I used to think I was just being a “good mom” to my son.
I packed his lunch with color-coded notes. I filled out permission slips as soon as they made it home. If he forgot his homework, I’d zip it over to school. If a birthday party made him nervous, I’d RSVP that he couldn’t attend.
I called it being involved. Responsible. Protective. It wasn’t until his fourth-grade teacher gently pulled me aside after a parent-teacher conference that I saw it for what it really was.
It was time for me to take a step back
“I can see how much you care,” my son’s teacher said to me kindly. “But I think John is ready for a little more space to figure things out.”
It was a soft statement, not a scolding. But it hit hard. I was acting, at least a bit, like a helicopter parent. Her words cracked something open in me something brittle and stretched too tight. For the first time, I saw that maybe my hovering wasn’t helping him thrive it was holding him back.
The transition took time
That suggestion was made nearly four years ago. John is heading into eighth grade now, and I’m a different kind of parent than I used to be. Letting go didn’t happen overnight. It wasn’t a clean break. It was more like peeling off layers of armor I thought we both needed. And beneath it? A scared mom, afraid of letting her kid stumble. Afraid of watching him fail.
The first test came with a school overnight trip. I made myself let him pack. I watched silently as he forgot socks. (Socks!) I didn’t step in. Not even when I saw the empty corner of his suitcase. When he came back with blisters and a sheepish grin, I nodded and said, “Looks like next time, you’ll remember.”
That one moment taught me more than any parenting book ever could.
Since then, I’ve paused before offering solutions. I ask instead of instruct. I stay quiet when I want to jump in. Sometimes, I physically have to sit on my hands. But the change in him? It’s worth every ounce of discomfort.
My son is thriving
I’ve noticed that my son is more confident now. He solves problems on his own. He’s handled conflict with friends without me sending “just a quick text to the mom.” He even tried out for something and didn’t make it and didn’t fall apart. I watched him cry, regroup, and try again. That’s a kind of resilience no amount of micromanaging could ever teach.
And somewhere in the middle of all this, something else happened: I found pieces of me again. The me who loved painting but hadn’t touched a canvas in years. The me who could enjoy a quiet Saturday morning without managing a minute-by-minute schedule. By trusting him to grow, I rediscovered who I was outside of being the constant fixer.
Letting go didn’t mean I stopped caring. It meant I started believing in him, and in myself.
These days, when I see other parents stressing over perfect snack bags or jumping in to smooth every wrinkle, I get it. I was them. Sometimes, I still feel the urge to swoop in. But then I look at my son blistered, brave, blooming and I remind myself: the best thing I ever did for him was learning how to let go.
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