Recently, my 22-year-old son called to tell me about a problem at work. A serious one. The kind of grown-up, messy, unfair situation that makes your gut clench—especially when it’s happening to your kid.
He Took A Different Path—And It Shook Me:
My kid didn’t go the traditional four-year college route. He decided it wasn’t for him, which was hard for me to accept. I was raised in a home where education was everything—my dad drilled it into me as the only path forward. So when my son opted out, it was painful. Scary. But he did it with intention. And he’s figured out a path that fits. He’s studying gemology, chasing his passion for rocks, and working toward becoming a certified diamond expert through GIA. He spends hours studying stone structures, memorizing cuts, and handling gems with the kind of care that tells me—he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.
The Hardest Part Of Parenting–Letting Your Adult Child Struggle:
But this isn’t about his career choice. This is about the part of parenting no one prepares you for: watching your kid lose another layer of innocence.
It starts early—learning the truth about Santa, the Tooth Fairy, all of that. Then comes school, bullying, not fitting in, realizing the world isn’t always fair. The hits keep coming. His first real heartbreak gutted him—and me. And now this situation at work. A conflict with his employer that pulled the rug out from under him.
I Wanted to Fix It—But Didn’t:
I wanted to fix it. I wanted to storm into his workplace, call out the person who crossed the line, and demand accountability. But I didn’t.
Instead, I listened. We talked it through. I helped him connect with other trusted adults for advice, then stepped back and let him take the lead.
He handled it.
I held back more than I wanted to. Offered fewer solutions than I had. And waited—longer than was comfortable—to see how he’d respond.
It was his turn.
This Still Wrecks Me:
And yet—I unraveled. Quietly, privately, and with enough stress to remind me that even though the problem wasn’t mine, it still hit hard. Because this is what no one talks about: watching your adult child get hurt is brutal. Not because they can’t handle it—but because you can’t protect them anymore. And you’re not supposed to.
My instinct is to shield him. But my job now is to step back and let him build the skills to deal with it himself. Resilience. Boundaries. Confidence. Those are his tools now. Not me charging in with solutions. It’s hard. He’s my only. And in my eyes, he’s a masterpiece. Watching him get chipped away at by life feels personal—even though it’s not. It’s like seeing fingerprints smudge a painting you worked years to perfect. But it’s not mine to protect anymore. It’s his to live in.
Letting Him Handle It, His Way:
But here’s the truth: he’s not fragile. He doesn’t crack. He took the situation, figured out how to respond, and handled it better than I might have at his age. That’s success.
I’m proud of him. And I’m learning, slowly, to grieve the losses—of innocence, of idealism—without turning them into emergencies. Maybe I’ll even stop letting it wreck me for days. Maybe. My GI sure could use a break!
There are more of these moments ahead. And the best thing I can do is stay steady. Listen. Remind him he’s got what it takes. He doesn’t need me to fix it. He just needs to know I believe he can.
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