Updated: May 14, 2016
Originally Published: May 14, 2016
Loving my daughter feels like gazing into a mirror—her expressions, her gestures, and those moments when she retreats into her thoughts. Often, I see the reflection of myself in her, thinking, “You are the version of me that won’t need therapy later.” But then I remember, she’s navigating the turbulent waters of middle school, and who hasn’t needed a bit of therapy after enduring some middle school drama?
I recall a particularly embarrassing incident from my own middle school days when I visited a haunted house with friends. The fright was so intense that I almost lost control—let’s just say my little plastic bag meant for candy had a much different use that night. It was a pretty rough ride home with wet pants and no candy, and even now, I can’t quite shake off the memory. Middle school can be merciless.
A few months ago, my daughter came to me in tears, recounting hurtful words that had been hurled at her during class, leaving her feeling exposed in front of her peers. Each word and judgment pierced her deeply, leaving marks that could linger long into adulthood. I listened as she bravely articulated her feelings, and when she was finally done, she said, “I just needed to let that out.” In the safety of our home, she released her pent-up emotions while I held her close, wishing I could ease her pain.
She is gentle, sensitive, and intelligent. The world may pressure her to develop thicker skin, but if she is courageous, she will learn to embrace her sensitivity as a strength rather than a weakness. It’s a lesson she’ll have to discover on her own, and as much as I wish to shield her from hurt, I know I cannot.
Recently, she was ecstatic about her new knee pads for volleyball—precisely the kind of support I thought would cushion her falls. But while these pads are great for physical falls, I realized I can’t protect her from emotional blows. I can’t prevent her from hearing unkind words or soften the impact of life’s challenges.
What I can do is demonstrate that being sensitive is a form of strength. I can share my own experiences of falling without any safety net, showing her that resilience comes from getting back up. I didn’t tell her to stop crying; instead, I encouraged her to cry as long as she needed.
I can’t pinpoint the moment I learned that softness isn’t synonymous with weakness, but I do know this: embracing my feelings has made me more alive and aware, whether in joy or pain. If falling taught me anything, it’s how sweet it feels to rise again.
I’ve realized it’s time to shift my mantra from “be careful” to “be brave.” She should have the courage to stumble, to cry when she needs to, and to feel deeply rather than tiptoe around potential pain.
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In summary, as my daughter navigates her sensitive nature in a world that often values toughness, I will continue to remind her that vulnerability carries its own strength and that it’s okay to embrace her feelings fully.