It's OK To Be Proud Of Your Kids - AND Let Them Know It!

YES, It’s ABSOLUTELY okay to be proud of your kids. Not just a passing smile or a silent prayer when no one sees it—but a visible, spoken, genuine joy that your children can feel deep in their bones when they see the expression on your face. They need that from us. They need to know we see them. Not just the end results of what they’ve done, but the parts no one else sees—the effort, the growth, the process, the character forming when no one’s cheering. When a parent says, “I’m proud of you,” it does more than make a child feel good. It connects them to some-thing steady. It lets them taste something sacred—delight that doesn't depend on perfection.

But so many parents struggle with this. Especially believers. We’re so cautious not to raise children who think too highly of themselves that sometimes we end up saying nothing at all. And silence—when a heart is hungry for affirmation—can be just as harmful as pride. There’s a lie in this world that says confidence is the same thing as arrogance, but that’s not what Scripture shows us. There is a holy kind of confidence, and our children need to see it—and feel it—in us first.

The Scriptures make this careful distinction, though. The word pride carries a weight, depending on its direction. In Hebrew, ga'ah (גָּאָה) means to rise, to be lifted. It’s used of YHWH in the most beautiful ways—“The Lord has triumphed gloriously; the horse and his rider He has thrown into the sea!” (Exodus 15:1). That’s ga'ah—a majestic rising, worthy and pure. But when mankind begins to exalt themselves, taking glory as their own possession, that word shifts. It becomes gaon (גָּאוֹן), a swelling of the heart in the wrong direction.

Children aren’t born puffed up. They are born with wide eyes and open hearts, ready to believe the things they’re told about themselves. If all they hear is silence or criticism, they learn to either shrink or perform. But when love is spoken plainly—and delight is openly given—they learn to receive approval without striving for it, and without being defined by it.

Yeshua showed us this over and over. At His baptism, before His public ministry even began, a voice came from heaven: “This is My Son, the Beloved, in whom I am well pleased.” That word beloved is agapētos (ἀγαπητός), deeply loved, cherished. And well pleased—eudokeō(εὐδοκέω)—is more than polite approval. It’s to take joy in something, to find it good, to feel deep pleasure in it. YHWH wasn’t withholding affirmation until Yeshua performed miracles. He gave it at the beginning. Before the spotlight. Before the multitudes. Just a Son, standing in the water, preparing to obey. And the Father’s voice covered Him in approval. His Father let Him know He was proud of Him.

That matters. Because it sets a pattern. Our children should hear our voices speaking love and pride over them even before they do anything that the world might call "great." Before the report cards, before the medals, the performances. Before they "earn" it. That way, when they do accomplish something amazing—and they will—it won’t become a way to earn identity. It will just be a reflection of something already rooted inside.

But yes, there’s the concern that pride can go too far. We see it clearly in the story Yeshua told in Luke 18—the Pharisee who stood in the temple praying to himself, listing his own righteousness like a résumé before God. The word used there for “exalted” again is hypsoō (ὑψόω), to lift up high. But the posture of his heart made it a dangerous height, one from which a fall was inevitable. Meanwhile, a tax collector stood at a distance, beating his chest, saying, “God, have mercy on me, a sinner.” Yeshua said that man went home justified.

So the question isn’t, “Should we express pride?” The question is, “Where does it point?” Who gets the glory? What direction is it lifting?

We are meant to lift our children—but not to the point that they forget the ground beneath them. We’re meant to speak blessing—but not in a way that disconnects them from the Source of all that’s good. Even when Paul wrote to the believers in Thessalonica, he said, “What is our hope, our joy, or the crown in which we will glory in the presence of our Lord Yeshua when He comes? Is it not you?” (1 Thess. 2:19). That word—glory—is kauchēsis (καύχησις), the same word often translated as boasting. He wasn’t ashamed to say it. His joy in them wasn’t prideful in the flesh—it was praise to God for the fruit of their faith.

Imagine a child hearing that from their parent: “You are my joy. You are part of the crown I’ll wear before the Lord. I see Him at work in you. I’m so thankful for who you’re becoming.” That doesn’t swell a heart with pride. It anchors a heart with purpose.

When we talk about avoiding puffed-up pride, we’re not talking about denying reality. If your child has a gift, let them know. If they’re succeeding, recognize it. But then trace that success to the deeper truth: God gave you this ability. He formed you for something beautiful. What you’ve done is worth celebrating—and it’s also worth surrendering to Him. Because surrender is where humility and confidence meet. That’s where Yeshua stood.

