But raising a child—and then watching that child become an adult—has taught me something I couldn't fully understand back then:
Struggle builds character.
My son is 33 now, and our relationship has evolved. He has reminded me that he isn't simply my “child.” He is my son—a grown man with his own thoughts, opinions, experiences, and voice.
That distinction may seem small to me, but it means something to him. And I've learned that loving my children means being open enough to hear what they are saying, even when their perspective isn't the same as mine.
When my son was growing up, one of the things I intentionally did differently was allow him to have a voice. I didn't always agree with him, and I still had the final say when I needed to, but I allowed him to express himself and have some say in the things that affected him. Looking back, I believe that mattered.
He has even told me that the way I raised him—the sacrifices I made, the things I did to make sure he had what he needed, and the way I allowed him to question things—helped shape his ability to recognize when something doesn't feel right. But he also taught me something in return - that I didn't always allow him to struggle.
My instinct as a mother was to fix things. If my child came to me with a problem, my first thought was, “How can I make this better?” I protected, provided, solved, and sometimes buffered him from experiences he needed to navigate for himself.
It wasn't until he became an adult that I realized something: by fixing everything, I may have prevented him from learning that he was capable of fixing some things himself. He had to enter the real world and discover that the world wasn't going to cushion every fall. And that's when my mother's heart had to learn another lesson: Sometimes loving your child means letting them struggle just enough to discover their own strength. Not abandoning them. Not withholding help when help is truly needed. But knowing when to step back and let them spread their wings. That is something I would do differently if I had the opportunity to raise my children again. I would still love fiercely. I would still protect whole-heartedly. I would still provide totally, but I would allow a little more struggle.Because struggle builds character.
And now, at 33, my son doesn't need me to mother him in the same way I did when he was a boy. Sometimes he needs a mother. Sometimes he needs a confidant. Sometimes he needs someone to listen while he works something out for himself. And sometimes he just needs to vent without me trying to fix it. That has probably been one of the hardest lessons for me as a mother: learning that my job changes as my children grow.
There was a time when I carried the responsibility of raising them on my shoulders. Today, I can put the mother hat down. I can take that weight off my shoulders and simply embrace the wonderful man and woman my children have become.
Do I get it right every time? Absolutely not. But I'm still learning. And perhaps that's the beautiful thing about raising children: we think we're teaching them how to become adults, only to discover that they are teaching us how to become better parents along the way.
My son taught me to listen. He taught me that having a voice matters. He taught me that being his mother doesn't mean I have to solve every problem. And he taught me that sometimes the greatest gift I can give him is the freedom to discover what he can do for himself.
He is still my son. But he is no longer the little boy I was responsible for guiding through every step.
He's a man. And I'm grateful that I get to know him as one. I'm just saying, I got issues. What about you? 🦋
Read the original blog here.
No comments:
Post a Comment