Picture this: I’m caught in a washing machine of waves, disoriented and gasping as saltwater rushes up my nose. When I finally emerge, I can’t see my son anywhere. Panic grips me until I spot his bright blue swim shirt bobbing above the water, like some sort of aquatic superhero. Just as I reach for him, he surfaces, laughing as he tumbles toward the shore. My heart is racing as I pull him close, asking, “Are you okay? That must have been terrifying!”
His response? A beaming smile. “That was awesome!”
I was a bit rattled, trying to keep him steady through the next wave, but he wriggled free, clearly offended by my protective instincts. “Don’t hold me, Mom!” he exclaimed. And when I’d rush after him in concern, he’d roll his eyes and declare, “I’m fine!” before darting off to find his dad. It dawned on me that he actually enjoyed being tossed about by the waves; for him, that brief moment of uncertainty was exhilarating.
Later that evening, my husband pulled out the video he’d recorded of our beach day. I cringed as I noticed how I clung to my son during the waves, my face twisted in anxiety. I had hoped this was just a fleeting moment of overzealous motherhood, but then a montage of memories flooded my mind: watching him play on the front lawn near the street, climbing to dizzying heights on his treehouse, speeding down the sidewalk on his scooter, and balancing precariously on cliffs and seawalls.
How did I become this anxious parent? I was a latchkey kid, raised with minimal oversight, navigating public transport in middle school and traveling through Europe solo in my twenties. Yet here I was, fretting over my son playing in the surf or climbing too high.
My husband, on the other hand, approaches parenting with a bit of a thrill-seeking attitude. He’s the one who encourages our son to dive to the bottom of the pool, while I stand on the sidelines imagining the worst-case scenario of performing CPR on a blue-faced child. He tells our son to “go for it” when I’m hesitant and say, “I’m not so sure.”
I often think of my grandmother, who lived through a harrowing time when my uncle was injured by shrapnel during the 1947 conflict over Israel. This experience left her with an overwhelming fear of loss, prompting her to ask for another child as a sort of “backup.” While I’m not living in such turbulent times, the thought of being a mom to only one child fills me with an existential dread about what I would do if the unthinkable happened. Maybe my instinct to cling comes from something deep within my genetic makeup.
What I’ve learned is that our beach vacation was a lesson in letting go—letting go of my usual hustle to complete work, shedding the stress of deadlines looming ahead, releasing my need for strict routines, and most importantly, easing my grip on trying to shield my son from every possible danger.
The truth is, overprotection doesn’t create a safer child; it fosters resentment for a parent who stifles the exploration of their world. Sure, there might be some bumps, bruises, and moments of panic, but by stepping back, I’m nurturing a more resilient child who understands his own limits. He’ll discover that even when he feels out of control, with just a little push, he can find his way back to safety. And while I won’t hold him too tightly, I’ll remain close by, ready to catch him if necessary.
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In summary, while parenting can often feel overwhelming, especially for those of us who tend to be a bit more anxious, it’s essential to find a balance between protection and allowing our children the freedom to explore. Letting go doesn’t mean losing control; it means trusting our kids to find their way while we stay close, ready to support them if needed.