“Sometimes our kids don’t need us to save them from struggle. They need us to believe they can survive it.” (Esther Joy Goetz)
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I stood in my kitchen one afternoon, staring at my phone after transferring money into my college son’s bank account yet again.
Nothing catastrophic. He hadn’t gambled away his future or bought a jet ski on Facebook Marketplace. He had simply overspent, forgotten what was pending, and ended up overdrawn for what felt like the seventeenth time that year.
And there I was, swooping in like the Bank of Mom, trying to save him from the consequences before the consequences could fully consequence.
Honestly, I became very skilled at this particular form of motherhood gymnastics. A little transfer here. A little explanation there. A little “he’s really trying” speech to teachers or coaches or whoever happened to be frustrated with him that week.
At the time, it all felt incredibly loving. Supportive, even.
And to be fair, some of it probably was.
That’s the tricky thing about parenting older kids, especially the ones who struggle more than the others. The line between support and enabling is blurrier than I ever imagined it would be.
Because when your child has ADHD, or mental health issues, or struggles with executive functioning, or just seems constitutionally designed to learn every single life lesson the hardest possible way, your nervous system starts living on high alert.
You don’t just watch them move through the world. You brace alongside them. You anticipate the missed deadline before it happens, the forgotten bill, the impulsive decision, the awkward conversation with the boss. And if you’re not careful, you slowly begin confusing love with interception.
I didn’t notice how often I was stepping in until one day my son casually said, “I’m just one of those people who has to learn the hard way.”
And I remember laughing a little because…same.
Apparently I also have to learn the hard way. Especially when it comes to motherhood.
Because deep down, underneath all my “help,” there was often fear. Not fear that he would become a bad person. Never that. Fear that he wouldn’t be okay. Fear that life would be harder for him than for other people. Fear that one mistake would somehow snowball into ruin because I have a very dramatic maternal imagination.
And so I over-helped.
Not usually in giant obvious ways. In quiet little ways that accumulated over time. I softened consequences. I translated him to other people. I occasionally treated him like he was more fragile than he actually was.
Which is hard to admit because mothers aren’t supposed to say things like that out loud. We’re supposed to either sacrifice endlessly or “set boundaries” with the emotional confidence of a wellness podcast host.
Meanwhile, most of us are just standing in Costco wondering whether buying our twenty-four-year-old toilet paper counts as support or psychological sabotage.
And honestly? I still don’t fully know sometimes.
This hasn’t been some beautiful transformation where I suddenly mastered detachment and now spend my days peacefully whispering, “He must walk his own path.”
Absolutely not.
Sometimes I do great. Sometimes I’m one Venmo transaction away from a full emotional relapse.
But I have changed.
These days, I try very hard not to involve myself in his financial decisions. I would never call his boss (obviously). I don’t rush in to explain him anymore when life gets uncomfortable or messy or unfair.
Not because I stopped caring, but because I’m finally beginning to understand that rescuing and loving are not always the same thing. In fact, sometimes they are complete opposites.
Sometimes rescuing is really about our own inability to tolerate watching our children struggle. Real support, I think, leaves room for discomfort. Room for consequences. Room for growth. Room for them to discover that they can survive hard things without us constantly cushioning the landing.
And I think our kids can feel the difference.
What’s been surprising is that as I’ve stepped back a little, I’ve watched him step forward a little. Not perfectly or steadily or in one inspiring movie montage where uplifting music suddenly starts playing in the background. But genuinely.
He solves more than he used to. He recovers more than he used to. He owns things more than he used to.
And maybe part of becoming an adult is finally getting the chance to discover, “Oh. I can actually do hard things.”
Even while your mother is twitching quietly in the background trying not to interfere.
The irony is that recently I quietly scraped together some money to help him plan a proposal to his girlfriend. (YES, he’s asking her to marry him in just a few short days and YES, she already has been dress shopping because she kind of knew!!!) And somehow that felt entirely different to me. Not rescuing. Not removing consequences. Not preventing growth. Just love. Celebration. Support.
Which makes me realize maybe the question isn’t simply, “Do I help or not help?”
Maybe the better question is this:
Is what I’m doing helping my child become more capable of carrying their own life?
Or more dependent on me carrying it for them?
Whew.
There’s probably a lifetime of motherhood wrapped up in that question alone.
From my sometimes enabling, sometimes supporting heart to yours,
Esther
Moms Helping Moms: When is it hardest for you NOT to help? When is it easiest? Is there a particular kid who you struggle not to help? Would love for you to share with our community.
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