Do you remember when He washed the disciples’ feet? The text in John 13 tells us that Yeshua, knowing that the Father had given all things into His hands... rose from supper and began to wash their feet. That always gets me. He didn’t act out of insecurity or false modesty. He knew who He was. He knew the authority that had been given to Him. And because He was secure in that, He could go low. That’s true confidence. That’s what we want our children to grow into—not pride that boasts, but identity so secure that they can serve others in love, without needing applause.

And let’s not forget the Psalms, where the pride of a parent is sometimes woven into worship. “Behold, children are a heritage from the LORD, the fruit of the womb a reward. Like arrows in the hand of a warrior are the children of one's youth. Blessed is the man who fills his quiver with them!” (Psalm 127). That’s not quiet, passive acceptance. That’s joyful recognition. A kind of holy boasting—not in ourselves, but in what the Lord has entrusted to us.

We don’t just raise children—we steward souls. And how we speak to them can either weigh them down with false humility or build them up with grounded truth. They don’t need to be taught to hide their gifts. They need to be taught to carry them well. To shine without gloating. To give thanks without shrinking. To run the race with joy, and then turn and say, “Look what the Lord has done.”

So let them hear it. Not just once, but often. Not just when they win, but when they try. When they choose kindness. When they forgive. When they get back up. Let them know, “I see you. I’m proud of you. And I thank God for who you are becoming.” In doing that, we give them more than praise. We give them a glimpse of the Father's heart.

And long after the trophies fade and the ribbons are folded into a drawer, your voice will remain. Your delight. Your joy. Your words. They will echo in their hearts as reminders of what love looks like when it speaks truthfully. And what pride looks like when it’s holy.

There’s this moment early in the book of Ruth, after the grief has already come—after the men have died and the women are left standing in the echo of their absence. Naomi has nothing left to give, at least from the world’s point of view. No sons. No security. No future to offer. And yet Ruth, this Moabite daughter-in-law, says words that reshape both their lives forever: “Where you go, I will go. Where you stay, I will stay. Your people will be my people, and your God my God.” There’s no ego in it. No need for reward. Just deep, faithful love.

Naomi doesn’t jump up with applause or dance in circles. She doesn’t throw a party or say, “Look how amazing my daughter-in-law is!” But you know what? Her silence isn’t empty. She’s overwhelmed. And even though she tells the townspeople to call her Mara—bitter—there’s something unbroken in her. Because she lets Ruth stay. She doesn’t push her away. She lets herself be loved. And in a world where older women were often discarded along with their loss, Naomi lets Ruth honor her. That takes strength too.

And then the way she speaks to Ruth in the next chapter—once they’ve settled in Bethlehem and Ruth goes out to glean in the fields of Boaz—her words shift. When Ruth returns home with more grain than expected, Naomi blesses her. She blesses Boaz, too, even before she knows all the details. She says, “Blessed be the man who took notice of you.” That word “blessed” in Hebrew is baruch (בָּרוּךְ), and it’s not just a kind word—it’s a word that carries the full weight of divine favor. Naomi doesn’t just approve. She speaks the language of heaven over the situation.

There’s another layer to this. She begins to speak identity back into Ruth. She gives advice. She speaks future. And that’s where you can feel her pride starting to rise—not arrogant, not showy, but like a quiet fire returning to a woman who had felt all but extinguished. When Naomi tells Ruth to go to the threshing floor and follow a risky plan that could bring either scandal or redemption, it’s not the advice of a bitter woman. It’s the advice of someone who sees the strength, the honor, the rare kind of courage in this young woman and trusts her to carry it out.

Naomi is proud of her—not for being perfect, not for fitting some mold, but for her heart. For her faithfulness. For the way she carries the name of YHWH on her lips, even though she was born far from Israel’s covenants. That kind of pride is pure. It’s not self-glory. It’s wonder. It’s awe. It’s the kind of pride that says, “Look what God is doing through this beautiful person right in front of me. I see it. I get to witness it.”

And Ruth doesn’t let that pride puff her up. She walks it out with grace and humility. The word used when Boaz notices her is worth mentioning. In Ruth 2:11–12, Boaz tells her, “All that you have done for your mother-in-law since the death of your husband has been fully told to me… May the Lord repay you for what you have done, and may you be richly rewarded by the Lord, the God of Israel, under whose wings you have come to take refuge.” That image—taking refuge under the wings of YHWH—is so tender. It’s chasah (חָסָה), meaning to flee for protection, to trust. It shows us that Ruth wasn’t puffed up by praise—she was tucked in under the shelter of God’s goodness.

