I’ve always thought of myself as a good mom—loving, attentive, involved. I made every effort to protect my two kids from anything that might hurt them. If they forgot their homework, I’d drive it to school. If their science project fell apart the night before it was due, I’d stay up until midnight helping them glue it back together. When friendship drama hit in middle school, I made phone calls and smoothed things out. I wasn’t just their mom—I was their safety net.
But somewhere along the way, I realized I had become more than a safety net. I was more like a permanent life raft—always right there to scoop them up before they ever had a chance to sink or swim. I couldn’t stand to see them hurting, discouraged, or disappointed. The thought of my babies struggling tore at every fiber of my heart. It felt wrong to let them fail when I could fix it.
It took me a long time to see that my “help” wasn’t helping as much as I thought.
The Day of the Forgotten Homework
I still remember the morning it hit me. My son Ethan, who was in seventh grade at the time, came downstairs in a panic because he had left his math homework on the kitchen counter the night before. The bus was already pulling up outside. Normally, I would have flown into action—grabbed the worksheet, jumped in the car, and driven it to school just in time for math class. But that particular morning, something inside me hesitated.
Maybe it was the tiredness in my bones or maybe the Holy Spirit whispering, “Let him handle it.” Either way, I didn’t move.
“Mom, can you please bring it? Please! Mrs. Kelly will kill me!” he said, eyes wide with fear.
I looked at him, at his crumpled paper on the counter, and at the bus idling outside. My stomach twisted. Every ounce of me wanted to fix this. To rescue him. To protect him from that uncomfortable feeling of facing a teacher empty-handed.
But for once, I didn’t.
“Honey, I’m sorry,” I said softly, even though it hurt. “You’ll have to talk to your teacher and take responsibility.”
He stared at me, shocked. “You’re not going to bring it?”
I shook my head. “No, sweetheart. It’s your homework. You’ll be okay.”
The door shut behind him, and I felt awful. Truly awful. It felt like I had failed him as a mom. But later that day, when Ethan came home, he wasn’t defeated—he was surprisingly calm. “Mrs. Kelly let me turn it in tomorrow,” he said. “She said she appreciated that I told her the truth.”
Something clicked in that moment. He had learned to deal with the consequences on his own—and the world hadn’t fallen apart.
The Growing Pattern
That small moment opened my eyes to a bigger pattern in my parenting. I started noticing all the little ways I stepped in before my kids ever had the chance to handle life themselves. When my daughter Chloe didn’t get invited to a birthday party, I comforted her—but also called the other mom to make sure it wasn’t some sort of misunderstanding. When Ethan forgot his gym shoes, I dropped what I was doing and drove them to school. When Chloe cried about not getting a part in the Christmas play, I emailed the music teacher to ask if there had been a mistake.
I meant well. I thought I was protecting them from unnecessary disappointment, but in truth, I was training them to expect rescue. I was teaching them that if life got messy or uncomfortable, Mom would always swoop in to fix it.
One night, after yet another frantic homework rescue, I sat on the edge of my bed and prayed. “Lord, am I helping them or hurting them?” I whispered. The house was quiet. My heart wasn’t.
In that stillness, I sensed God gently showing me that my love, though sincere, had become controlling. I wasn’t giving my kids the chance to experience His faithfulness—I was trying to be their faithfulness for them.
Letting Them Struggle
Changing that habit wasn’t easy. It went against my instincts. I had to learn to sit on my hands—literally—to stop myself from intervening.
The next test came soon after with Chloe. She’d worked for days on a poster for her history project and had forgotten to put her name on it. The teacher gave her partial credit. She came home upset, near tears. My first reaction? Get defensive for her. Maybe call the teacher. After all, her work was good! But then I remembered that quiet conviction from the Lord.
Instead, we sat together on her bed, and I asked, “What did you learn from this?”
She sniffled. “To check my work before I turn it in.”
I confessed that I knew it hurt but told her that mistakes help us grow. “Sweetheart,” I said, “God doesn’t waste anything—not even the hard stuff. Every experience teaches you something. You’re learning to be responsible, and that’s worth more than a perfect grade.”
She nodded, and though the tears lingered, I saw a spark of understanding in her eyes. Maybe for the first time, she realized that failure wasn’t fatal. It was just a teacher in disguise.
When God Taught Me About Growth
Around that time, I came across Romans 5:3-4: “We rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.”
It struck me how backwards that sounded to a protective parent. Suffering produces character? Perseverance comes from pain? Yet, it’s true. That’s how faith works. Our strength in Christ is refined when we walk through struggles and see that His grace is bigger than our failures. Why should it be any different for my children?
If I kept rescuing them from every uncomfortable moment, how would they ever learn perseverance? How would they develop character or hope? I realized I was unintentionally short-circuiting God’s training process in their lives.
I remember praying, “Lord, help me trust You more than I trust myself. Help me to see that these struggles are not roadblocks—they’re Your tools for growth.”
And slowly, that prayer began to change me.
Watching Them Grow
Once I let go of the need to rescue, I started noticing something new in my kids. They became more confident, more resourceful, more grounded.
Ethan began taking ownership of his responsibilities. He set reminders for assignments and even told his sister, “Don’t forget your project; you don’t want to lose points like I did.”
Chloe started stepping outside her comfort zone, trying out for things even when she wasn’t sure she’d make it. She still came to me for advice, but she didn’t expect me to fix everything.
We had more meaningful conversations, too. We talked about prayer, about trusting God when things go wrong, and about how failure doesn’t define us—it refines us. It changes the lens through which you see the world. When they struggled, I walked beside them, not in front of them.
And can I be honest? It also made me a happier mom. I wasn’t exhausted from constantly fixing. I could finally enjoy watching God’s hand at work in my children instead of feeling like it all depended on me.
A New Kind of Parenting
These days, my approach as a mom looks a little different. When a problem comes up, I take a breath before jumping in. I ask myself, “Is this truly harmful, or just uncomfortable?” If it’s harmful—like something involving safety or integrity—I act. But if it’s simply uncomfortable, I stay close but let them walk through it.
Sometimes that means listening more and doing less. Other times it means allowing natural consequences to teach what words can’t. And always, it means trusting that God is shaping their hearts, even when I can’t see the results right away.
I’ve come to realize that my calling as a mother isn’t to make my children’s lives easy—it’s to prepare them to live faithfully. That means allowing them to fall, to struggle, to get back up, and to find out just how powerful God’s grace really is.
Finding Peace in Letting Go
Letting go doesn’t mean I love them less; it means I love them wisely. Love that rescues too quickly prevents growth. Love that stands firm through difficulty bears fruit that lasts.
Looking back, I can see how God has been growing me right alongside my kids. I used to think that being a good mother meant protecting them from pain. Now I know that real love sometimes lets pain do its quiet, holy work. It’s through those moments that our children discover courage, humility, and dependence on the Lord.
So now, when my kids stumble, I don’t panic. I pray. I remind them that God is in control. I remind myself too. And I thank Him for trusting me enough to guide them through the messy, awkward, grace-filled process of growing up.
After all, the goal of parenting isn’t to raise perfect kids—it’s to raise faithful ones who know how to stand when life gets hard. And that’s something worth holding onto.