Overview: Many peo­ple gen­uine­ly want to com­fort par­ents of chil­dren with spe­cial needs or med­ical com­plex­i­ties, but the phras­es they offer often feel min­i­miz­ing or hurt­ful. This page explains why com­mon plat­i­tudes miss the mark and how care­givers can process these inter­ac­tions with hon­esty and grace. Receive the heart. Release the words.

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The diag­no­sis was less than a week old when some­one at church hugged me and whis­pered, “God only gives spe­cial kids to spe­cial par­ents.”

They smiled—the kind of smile that expect­ed grat­i­tude, not the tight­ness in my throat or the sud­den weight of my child’s diag­no­sis pulling me down through the church floor. So I smiled back, because what else do you do when some­one’s try­ing to help?

But inside, I was scream­ing. Or numb. Or both. I’m not even sure any­more.

They keep say­ing things. Dif­fer­ent voic­es, same words. Not because they’re cru­el, but because suf­fer­ing is hard to witness—and plat­i­tudes feel safer than silence.

We can’t con­trol what they say. But we can con­trol what we do with it.

The Hula Hoop Principle

My uncle coun­seled a lot of peo­ple. He used to toss a hula hoop on the ground and ask the per­son to step inside. “Which part of the world can you con­trol,” he’d ask, “the inside or the out­side of this cir­cle?”

I laughed the first time. It seemed obvi­ous.

I’m not laugh­ing any­more. Because when some­one says “God only gives spe­cial kids to spe­cial par­ents,” I’m stand­ing inside my hoop drown­ing in sched­ules and “unan­swered” prayers, while they’re com­ment­ing from out­side it—and the gap between those two spaces has nev­er felt wider or more unbridge­able.

I can’t script what peo­ple say from out­side my hula hoop. But I can choose what I pick up and car­ry inside it.

Here’s what I’m learn­ing, build­ing a bib­li­cal toolk­it for respond­ing with grace while pro­tect­ing my heart when com­fort miss­es the mark.

Chief among the lessons: Receive the heart. Release the words.

Platitude #1: “At Least It’s Not Worse/At Least You Have…” — Why Minimizing Pain Hurts Caregivers

Why it hurts:

They’re try­ing to help me find grat­i­tude, but what I hear is: “Your pain does­n’t count. Some­one has it worse, so stop com­plain­ing.” It’s the grief Olympics. And nobody wins.

Every time some­one says this, they’re hand­ing me an invis­i­ble mea­sur­ing stick. I’m sup­posed to hold my child’s strug­gles up against some­one else’s and con­clude mine don’t mat­ter enough to grieve. The moth­er whose child can’t walk should­n’t com­plain because at least he’s alive. The moth­er whose child died should­n’t grieve too long because at least she had him for a while. There’s always some­one worse off, which means none of us are allowed to hurt.

What’s actu­al­ly true:

Grat­i­tude and grief aren’t ene­mies. They’re com­pan­ions on the same hard road.

Philip­pi­ans 4:6–7 does­n’t say “only bring thanksgiving”—it says bring prayer, sup­pli­ca­tion (which means beg­ging), AND thanks­giv­ing. All togeth­er. The Bible nev­er makes us choose between acknowl­edg­ing what’s good and mourn­ing what’s hard.

I can say—and mean both—“I’m grate­ful my child is alive” and “I’m griev­ing the future I thought we’d have.” Both. Are. True.

How I’m choos­ing to respond:

• “You’re right, I’m grate­ful for what we do have. And it’s still real­ly hard.”
• “I’m work­ing on hold­ing both grat­i­tude and grief.”

What I need to remem­ber:

The “at least” peo­ple want me to pick between grief and grat­i­tude. But the Bible does­n’t make me choose.

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Platitude #2: “Have You Tried [Insert Solution]?”— When Fix-It Advice Feels Dismissive

Why it hurts:

Because I have. Or I have valid sci­en­tif­ic rea­sons why the sug­ges­tion won’t work for our spe­cif­ic sit­u­a­tion.

I’ve spent hours research­ing (those of you who know me per­son­al­ly, stop laugh­ing!). We’ve con­sid­ered thou­sands of dol­lars in ther­a­pies. I’ve wast­ed count­less nights won­der­ing if I’m doing enough. This phrase makes me feel like a failure—like if I just tried hard­er, read more, researched bet­ter, my child would be fixed.

And here’s what cuts deep­est: it assumes the prob­lem is solv­able, that the right inter­ven­tion exists if only I were com­pe­tent enough to find it. Every “Have you tried…?” car­ries an unspo­ken accu­sa­tion: You haven’t done enough.

What’s actu­al­ly true:

Gala­tians 6:9 does­n’t say “if you find the right protocol”—it says “let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due sea­son we will reap, if we do not give up.”