Even after the marriage to Boaz and the birth of little Obed, it’s Naomi who holds the child in her arms, and the women of the town say, “Naomi has a son!” That’s a beautiful moment. Not just because of what it meant for her family line—but because the whole community saw the bond between Naomi and Ruth and honored it. They saw Naomi again. They didn’t forget her faith, her pain, or her steady guidance.

That’s the kind of legacy we want. Not pride in the world’s sense—but a holy kind of joy that recognizes what God is doing in the lives of those we love. The kind that speaks it out loud. The kind that celebrates the Ruths in our lives—the ones who press forward through grief and uncertainty, who don’t give up, who keep choosing love even when the odds are stacked against them.

Let your children see that kind of pride in you. Let them hear the joy in your voice when you talk about their strength, their choices, their acts of kindness, their courage to stand alone if they have to. Tell them, I see who you are becoming, and it’s beautiful. Tell them when they show loyalty. Tell them when they take care of someone without being asked. Tell them when they follow God’s way even when it costs something. That’s the Ruth-kind of character. And it’s worth celebrating every time.

We don’t teach them humility by hiding our delight. We teach them humility by pointing our delight back to God. Like Naomi did. Like Boaz did. Like the women of Bethlehem did when they saw a baby born, not just for a family, but for a future—one that would lead to King David, and then to the Messiah Himself.

So don’t be afraid to say, I’m proud of you. Just make sure that pride is soaked in gratitude. Rooted in heaven. Overflowing with blessing. Let your kids know they are seen and celebrated—not because they’re perfect, but because they’re walking in something beautiful. And speak it like Naomi: softly, wisely, faithfully. Because that kind of pride? That’s not something to hush. That’s something to pass down.

let’s walk into Mary’s story now—the one who carried the Savior of the world inside her own body and still made room to wonder. There’s a kind of holy hush around her, isn’t there? Even when the angel speaks and the heavens open, she doesn’t get loud. She doesn’t run through the streets shouting, “Look at me, I’ve been chosen!” No. She treasures. She ponders. She asks questions. She watches. She listens. And yet—she knows who her Son is. And she’s not afraid to say so when the time is right.

We first meet her as this young Jewish girl in Nazareth. Probably poor. Certainly unnoticed. And then the angel comes. “You have found favor with God.” The word in Greek is charis (χάρις), meaning grace, favor, kindness, beauty. It’s not something she earned. It’s something placed on her. And how does she respond? Not with pride, but with surrender. “Let it be to me according to your word.” That’s humility. That’s obedience. But don’t miss this: she sings. She sings the Magnificat—“My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior… For He has looked on the humble estate of His servant… From now on all generations will call me blessed.”

Wait. Did you catch that? She says, “All generations will call me blessed.” She’s not being shy about it. She knows this moment will echo through time. She knows she’s holding something the world can’t quite comprehend. But she doesn’t boast. She magnifies. That word in Greek—megalunei (μεγαλύνει)—it means to make large, to lift up, to exalt. Her pride doesn’t lift herself. It lifts YHWH. “He who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is His name.”

That’s our model right there. She teaches us how to rejoice in what God’s doing through us, and even because of us—without turning the spotlight toward self. She praises the God who chose her, and in doing so, she finds the freedom to acknowledge the miracle she’s living. That’s something we can give to our children. That space to celebrate what God is doing in them—to recognize it, to name it, to honor it—and then gently guide their eyes back up to heaven.

And think of the way Mary sees Yeshua through the years. We get little glimpses. That moment at the temple when He’s just twelve, sitting with the teachers, astonishing everyone with His understanding. She scolds Him afterward—like any mother would—because she was worried sick. But Scripture says she “kept all these things in her heart.” That word “kept” in Greek is diatēreō (διατηρέω), meaning to preserve carefully, to guard. She held those memories like treasure. She didn’t forget. She let them build. Let them shape her.

Fast forward to the wedding at Cana. Here is where we see her act out of that hidden pride, that quiet confidence in her Son’s calling. The wine runs out. She turns to Him. Doesn’t even ask outright. She just says, “They have no wine.” And when He replies, “My hour has not yet come,” she doesn’t argue. She simply turns to the servants and says, “Do whatever He tells you.” That’s it. No long explanation. No ceremony. Just deep trust. She knows who He is. She believes in Him before the crowd ever sees the miracle.

That’s mother-pride, too. It’s not noisy. It’s not decorated in gold. It’s trust. It’s confidence in the character and calling of your child. It’s standing close, saying, “I believe in what God has placed in you, and I will act on that belief.”

