Loving my daughter sometimes feels like gazing into a mirror. Her expressions, her quirks, even those moments when she retreats into her own thoughts remind me so much of myself. Often, I think, “You’re the part of me that won’t need therapy later on.” But then I remember, she’s in middle school, a time when everyone could use a little therapy to cope with the trials of adolescence.
Take, for instance, that time I visited a haunted house with friends and ended up having a minor accident from sheer fright. It was mortifying, and I still carry that memory. Riding home with a wet pair of pants in a plastic bag intended for candy? Not my finest moment. Middle school can be downright cruel.
A few months back, my daughter came home in tears, sharing a painful experience where hurtful words and mocking looks from her peers made her feel humiliated. She articulated her feelings with such intensity, and I held her close as she struggled to express herself. When she finished, she said, “I just needed to tell you that. I just needed to let it out.” And she did, in the comfort of her home, where I hoped to ease her emotional ache.
She is gentle and empathetic, and she’s incredibly bright. The world may push her to toughen up, but I want her to understand that her sensitivity is a unique strength. If she’s brave enough, she can learn to transform her hurt into resilience through faith rather than becoming hardened by it. I can’t shield her from all pain, though I wish I could.
In fact, just a few weeks ago, she was thrilled about her new kneepads for volleyball. We bought them not just as a precaution but to give her the confidence to fall, knowing she has some cushion to soften the impact. Yet, while I cradled her, I realized those kneepads wouldn’t protect her from the emotional tumbles of life. I can’t guard her from hurtful comments or ease her falls, but I can teach her that being soft is a form of strength she should embrace.
I didn’t tell her to stop crying; instead, I said, “Cry as long as you need to.” I learned long ago that sensitivity isn’t weakness. Numbing myself out of fear only made me realize how valuable it is to feel deeply, whether in joy or sorrow. If it weren’t for my own falls, I wouldn’t appreciate the joy of standing tall.
I need to shift my focus from telling her to “be careful” to encouraging her to “be courageous.” To embrace vulnerability, to cry when she needs to, and to experience life fully—even when it comes with pain. It’s about living bravely rather than avoiding discomfort.
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In summary, my sensitive daughter doesn’t need to toughen up; she needs to learn that her softness is a strength. By embracing her emotions and experiences, she can grow into a more resilient person without losing her delicate nature.