- My daughter Emily had just gone through treatment for stage IV cancer when she started school.
- All my decisions felt monumental, and I tried so hard to help her with everything.
On the first day of kindergarten, my daughter and I waited for the bus at the end of our driveway. "Here it comes!" She squealed as it roared up the hill.
A week out of treatment for stage IV cancer, Emily weighed barely 30 pounds. She was getting used to her hearing aids and leg braces. Her hair was just starting to grow back.
As the bus pulled away, I thought of the year before when she was in the middle of treatment with 50/50 odds of survival. I swore if she lived, I'd be a better mother.
I felt so guilty
By the time Emily was diagnosed, a softball-sized tumor rested on her left adrenal gland, and cancer cells floated in every part of her body. For months, I'd dismissed her knee pain as growing pains. When I scrolled through pictures right before her diagnosis, I could see the cancer in her puffy eyes and bluish-toned face.
My guilt nearly killed me. She'd experienced so much pain that I wanted to spare her anymore.
But my desperation and determination to protect her caused me to lose sight that I wanted to raise a resilient, independent kid who could make good decisions for herself.
Every decision felt monumental
At parent pick-up, I chatted strategically with moms of girls I thought were kind to set up playdates. I wanted Emily to fit in well, so I scrolled websites at night, searching for outfits to fit her tiny frame.
Every decision felt monumental. I spent hours, sometimes days, debating which sneakers were best for leg braces, if I should let her swim in chlorine, and if it was worth the risk of her falling off the monkey bars to let her scale them herself.
At night, Emily moaned when I insisted we practice her weekly spelling words so she'd keep pace and not need extra help. I emailed her teachers and coaches, reminding them she couldn't hear well on a soccer field or noisy cafeteria. The thought of her being lost in lunchroom conversation because her hearing aids echoed made my stomach sink.
My hypervigilance was understandable. Emily had cancer. Keeping her happy and safe felt like the job of a good mother, so I carried on in the name of duty and obligation.
Micromanaging every aspect of her day left me exhausted. My voice became edgy when she wanted a reason why she couldn't skip a speech lesson. I wanted to say, "Sure, one session doesn't matter." But then quickly thought, "A speech impediment will make you miserable."
I needed to allow her to be herself
I was convinced my efforts were instrumental in her success and well-being. But I was wrong. My attempts to make her life better was making us both feel worse. She saw my actions and intervention as signs that I didn't believe she knew what was right for her.
By middle school, she pushed back. "Don't be that Mom," she said when I wanted to call to make sure she had extra time on a test. Resisting the temptation to dive in and save the day felt awful. Yet, when I did, Emily became her own advocate, something she'd need to be out in the real world when I couldn't micromanage her every move.
If I wanted Emily to feel like her peers, I needed to allow her to make mistakes and learn from them. If I wanted her to know joy, I needed to allow her to experience pain. Not the cancer kind, but the heartbreak of not being invited to a birthday party or getting cut from the soccer team.
Loosening my grip didn't come easy. I took comfort in seeing other mothers struggle to find a balance between "helping" their kids and allowing them to fail. The latter was always tough to watch in real time.
Yet every time Emily made a mistake or a bad decision, we both saw how resilient she could be and better prepared for the next hurdle of growing up. It turns out she learned much more about herself and the world by failing than she did standing on the sideline, watching me clear a path for her.
As mothers, we're trained to believe it's our job to do everything for our kids. And sure, they need help with meals, baths, and homework. But the nagging guilt that we're not doing enough can cause us to intervene where we shouldn't.
I trust her and she knows it
My best times with Emily have been when I'm listening and loving and not trying to fix anything. She'll pause a show we're watching or shoot me a text and ask, "Do you think I should get two summer jobs?"
After years of sensing my angst and worry, Emily now knows I trust her decision-making and sees it as an act of love. Letting go of fixing what didn't need to be fixed allowed our relationship to be stronger.
This month as I get ready to send her to college, I wish I could go back in time and pull aside my younger mom self in the driveway. I'd assure her the best way to mother Emily is to love and listen hard. She'd tell me it's not enough. But after years of lessons under the high-stakes pressure of mothering, I'd promise it's the only way to be a "good" mom.