As a young mom, I micromanaged my son because I cared too much about what people thought. I wish I had stopped sooner.

For years, I checked my son’s grades as if they held a hidden message about my parenting.

A missing assignment meant I should have been paying closer attention. A bad grade meant I needed to step in. If he wanted to wear sweatpants again, I pushed for jeans because, apparently, denim once felt like evidence that I was raising a respectable human being.

I corrected the language. I worried about manners. I noticed everything. And then I tried to manage it.

At the time, I told myself I was being involved. Looking back, I was micromanaging my son because I thought his choices reflected what kind of mother I was...