My job isn’t to fix my child. It’s to love them, advo­cate for them, and show up—even when noth­ing changes. Some­times the answer isn’t a cure. It’s grace to endure faith­ful­ly. I’m respon­si­ble for faith­ful­ness, not out­comes.

How I’m choos­ing to respond:

• “We’re work­ing with a great team. I appre­ci­ate you think­ing of us.”
• “We’ve explored a lot of options. Right now we’re focus­ing on what’s work­ing.”

What I need to remem­ber:

1) I don’t owe any­one an expla­na­tion. The bound­ary can be set gen­tly, but I still get to set a bound­ary.

2) It’s far more fruit­ful to pray for His pres­ence than for spe­cif­ic out­comes.

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Platitude #3: “God Only Gives Special Children to Special People” — The Pressure Behind the Praise

Why it hurts:

I don’t feel spe­cial. I feel tired and like the wrong per­son­al­i­ty for this assign­ment.

This phrase turns my child’s diag­no­sis into a ref­er­en­dum on my spir­i­tu­al matu­ri­ty. It means if I’m struggling—if I lose my tem­per, if I hide in the bath­room to cry, if I resent oth­er fam­i­lies’ ease—maybe I’m prov­ing the state­ment wrong. Maybe God made a mis­take choos­ing me.

It also reduces my child to a cos­mic test of my char­ac­ter. As if their exis­tence is pri­mar­i­ly about my spir­i­tu­al for­ma­tion rather than their own inher­ent, irre­place­able worth.

What’s actu­al­ly true:

I was cho­sen in love before I ever became a par­ent (Eph­esians 1:4–5). God’s not look­ing for the strongest parents—He’s work­ing with peo­ple who know they need Him.

My beloved­ness has noth­ing to do with how well I’m han­dling this. It was set­tled before the foun­da­tion of the world. Before I suc­ceed­ed at any­thing. Before I failed at any­thing. Before this diag­no­sis. Before this exhaus­tion. Before any of it.

How I’m choos­ing to respond:

• “Some days I def­i­nite­ly don’t feel spe­cial, but I love my kid deeply.”
• “Most days I feel pret­ty ordi­nary and very tired.”

What I need to remem­ber:

“My grace is suf­fi­cient for you, for my pow­er is made per­fect in weak­ness.” (2 Corinthi­ans 12:9)

My iden­ti­ty is “beloved child,” not “spe­cial par­ent.”

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Platitude #4: “Everything Happens for a Reason” — When Causation Tangles with Redemption

Why it hurts:

If I can’t see the rea­son, maybe I’m not spir­i­tu­al enough. Maybe if I had more faith, I’d under­stand.

And frankly, why is this only said about our one child and not the oth­er? Nobody whis­pers “every­thing hap­pens for a rea­son” about my typ­i­cal­ly-devel­op­ing child’s suc­cess­es. It’s only said about hard­ship, which makes the impli­ca­tion clear: this adver­si­ty is either a tool for some­one else’s growth or evi­dence of some­one’s fail­ure.

Either feels unbear­able.

What’s actu­al­ly true:

Some things sim­ply hap­pen because we live in a bro­ken world, the result of the fall. Romans 8:28 says He works all things togeth­er for good—not that all things are good—for those who are called accord­ing to His pur­pose.

Sov­er­eign­ty means God can bring redemp­tion from ash­es. Cau­sa­tion would mean He lit the fire. We believe the first. We reject the sec­ond.

There’s a dif­fer­ence between God caus­ing some­thing and God using some­thing. He did­n’t send this diag­no­sis to teach me patience. But He will meet me in it. He will not waste it. And somehow—in ways I may nev­er under­stand this side of eternity—He will weave even this thread into some­thing beau­ti­ful.

How I’m choos­ing to respond:

• “I’m trust­ing God is with us in this, even when I can’t see the rea­son.”
• “I believe God can work through any­thing, but I may always wres­tle with the ‘why.’ ”

What I need to remem­ber:

“Jesus wept.” (John 11:35)

Even know­ing He’d raise Lazarus, Jesus still wept at the grave. Grief is valid, not a fail­ure to see God’s plan.

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Platitude #5: “God Won’t Give You More Than You Can Handle” — The Burden of Forced Strength

Why it hurts:

I’m already han­dling more than I can han­dle.

I for­got the beans for tonight’s din­ner. There are four appoint­ments this week. I snapped at my typ­i­cal­ly-devel­op­ing child this morn­ing over pour­ing her water into the remain­der of her oatmeal—not because of the “exper­i­ment”, but because I’m so tired I could weep at… well, just about any­thing.

If God only gives what we can han­dle, and I can’t han­dle this, the math is sim­ple: I’m fail­ing. This phrase sounds like encour­age­ment, but it lands like an indict­ment. It means my strug­gle is proof of spir­i­tu­al inad­e­qua­cy.

