two times I visited Calli in Paris, I came home with a mug. Just one each trip. Each mug has illustrations from The Little Prince and a quote that matters to me:

The first: "On ne voit bien qu'avec le coeur" — "We only see clearly with the heart."

The second: "Toi, tu auras des étoiles comme personne n'en a…" — "You'll have stars like no one else has."

This second quote comes from a passage near the end of the book, when the Little Prince is explaining to the aviator what will happen after he's gone. He tells him that when he looks at the stars, he'll know that one of them belongs to the Little Prince, that his laughter will resonate from up there. The stars will hold a special meaning because they'll recall the presence of a unique friend.

I drink my morning coffee from these mugs. The ritual matters—holding these specific words in my hands each day, brought home from my daughter's city, reminding me of what I learned at seventeen and what I'm still learning now.

What It Means to "Tame"

There's a scene in The Little Prince that I've returned to again and again over the years. The Little Prince meets a fox who teaches him about "taming"—about creating bonds that make someone unique to you.

The fox explains: "To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world."

This is Investigative Parenting in its purest form, isn't it?

When I work with families in early intervention, I often see parents who are frantically Googling: "Why does my toddler refuse bedtime?" "Why won't my baby sleep?" "Is my child's behavior normal?" They're looking for answers about a child—any child, all children.

But what if the real work is learning to see your child? Not the generic toddler in the sleep article. Not the developmental milestone chart. Your specific, unique human who has their own patterns, their own nervous system, their own way of communicating unmet needs.

This is what it means to "tame" in The Little Prince's language. It's what happens when you move from "knowing about" parenting to "knowing how" to parent the child standing in front of you.

"To me, you will be unique in all the world" — the fox's gift of taming

Keeping Room for the Unimaginable

I recently came across a quote from Mary Oliver that made me think about all of this in a new way: "Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable."

This is what Investigative Parenting asks of us. To keep room in our hearts for who our children are becoming, not just who we assumed they'd be. To stay open to the unimaginable—the ways they'll surprise us, challenge us, become themselves in ways we never could have predicted.

When Calli sent me that Instagram post, she was showing me something unimaginable: that she sees me not just as her mother, but as a whole person who has experienced many aspects of life for the first time: triumphs, failures and learning. She was making room in her heart for the me beyond "Mom."

And isn't that what we're asking our children to do as they grow? To see us as whole people, not just the adults who set boundaries and pack lunches and enforce bedtime?

But here's the thing: they can only do that if we've modeled it first. If we've shown them what it looks like to see someone—really see them—with curiosity instead of assumption, with wonder instead of worry.

When we stay curious about our children's behavior, we create space for understanding instead of frustration.

The Science of Bedtime (Or: Wondering Before We Worry)

Let me give you a practical example of what this looks like in real life.

I saw a post recently from an account called The Parenting that reframed bedtime struggles in a way that beautifully illustrates "wondering before you worry." Instead of assuming a child who becomes suddenly hyper at bedtime is being defiant or trying to make your life harder, the post invited parents to consider what else might be happening:

Cortisol, the stress hormone, rises in response to daytime experiences. Even if children seem calm throughout the day, the evening often triggers a peak that makes settling down difficult.

Leftover energy from play, learning, and social interaction also contributes. Children may need to move, explore, or express excitement before their nervous system can transition to rest.

The final plea for connection is equally important. Children may seek attention, reassurance, or shared moments with caregivers before bedtime. Responding with presence, empathy, and calm guidance helps regulate their nervous system.

This is Investigative Parenting in action. Instead of jumping to "my child is misbehaving," we pause and wonder: What might be happening in their body right now? What unmet need might they be communicating?

This doesn't mean we abandon boundaries or routines. It means we approach bedtime (and every other challenging moment) with curiosity about this specific child's experience.

The Messiness of Friendship (And Parenting)

I came across an article in The Atlantic recently titled "The Messiness of Friendship" that I couldn't read (paywall), but the headline alone captured something important: "Friendship isn't about setting perfect boundaries: It's about making room, sometimes messily, for the complexities of sharing feelings is what relationships require."

Doesn't this sound exactly like parenting?

We don't get perfect boundaries with our children. We get messy, evolving relationships that require us to navigate complexity, to make room for hard feelings, to stumble through repair and reconnection. We get relationships that ask us to show up even when we're exhausted, to stay curious even when we're frustrated, to forgive ourselves when we get it wrong.

This is why I love that The Little Prince doesn't pretend relationships are easy. The Little Prince gets frustrated with his rose. The fox explains that taming involves responsibility and sometimes tears. The aviator struggles to understand what the Little Prince needs.

The book doesn't offer us perfect parenting. It offers us honest relationship—the kind where you tend to what matters, where you stay curious, where you create bonds that make someone unique in all the world.

