Protecting Too Much, Helping Less

Sometimes, it’s the best intentions that trip us up. I saw a really interesting study recently about how we, as parents, trying to smooth things over for our kids, might actually be making things harder in the long run. It’s a delicate balance, that space between comforting and enabling, and honestly, it's something I've been wrestling with a lot lately.

I’ve been thinking about my dad a great deal. His little scare… it really does leave a mark. Not a big, obvious one, but a quiet, persistent worry that settles in your bones. You want everything to be okay, and suddenly, the things you took for granted feel fragile. Seeing that vulnerability in *him*—a man who’s always been my rock—it’s… well, it's been a lot. And I know that anxiety, that wanting to control the uncontrollable, can easily seep into how we parent.

We’re wired to protect our kids, aren’t we? To shield them from pain. And sometimes that means jumping in and fixing things, smoothing over the bumps, making sure they don’t have to feel uncomfortable. The problem is, discomfort is a really valuable teacher. It's where resilience is built, where problem-solving skills develop, where a child learns to navigate the complexities of the world. It's where they learn to *feel* and, eventually, to manage those feelings.

I’ve had a couple of families in my practice recently whose children are struggling with big feelings, particularly anxiety. One little girl, a sweet, bright kid, just melts down whenever she's faced with a minor social challenge—a disagreement with a friend, a missed turn in a game. The parents, understandably, rush in to mediate, to make sure she “wins” or isn’t hurt. They’re exhausted, and they’re worried. They just want her to be happy. I understand that completely.

But what I've noticed, and what this study seems to confirm, is that when we consistently eliminate those opportunities for our kids to learn to cope, we’re also preventing them from developing the skills they need to handle bigger challenges later on. It’s like building a house on sand; it might look okay for a while, but it won’t withstand a storm. We were doing that with my dad, in a way. Making sure every little thing was “okay,” so he wouldn’t have to face anything difficult. It’s a reflex, a deeply ingrained instinct.

There's a psychology to it, too, I suspect. When we’re anxious ourselves—and let’s be honest, most of us are, to some degree—it's incredibly tempting to project that anxiety onto our children and try to manage it for them. When I was driving to Norwood those three times a week, just watching my mom navigate all of that, the worry was suffocating. It would have been so easy to just take over, to "fix" things for her. But fixing isn't always what's needed.

So, what’s the answer? It's not about letting your child suffer, of course. It’s about letting them *experience*. It's about being present, offering support, but allowing them to grapple with their feelings, to find their own solutions. It's about acknowledging their distress without immediately trying to eliminate it. The other day, my middle child was upset about something at school. Instead of calling the teacher, I just sat with her, listened to her, and reminded her that she was capable and strong. And then, I let her figure it out.

It’s a hard thing to do, I know. Especially when you’re feeling overwhelmed yourself. But remember, your job isn't to protect them from *everything*. Your job is to equip them to navigate a world that is, inevitably, full of bumps and bruises. And sometimes, the most loving thing you can do is to step back and let them learn to heal themselves. It's a process, for them and for us. And it’s worth it.