Loving my daughter often feels like gazing into a mirror—her expressions, her mannerisms, those moments when she retreats into her own thoughts. Most days, I find myself thinking, “You’re the version of me destined to avoid therapy later.” But then I remember she’s navigating the treacherous waters of middle school, a phase where everyone could use a therapist for at least one or two traumatic experiences.
Take, for instance, my own middle school memory of that haunted house visit with friends, where I was so terrified that I ended up a bit damp. I had to endure the ride home clutching a plastic bag meant for candy—only to find it empty, adding to my embarrassment. Let’s just say, wet pants and no candy do not make for fond memories. Middle school can be downright ruthless.
Not long ago, my daughter came home in tears, sharing how cruel words had humiliated her in front of her peers. She spoke of the pain that those words inflicted, each comment cutting deep and leaving marks that linger. I listened to her articulate her feelings, holding her close as she struggled to express her hurt. When she finally said, “I just needed to get that off my chest,” I felt her release, a moment of vulnerability in the safety of home.
She is tender-hearted and intelligent. The world may try to convince her that she should develop thicker skin, but I hope she realizes that her sensitivity is not a flaw. If she is courageous, she will embrace her softness and learn to transform her pain into strength—strength rooted in compassion and faith, not in emotional callousness. As much as I wish I could shield her from all harm, I know I cannot.
For years, I’ve tried to prevent her from stumbling, but just recently, she was thrilled about her new kneepads for volleyball. We got them not just to brace for falls but to give her the confidence to embrace them. While I thought of the cushioning they provided, I also recognized that not every part of her would be protected. I can’t block out the hurtful comments of others, nor can I cushion every emotional blow.
What I can do is teach my daughter that her softness is a unique strength—something to be proud of, not to hide. I can share my stories of falling without a safety net and how those experiences shaped me. When she cried, I didn’t say, “Don’t cry.” Instead, I encouraged her with, “Let it out; cry as long as you need.”
I may not recall the moment I learned that being soft doesn’t equate to weakness, but I do know that once I realized the fear of numbness, I became unapologetically sensitive. Feeling deeply means truly living, both in joy and sorrow. If that’s not strength, then I don’t know what is.
It’s clear to me now that I need to shift my advice from “be careful” to “be brave.” Encourage her to take risks, to embrace her emotions, and to face her fears without hesitation. Life is too short to tiptoe around pain.
If you’re interested in exploring more on topics like this, check out this insightful article on sensitivity and strength in parenting here. And when it comes to preparing for parenthood, don’t forget to visit Make A Mom for quality at-home insemination kits. For further information on pregnancy, the CDC offers fantastic resources that you won’t want to miss.
In summary, my daughter doesn’t need to toughen up; she needs to embrace her sensitivity and learn that true strength lies in vulnerability and courage.
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