When I Lost My Wonder

I need to be honest with you: there have been seasons when I didn't practice any of this well.

During the years when my husband Chip was sick and dying, I was in pure survival mode. Curiosity felt like a luxury I couldn't afford. I was just trying to get everyone fed, keep everyone safe, make it through each day. Wonder? Investigation? Those felt like things other people got to do—people who weren't drowning in caregiving and grief.

And you know what? That's okay.

Sometimes we lose our capacity for wonder. Sometimes worry takes over. Sometimes we're just trying to survive, and that's enough.

The Little Prince doesn't judge the aviator for being practical or the rose for being difficult. The book simply reminds us: when you have the capacity, stay curious. Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable. See with your heart what's invisible to the eye.

And when you can't? When you're exhausted or overwhelmed or just trying to make it through bedtime without losing your mind? Give yourself grace. The stars will still be there tomorrow.

Some seasons require survival, not wonder. Both are valid.

The Five Stars I Carry

In The Little Prince, the prince tells the aviator that after he's gone, the stars will mean something different to him. When he looks up at night, he'll know one of those stars holds his friend's laughter. He'll have stars like nobody else.

I think about this as my five children have scattered—to Vietnam, to Paris, to different corners of the country. Each of them carries something unique, a particular quality that I recognize as theirs the way you'd recognize someone's laughter in a crowd.

Calli, who sent me that Instagram post, carries fierce independence and the courage to build a life across an ocean. Her star is steady and distant, but when it shines, it's unmistakable.

Each of my children—Eva, Michael, Stella, Sam—has become their own constellation. The parenting work now isn't about shaping who they'll become. It's about staying curious about who they are becoming, about keeping room in my heart for the ways they'll continue to surprise me.

And maybe, if I'm lucky, they'll do the same for me. Maybe they'll see me not just as "Mom" but as someone who once screamed at concerts in the 1980s, who still does the New York Times crossword every morning to keep pulling knowledge out of her head, who drinks coffee from Little Prince mugs and thinks about French class at seventeen.

What The Little Prince Taught Me About Parenting

Here's what I keep coming back to, all these years after struggling through French grammar at seventeen:

Relationships need tending. You can't just plant a rose and walk away. You have to water it, protect it from the wind, listen to it (even when it's being difficult). Your relationship with your child requires the same care.

What matters most is invisible. You can't see a child's unmet need for connection. You can't see the cortisol spike that's making bedtime hard. You can't see the fear underneath the defiance. But you can feel it if you're paying attention with your heart.

Stay curious like a child. Children ask questions constantly because they haven't decided they know everything yet. What if we approached our children with that same openness? "I wonder why bedtime is hard tonight" instead of "Why won't you just go to sleep?"

Make room for the unimaginable. Your child will become someone you can't fully predict. They'll surprise you, challenge you, show you parts of themselves you never saw coming. Keep room in your heart for that.

The stars you carry are yours alone. No one else has your children. No one else has your specific relationship with them. When you truly "tame" each other—when you create those unique bonds—you'll have stars like nobody else.

An Invitation

I'm not going to tell you to read The Little Prince if you haven't, though I think you might love it. I'm not going to give you a seven-step process for staying curious about your children, though we could probably come up with one.

Instead, I want to simply invite you to notice: When does wonder show up in your parenting? When do you catch yourself seeing your child with fresh eyes, noticing something new, feeling genuine curiosity about who they're becoming?

And on the flip side: When does worry take over? When do you lose your capacity for investigation and fall into assumption or frustration or just pure survival mode?

Both of these are part of the journey. Both are okay.

The Little Prince doesn't judge the aviator for losing his sense of wonder as he grew up. The book simply reminds him—and us—that it's there when we're ready to find it again.

So maybe today, or tomorrow, or whenever you have a little bit of space: keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable. Wonder before you worry. Investigate before you react.

See with your heart what's invisible to the eye.

Your children—those unique stars you're taming—are worth it.

The Little Prince and the Aviator - a reminder that the bonds we create make us unique in all the world

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About the Author

Cynthia Z. Stevens Copeland, MA, CCC-SLP is a speech-language pathologist with 30+ years of experience in early intervention and the founder of Right Track Parenting. She created the Investigative Parenting methodology, teaching parents to "wonder before you worry, imagine before you interpret, create before you catastrophize." A certified parent coach and student of Dr. Martin Seligman's Foundations of Positive Psychology at the University of Pennsylvania, Cynthia writes from lived experience as a mother of five scattered across three continents, a widow, and a fierce believer in writing from the wound, not the scar. She lives in Virginia with her youngest son, two dogs, and morning coffee from Little Prince mugs.

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© 2026 Cynthia Z. Stevens Copeland. All rights reserved.