How to Avoid Giving Advice No One Asked For (Including My Daughters)

There’s a skill I’m still training every day: learning to stay quiet at the right moment.

I don’t mean bottling up what matters — I mean something more ordinary: not giving advice that no one asked for.
Not at work, not with friends, and —especially— not at home with my daughters.

In the post Dad: AP-AP (Add or Step Aside) I talked about how easy it is to get in the way instead of helping.
This is a kind of follow-up, but brought down to everyday life: WhatsApp, dinners, hallways, the sofa, the kitchen.

Why we rush to give opinions

I don’t know many parents who wake up thinking, “Today I’m going to overwhelm my kids with unsolicited advice.”
And yet… it happens.

When I examine my own reactions, I usually find three forces underneath:

• Fear: that they suffer, make mistakes, or miss opportunities.
• Ego: the impulse to show that “I’ve been there” and I know how it works.
• Impatience: wanting them to learn —but quickly.

The mix is powerful: in seconds my mind is already drafting the full “instruction manual”.
But here’s the uncomfortable truth:
most of the time they’re not looking for solutions —they just want to be heard.

Spotting the “nobody asked you” signal

I keep a personal red flag in mind (although I don’t always catch it on time):
“Albert, you’re saying this to calm yourself down, not to help them.”

When I replay moments where I’ve gone overboard, I usually recognise patterns:

• It starts with “When I was your age…”
• It includes “What you should do is…”
• It ends with a mini-speech where they barely talked.

Sharing experience isn’t the problem; timing and tone are.
If they don’t have space to think, my words become noise —even if I mean well.

A small system before speaking

Good intentions weren’t enough for me.
So I built a simple mental checklist that helps me pause:

1. Did they ask for my opinion?
   If not, there’s no need for the “masterclass”.
2. Is this for them or for me?
   If it’s to calm my own fear, the work starts with me.
3. Can it wait?
   A few hours can change the whole conversation —or show that no advice was needed at all.

It’s not perfect, but it works. And when I pause, the dynamic shifts.

Alternatives to automatic advice

When I don’t jump into “instruction manual mode”, better things tend to happen:

1. Asking before offering

A simple:
“Do you want my opinion, or do you just want me to listen?”
changes everything.

Sometimes they just want to vent.
Sometimes they genuinely want ideas. But by asking, I give them control of the conversation.

2. Sharing experience without prescribing

I try to explain what I learned without that hidden “so you should do the same”.
More like: “This is what happened to me; you’ll figure out your own path.”

3. Making myself available —without pressure

I often say:
“If at any point you want to look at it together, tell me and we’ll go through it calmly.”

This keeps the door open without pushing.
And —curiously— the less I insist, the more they return to the topic on their own.

4. Holding the silence

Silence can feel uncomfortable.
But most of the time what they need isn’t more information —it’s time.

When I get it wrong (because I will)

This isn’t an exact science.
I still talk too much in moments that require listening.

The difference now is that I’m learning something I didn’t see much growing up:
saying sorry naturally.

A “You’re right, that wasn’t helpful” or “Sorry, I jumped too fast” does more than it seems.

This isn’t just about parenting

This lesson applies everywhere:

• Teams that feel infantilised by constant “experts”.
• Friends who jump into fixing-mode instead of listening.
• Social feeds full of confident advice for lives they don’t know.

The discipline of not giving advice no one asked for creates a world with more conversation and less noise.

I’m still experimenting, still adjusting.
Sometimes I add; sometimes I get in the way.
But more and more, I see that the real art isn’t finding the right words —it’s knowing when no words are needed.

And that’s where care becomes visible.