What’s actu­al­ly true:

God absolute­ly gives us more than we can han­dle. Not because He’s cru­el, but because we were nev­er meant to han­dle it alone.

Paul said it plain­ly in 2 Corinthi­ans 1:8–9—he was “bur­dened beyond our strength” so that he would “rely not on our­selves but on God.” The crush­ing isn’t the pun­ish­ment. It’s the invi­ta­tion.

Depen­dence isn’t fail­ure. It’s the design.

How I’m choos­ing to respond:

• “Thank you for car­ing. It does feel like a lot right now.”
• “I appre­ci­ate that. I’m learn­ing to lean on God more than I ever have.”

What I need to remem­ber:

“My grace is suf­fi­cient for you, for my pow­er is made per­fect in weak­ness.” (2 Corinthi­ans 12:9)

The break­ing isn’t evi­dence I’m fail­ing. It’s evi­dence I’m final­ly in posi­tion to receive His strength… and serve out of the over­flow of His empow­er­ing.

Want to dive deep­er? “God Won’t Give You More Than You Can Han­dle”

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Platitude #6: “Just Give It to God / Let Go and Let God” — Why Spiritual Shortcuts Can Feel Invalidating

Why it hurts:

We ARE giv­ing it to God. Every sin­gle ago­niz­ing day.

We’re pray­ing through tears, beg­ging Him for strength, cry­ing out in the mid­dle of the night when no one else is awake. This phrase sounds like we’re hold­ing on too tight, like our strug­gle itself is the prob­lem. Like if we just sur­ren­dered more com­plete­ly, every­thing would feel bet­ter.

But here’s the trap hid­den in this phrase: it sounds deeply spir­i­tu­al while actu­al­ly pro­mot­ing emo­tion­al bypass. It sug­gests that faith means nev­er feel­ing the weight, that true sur­ren­der pro­duces imme­di­ate peace, that if we’re still strug­gling we haven’t real­ly “let go” yet.

What’s actu­al­ly true:

Sur­ren­der isn’t pas­siv­i­ty. It’s active trust.

Proverbs 3:5–6 says “in all your ways acknowl­edge him”—not “instead of your ways.” You still act, plan, advo­cate, par­ent. You’re just doing it while trust­ing Him with the out­come you can­not con­trol.

Jesus in Geth­se­mane sweat drops of blood while sur­ren­der­ing. He said “not my will, but yours”—and then went to the cross any­way. The sur­ren­der was real. So was the agony. The trust was active pre­cise­ly because the suf­fer­ing was real.

How I’m choos­ing to respond:

• “I’m try­ing to trust Him with it, even when it feels impos­si­ble.”
• “I think I am giv­ing it to God—I’m just also still feel­ing all of it.”

What I need to remem­ber:

Sur­ren­der = Hon­esty + Trust. Not apa­thy. Not emo­tion­al detach­ment. Not the absence of feel­ing. Just open hands, even when they hurt to unclench.

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How Can We Respond to Platitudes

The plat­i­tudes will keep com­ing from out­side our hula hoops. Peo­ple will keep try­ing to help by say­ing things that hurt.

It’s okay to feel that—and it’s okay to let it go. Receive the heart. Release the words.

Because here’s what I’m learn­ing: God does­n’t stand out­side the cir­cle com­ment­ing on your life. He steps inside it. He stands where you stand.

Some days you’ll believe Him. Some days you won’t.

He’s not wait­ing for you to get it right.

He nev­er was.

He’s stand­ing inside your hula hoop—inside the mess, the med­ical bills, the mid­night ter­rors, the mea­sur­ing and weigh­ing and won­der­ing if you’re enough. And from that space, that inti­mate impos­si­ble holy space where He sees what no one out­side your cir­cle can see, He whis­pers the only words that mat­ter:

“I’m here. You’re Mine. And beloved one, that is enough.”

Three Things to Remember

1. Oth­ers are not wrong to care. They’re just often wrong about what helps. I know I sound like a bro­ken record: Receive the heart, release the words.
2. Our strug­gles don’t mean we’re fail­ing. They mean we have anoth­er place to con­nect with God.
3. It’s okay to feel hurt. How­ev­er, we also have tools to not stay stuck there.

Dive deeper into the platitude that hits hardest

Which phrase hits you hard­est right now? This series will be expand­ed so that you will be able to click through to read the full bib­li­cal response, com­plete with:

• Scrip­ture in con­text
• Prac­ti­cal tools for renew­ing your mind
• What to pray from inside your hula hoop

We’re in this togeth­er.

 Next: “God Won’t Give You More Than You Can Han­dle” →

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If this res­onat­ed, I’d love to hear which plat­i­tude you’re wrestling with most. Leave a com­ment, con­tact me, or share this with some­one who needs per­mis­sion to feel what they’re feel­ing.