A little dolphin looks into a dark crevice and imagines something frightening hiding there.

She falls off her surfboard and decides she’s hopeless.

She hears laughter and assumes she doesn’t belong.

Many of us do exactly the same.

 

When I first wrote Daphne and the Smiley Shells, I thought I was creating a way for parents to coach their children to become more confident and positive. I had been working with mums in Children’s Centres, supporting women who were doing their very best whilst carrying the invisible weight of everyday life.

Some were exhausted.

Some lacked confidence.

Some had survived difficult relationships or grown up in environments where criticism was normal and kindness towards themselves was not.

Many of them found it much easier to notice what they hadn’t done than what they had.

The washing still wasn’t folded.

The toys were still on the floor.

They’d forgotten something.

Lost their temper.

Compared themselves to another Mum who seemed to have it all together.

And underneath it all was often a quiet, relentless inner voice asking:

“What’s wrong with me?”

 

I wanted to help interrupt that cycle.

Not just for the parents sitting in front of me, but for their children too.

Because children absorb far more than we realise.

 

They notice how we speak to them.

They notice how we speak about ourselves.

They learn whether mistakes are disasters or opportunities to learn.

They learn whether trying counts.

They learn whether love and acceptance have to be earned.

So I disguised a coaching programme as a children’s book.

I wrapped it up in a little dolphin called Daphne, a wise Grandad with a jar of smiley shells, seaweed muffins and a surfboard.

The shell ritual encouraged children to notice what had gone well that day.

Something kind they had done.

Something brave.

Something they had learned.

Something they liked about themselves.

Something they hoped would become true.

And, if they couldn’t think of anything at all, perhaps they could tidy away their surfboard, help set the table, hang up their coat, or do one small thing that deserved celebrating.

Plink.

A shell in the jar.

 

What I understand now is that the shells were offering something even deeper.

Curiosity.

A different question.

Daphne looks into the cave and imagines monsters.

 

What else might be true?

Perhaps there’s a jellyfish hiding there.

Perhaps a friendly octopus.

Perhaps she doesn’t know yet.

Daphne falls off her surfboard and assumes she’s no good at surfing.

 

What else might be true?

Perhaps she’s learning.

Perhaps wobbling is part of becoming steady.

Perhaps every surfer falls before they learn to ride the waves.

Daphne hears other dolphins laughing and wonders if something is wrong with her.

 

What else might be true?

Perhaps they aren’t her people.

Perhaps she hasn’t found her friends yet.

Perhaps their laughter says more about them than it does about her.

Things don’t always go right.

Children wobble.

Parents get tired.

People say hurtful things.

We lose confidence.

We compare ourselves to others.

We have days when we feel brave and days when we don’t.

 

The Smiley Shells encourage us to notice that the difficult moments are not the whole story.

Alongside the tears, there is love.

Alongside the mistakes, there is effort.

Alongside the self-doubt, there is courage.

Alongside the washing up, the toys on the floor and the endless jobs that nobody seems to notice, there is devotion.

One shell for trying.

One shell for helping.

One shell for being honest about how you’re feeling.

One shell for getting back on the surfboard after falling off.

One shell for simply doing your best.

 

I don’t believe we need to become perfect parents or raise perfect children.

I do believe we can pass on a kinder inner voice.

One that says:

“I can learn.”

“I can try again.”

“I notice what is right with me too.”

“This isn’t the whole story.”

And perhaps that’s the real gift of the Smiley Shells.

 

Not that life becomes easier.

The waves still come.

People still disappoint us.

There are still dark caves and difficult days.

But we learn to surf differently.

And maybe, just maybe, the children we love will inherit something different from us.

Not perfection.

Not pressure.

But curiosity.

Self-compassion.

 

And the habit of asking, when life feels hard:

What else might be true?

One shell at a time.

~ Vicki Tongeman

 

Take a look at my Daphne and the Smiley Shells book, only £5.99 +P&P

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