"I Hate You" and Other Love Letters in Disguise

Are we all familiar with a child who shouts, "I hate mummy, I don't love mummy," when their favourite toy is taken away or they’re told it’s bedtime but they just wanted five more minutes of play? Yet, moments later, mummy makes them laugh, and suddenly it’s hugs and cuddles with an enthusiastic, "Yes, I love mummy!" What’s going on there?

We can’t reasonably expect a little one to say, "Mother, I find myself quite aggrieved by your decision to confiscate my toy whilst I was deriving considerable enjoyment from it. Such an abrupt and unceremonious disruption strikes me as profoundly unjust and leaves me in a state of considerable discontent." Of course not, not even young Sheldon Cooper. But these are perfect explanations to the child’s reaction, and the frustration they feel in that moment is no less real or intense than that of an adult experiencing a similar disruption. They just don’t have the tools to express it in a way that matches their inner experience.

Instead, they’ve likely observed how powerful certain words can be, such as how saying “I hate you” elicits a strong reaction. If a child learned that saying, “I hate Gucci,” would greatly upset their parents, they’d probably say that instead. It’s less about the words themselves but more about their impact. In a child’s mind, those words become a way to make the parent feel the same frustration they’re experiencing, especially when no other means seems available. It is a known fact that a child mirrors their parents on a neurological level. As an adult, how often have you felt compelled to mirror the silly sounds or faces a child made? So the real question to ask when a child uses a word or an expression is what they want you to mirror something going on internally for them that they do not have the words to fully articulate. Once the storm of emotion passes, though, the words lose their meaning. Ask that same child, "Do you hate mummy?" and you’ll get a clear “No,” because of course they don’t hate mummy. The anger was never truly about hate. It was about needing to bridge the gap between their inner turmoil and the outside world.

This dynamic isn’t limited to children. We see echoes of it in adults grappling with their own challenges in communication.

There was a patient of mine who came to me with a mix of struggles. Her father, a single parent, sat across from me one day, his voice heavy with the weight of his confession. “It feels like I’m walking on eggshells,” he said. “Every time I talk to her, I’m afraid of saying something wrong. And when she screams at me, saying ‘I hate you,’ it’s like a dagger straight to the heart.” His exhaustion was evident. He wanted to understand his daughter, but his own struggles often got in the way, leaving both of them in an endless loop of miscommunication and hurt.

Then there was another patient of mine who spoke openly about his own outbursts. “When I’m upset, I say things like, ‘You don’t care about me, you want me dead, you mean nothing to me!’ to my mum.” He shared. His voice faltered between defiance and regret. “I don’t even mean half of it. It just... comes out. And then it feels like it’s too late to take it back.”

These experiences made me think deeply about the messages we send in moments of emotional chaos. More specifically, they made me think about the gap between the words spoken and the emotions beneath them. As a psychologist, I’ve come to see these moments as less about the literal meaning of the words and more about what’s being desperately, albeit imperfectly, conveyed.

When someone struggles to articulate their thoughts and emotions, the frustration can be overwhelming. This is especially true in the middle of an emotionally charged exchange. Whether the difficulty stems from past trauma, neurodevelopmental challenges, or interpersonal difficulties, the inability to express oneself can feel like being trapped in a glass box, screaming while no one hears a thing. That kind of pain often spills over into anger, not always because the other person is wrong or uncaring, but because their perceived lack of understanding feels like another rejection.

In these moments, the anger isn’t just about the immediate situation. It’s a desperate cry to be seen, to be heard, to be understood. And when those cries feel ignored, there’s sometimes a shift in the dynamic. The person in pain might feel the need to force the listener to understand, even if it means causing hurt in return.

This is where the words “I hate you” or “You don’t care about me” come into play. On the surface, they’re harsh, even cruel. But underneath them lies something far more tender: “Why can’t you see how much I’m hurting? Why won’t you step into my world and try to feel what I’m feeling?” When someone feels unseen, they might try to recreate their emotional turmoil in the other person, so their pain isn’t just their own anymore.

This is not to excuse hurtful words, but to explore their purpose. Let’s say a parent hears “I hate you” from their child. The natural reaction might be to argue, to defend themselves, or to demand an apology. But in doing so, they may focus on the surface meaning of the words while missing the deeper message. In truth, the child might be saying, “I’m overwhelmed, I don’t know how to express it, and I need you to help me make sense of this mess inside my head.”

I’ve seen this play out in countless ways. One of my patients’ parents once said, “Every time I try to explain something calmly, she explodes. And then I end up exploding too. It’s like we’re trapped in this endless war, and I don’t even know how it started.” What they were describing was a classic cycle: an emotionally overwhelmed person lashes out, the recipient takes the words at face value and reacts defensively, and the original frustration only deepens.

But what if, instead of reacting to the literal words, we focused on what they were trying to communicate? What if we looked at those angry outbursts and said, “This is not an attack. This is a plea for connection”? Imagine the difference it could make if the father who heard “I hate you” could pause and respond with, “I hear that you’re upset. Can you tell me more about what’s making you feel this way?”

Of course, this isn’t easy. In the heat of the moment, it’s hard not to take things personally. Words can wound. They leave marks. And for the listener, it can feel unfair to be the one who has to rise above, to be the bigger person, to offer understanding when they’re hurting too. But it’s important to remember that these emotional outbursts aren’t about the listener’s flaws; they’re about the speaker’s pain.

I’ve had my own moments of realisation with this. As a psychologist, I’m supposed to understand these dynamics, yet there have been times in my personal life where I’ve found myself getting defensive or frustrated in similar situations. It’s human nature to protect yourself when you feel attacked. But what I’ve learned is that the more I’ve been able to step back, take a breath, and really listen to the pain beneath the words, the more those conflicts have turned into opportunities for connection.

This isn’t to say that everyone should always tolerate being spoken to harshly. Boundaries matter. Respect matters. But understanding the difference between a literal attack and a cry for help can shift how we approach these situations. It can help us respond with empathy instead of anger, with curiosity instead of defensiveness.

For those on the other side of these outbursts, the ones who are struggling to express their emotions, I want to say this: your feelings are valid. Your pain is real. But the way you communicate that pain matters too. When words are used as weapons, they can create walls instead of bridges. And while it’s not your responsibility to make others understand you perfectly, choosing to express your feelings in a way that invites understanding rather than conflict can be a powerful step forward.

At the end of the day, the message and the messenger are intertwined. The messenger’s choice of words can either clarify or obscure the message. And the recipient’s response can either foster connection or deepen the divide. It’s a dance, one that requires effort, patience, and a willingness to see beyond the surface.

To the parents, partners, friends, and loved ones who hear those painful words, try to remember that they’re often a symptom of something deeper, someone’s struggle to be understood, rather than about your worth or your failures. And to those who feel the need to lash out, know that your pain is seen, and there are ways to express it that can bring you closer to the understanding you’re yearning for.