Now fast forward again to a harder scene—one no mother wants to live through. Yeshua is hanging on a Roman cross, bloodied and dying, and Mary is standing nearby. She doesn’t collapse. She doesn’t scream. She stays. And Yeshua, in one of His final breaths, looks at her and says, “Woman, behold your son,” and to John, “Behold your mother.” Even there, in His agony, He honors her. He protects her. He sees her.

That moment speaks volumes. Because her pride was never in the signs and wonders. Her pride was in Him. Who He was. What He stood for. How He loved. How He obeyed His Father. She knew she couldn’t stop the pain. But she wouldn’t stop loving Him either.

That’s the kind of strength and tenderness we need to show our children. We can tell them, I’m proud of you—not just for what they achieve, but for who they are becoming. And then we keep walking beside them, even when the road twists. Even when it hurts. Even when we don’t understand everything they’re stepping into.

So yes, it's OK to be proud of your children. More than OK. It’s right. But not the kind of pride that compares or competes or boasts. Not the kind that says, “Look at what we’ve done!” No. The kind that says, “Look at what God is doing in you, and through you, and because of you—and I get to be a witness to it.”

When you speak that kind of pride over your children, you’re not inflating their egos. You’re anchoring their hearts. You’re giving them roots that go deep and wings that know where to fly. You’re helping them see their story inside God’s bigger one.

So speak it out loud. Say it often. And always, always point back to the One who gave them life, who shaped their gifts, who is writing something beautiful with every breath they take.

And when you don’t have words? Just be like Mary. Hold those things in your heart. God sees it all. And one day, the whole world just might see it too.

Now, when we think about healthy pride, it’s important to look at the way the Apostle Paul navigated his own feelings of joy and pride in others. While Paul isn’t the first person people think of when it comes to humility, he did offer us an incredible balance. His letters are full of moments where he’s proud of his spiritual children—not in a way that puts him above them, but in a way that encourages and uplifts. He was able to feel pride, but he always pointed back to Yeshua as the source of it.

Take, for example, his letter to the Philippians. Paul is so open about the pride he feels for their growth in the faith. He writes to them, “I thank my God every time I remember you. In all my prayers for all of you, I always pray with joy because of your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now” (Philippians 1:3-5). He’s proud of them—he boasts about their partnership, not in a way that inflates his own sense of importance, but as a recognition of how God is working in and through them. He could’ve easily taken credit for any of their growth, considering how much time he spent with them—but he didn’t. Instead, he used their progress as an opportunity to praise God and encourage them to press on in their faith.

And then there’s the beauty of his humility when it comes to the puffing up part. He doesn’t let pride take root in himself either. The same Paul who celebrates the Philippians and the Corinthians also constantly reminds them and himself that it’s God’s grace that makes all things possible. He’s the one who writes, “For by the grace given me I say to every one of you: Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment, in accordance with the faith God has distributed to each of you” (Romans 12:3). That’s the key right there—sober judgment. It’s the idea that we don’t measure our worth by how much we achieve or how much others praise us. We see ourselves clearly, through God’s eyes, as those who are humbly walking out His purpose, for His glory, not our own.

Paul’s model of pride—pride in others and pride in their progress, always directed back to God—is a beautiful thing. It lifts people without pushing them toward self-idolatry. It’s the kind of pride we need to teach our children to hold on to. We can be proud of their achievements, but always, always point them back to the One who made it possible in the first place.

In our homes, we can celebrate those victories—whether it’s a sports achievement, an academic win, or a personal milestone—and instead of letting it puff them up, we can teach them to be thankful for the gift, to give glory to God, and to remember that the ultimate prize is not in the medals, but in the relationship with the Creator who gave them the ability to do great things.

Because when pride in others is held in the right perspective, it can be a beautiful thing. It’s the reminder that they are seen, valued, loved, and encouraged to press on toward the true prize—the upward call in Christ Jesus. And that kind of pride doesn’t inflate, it roots. It’s like a tree that gets stronger as it grows, because its roots are deep in something much more stable than any earthly accomplishment.

So when we feel that pride welling up in our hearts for our kids—whether they’re excelling in something or showing kindness, or growing in their faith—let’s make sure that pride is always connected to a deeper humility. It’s pride that gives credit where credit is due: not to the child alone, but to the God who created and sustained them in their journey. That’s the kind of pride we want to cultivate in our homes, one that builds up without building walls of arrogance or self-importance.

And as our kids walk in that kind of pride—grounded in humility, rooted in gratitude—they’ll learn to share it with others. They’ll see their own success as part of something bigger than themselves. And ultimately, they’ll know that even in their greatest moments, it’s not about them—it’s about the One who makes all things possible.

Image IS AI generated. Teaching is by Anna M. C. Hazen with research help from several chatgpt ai.