Echos of Insight

Trusting the Journey of Growth

My son sent me a text one afternoon, carrying both hesitation and relief.
“I wanted to tell you this when I was upstairs, but I wanted to share it with you privately, so I’m texting you about this…”

He went on to describe how a classmate had said the N-word at lunch. Twice.
So, in an act of self-imposed justice, he took the classmate’s backpack.
He kept it through the next class, passing it between friends when a teacher started asking questions.
Eventually, the backpack made its way back, and no one got caught.

But that wasn’t the part that seemed to weigh on him.
It was the fact that he hadn’t told me.

“This felt like a burden not to tell you.”
That part stuck with me.

Trusting the Process, Not Controlling the Outcome

I often remind my son that I trust his instincts—because I do.
I trust him to choose the next best step, no matter the situation.
And when he missteps, I trust in his ability to catch himself and make his next choice one that better suits him.

That trust isn’t just a passive belief; it’s an active practice.

Instead of asking my kids the usual “How was your day?”, I make a point of occasionally asking:
“What did you fail at today?”

The discussions that come from that question are priceless.
It teaches them that failure isn’t an endpoint—it’s a sign of progress.
It’s proof that they are stretching, growing, becoming.

And when you learn to fail forward, you stop fearing missteps.
You stop believing that getting something wrong means you are wrong.

So yes, I actively chose not to launch into a lecture or call the school.
But it was more than just a parenting decision—it was a reflection of a much deeper truth.

A Moment of Trust

So when my son confided in me about what happened, I listened.
He didn’t have to tell me.
There were no lingering consequences, no loose ends to tie up.
But something in him needed to be heard.

That, to me, was the real moment of growth.

I could have launched into a lecture.
I could have called the school.
I could have imposed my lessons onto his experience.
But I didn’t.

Instead, I led with appreciation.
“Thank you for telling me.”

And then, I told him the truth:
“Honestly? I probably would’ve done the same thing at your age.”

A few seconds later, his text popped up:
“w”

A single letter—short for “W, Mom”—his highest honor.
The equivalent of an A+.

Because in that moment, he knew: I wasn’t there to scold or correct.
I was there to listen.

Every Lesson Belongs to Its Student

Everyone is on their own journey.
The lessons meant for each of us are unique to us.

I’ve learned not to impose the importance of my lessons onto my children but to instead remain open to helping them navigate the ones that naturally come to them.

By third grade, kids begin integrating everything they’ve been taught so far.
Fourth grade expands their understanding further, introducing lessons on personal boundaries and safety.
By fifth grade, they’ve started forming their own social circles, spending more time with friends, absorbing influences—both good and bad.

I know how influence works at that age.
It isn’t just about what adults say—it’s about who they see, who they spend time with, who they mirror.

That’s why I don’t just aim to be a role model for my own kids, but for their friends, too.

Because in their world, peer influence and adult influence don’t live in separate silos—they coexist, constantly shaping how they see themselves.

Breaking the Cycle: The Weight of Trust

When I was my son’s age, I took someone’s jacket.

Trust is not simply granted; it is a living exchange, reflected in action.

My mother always knew when I was lying.
My father, in his unwavering belief in what was best for our family, often overlooked what was best for me.

“I see you. I believe in you. And I trust that you will find your way.”

Trust is not about control—it is about believing in what exists even when you are not holding it in place.

And so, I do not simply declare trust; I enact it.
I show it by stepping back, by making space, by allowing others to exist beyond the limits of my own fears.

When “Doing What’s Right” Becomes a Cage

The moral dilemma in front of me—the one that might have made other parents immediately correct, punish, or call the school—wasn’t lost on me.

But I’ve learned to let go of the rigid adult fixation on always doing what’s right.

What happens when we are so focused on “doing the right thing” that we leave no room for growth?

Because when you’re obsessed with being right, when you’re afraid of judgment, you leave no room for error.
And without error, there is no growth.

Instead of allowing ourselves to learn from the lessons meant for us, we buckle under pressure.
We shame ourselves for not being better, doing better.

We fall into plateaus disguised as rock bottom and wonder why we feel stuck.

We praise those we see as morally superior and, in doing so, unconsciously try to become more like them—further distancing ourselves from who we are actually meant to be.

Yes, the lesson here is that retaliation doesn’t serve justice.
That vengeance doesn’t create change.

My son is learning the weight of his choices, and I am here to guide him—not to punish, but to help him understand.

So no, I didn’t scold him for taking the backpack.

Instead, I acknowledged his instinct.
He knew what the other student said was unacceptable.

Was it the best way to handle it? Maybe not.
But I trust that, in time, he will recognize that himself.

He doesn’t need my punishment.
He needs my guidance.

Because he is still shaping his judgment, and my role is to offer perspective—not to dictate his every move.

Because that’s how real learning happens.

Coaching, Not Controlling

Parenting isn’t about preventing mistakes—it’s about equipping our kids with the tools to understand them.

I don’t want my children to be obedient.
I want them to be discerning.

I want them to know that I am not their judge, jury, or executioner.

I am their leader until they turn 18.
After that, it is up to them to decide if I have earned a place in their life as a great role model.

In many ways, I am still a student myself.

Every day, I am learning.
Every day, I am failing forward.
Some days, I earn an A+.

And my children?
They are my greatest teachers.

Now, What About You?

When was the last time you let someone—your child, a friend, yourself—figure out a lesson without stepping in?

Have you ever caught yourself imposing your own lessons instead of allowing someone to grow into theirs?

We all want to do what’s right.
But maybe the real question is:

Do we trust the people we love enough to let them learn on their own?