I was at work one morning when I received a call from the nurse at my daughter’s school, informing me that she was unwell. “You need to come pick her up,” the nurse stated. While I had received similar calls before, this was the first time the child in question was old enough to vote.
“I can’t come,” I replied. “I’m on a tight deadline. Just let her take a cab.” Our home is just a six-minute ride from the school, while my commute from the office could take over an hour via subway.
“School policy,” the nurse insisted.
“You must be joking. She’s 18!” I protested. My daughter had been commuting independently since she was 10, and she was even capable of babysitting her younger brother for days while I traveled for work. I saw no reason to retrieve my adult child from the nurse’s office and many reasons against it.
I argued passionately. I mean, I really went to town. The principal was called in for mediation. I remember the saying about principals being our friends, but that day, my daughter’s illness seemed to eclipse that notion.
Due to significant subway delays from an unspecified “incident,” I ended up taking a $45.96 cab ride from Manhattan’s Flatiron District to her high school in the Bronx. As the fare climbed, clarity struck me: I was done.
I was fed up with how misguided this country is regarding the education and care of our children. How can a school that is so concerned about my 18-year-old’s well-being insist that I pick her up when she’s sick while simultaneously piling on eight hours of homework daily? If she gets four hours of sleep, she’s lucky. Since her freshman year, I’ve barely seen her—maybe 20 minutes a day at family dinners I insisted on preparing so we could spend time together. Meanwhile, her school—one of the so-called best public high schools—had literally made her and her friends sick with stress and anxiety.
When she was accepted into both that school and an art department at another public school, which was a model for the show Fame, I tried to persuade her to choose the latter. “How amazing would it be to do art for two hours every morning before academics?”
Her reply broke my heart: “But the academics aren’t as good, so I’ll never get into a good college.”
“I don’t care where you go to school!” I told my 14-year-old daughter. “I’d rather you have a less stressful adolescence. I believe the teachers are great; it’s all about them! Less homework doesn’t equal worse academics—it signifies an enlightened school.”
But she had already swallowed the societal Kool-Aid.
Four years ago, when my daughter began high school, a book about a tiger mother sparked widespread debate. Some were horrified by the extremes a parent would go to for piano practice, while others declared it a rallying cry: We’ve been too lenient with our children, they said; we need to adopt more Asian parenting methods.
My daughter’s school is populated by many children of first- and second-generation Asian immigrants, comprising 62 percent of the student body. Their parents have sacrificed greatly, investing in expensive tutors to prepare their children for standardized tests that helped them enter these competitive schools. They proudly display school logos on their bumper stickers and water bottles.
But what’s the ultimate goal?
Critics of the tiger mother pointed to her daughters’ acceptance into Harvard and Yale as evidence that her approach worked. Yet, having attended Harvard myself—when it was easier to get in—I remember the stressed-out overachievers who were often at their breaking points. Eating disorders were rampant, and many students grappled with their identities outside their parents’ expectations. My own family had envisioned a future in law for me, but I ended up in Afghanistan after graduation, a path they had never anticipated.
Moreover, holding an Ivy League degree can be a liability later in life. Sure, it might help in securing certain jobs, but in many fields, it can lead to being seen as overqualified or elitist. After a recent article of mine gained attention, I was accused in The New York Times of overusing Harvard as a reference—ironically, I had mentioned it just once.
To be clear, I truly wanted and needed that job at The Container Store, as I elaborated in my essay. I also recognize the challenges my degree presents. While I cherish my time at Harvard, I know I would have thrived just as well at another institution.
I vowed to myself that if I ever had children, I would empower them to shape their own destinies—both in terms of college and their paths to get there. It’s not merely the opposite of tiger parenting; rather, it’s a different mindset. I don’t have a catchy label for it, just my own personal guidelines rooted in common sense.
My teenagers have never had a curfew; they simply had to inform me via text or call around midnight about their whereabouts. Wine was never forbidden; they could have a small sip during family dinners on weekends. When my daughter, at 16, wanted to bring her boyfriend on vacation with us, I didn’t enforce outdated rules about propriety.
When my son lost interest in soccer—something I had pushed him to try—I allowed him to quit and focus on his true passions: acting and music. His guitar practice was his responsibility, not mine to enforce. Today, he excels at guitar, and I take no credit for it other than ensuring he had a teacher and reminding him to attend lessons.
When my daughter faced severe stage fright at 9 after a talent show, I let her stop music lessons altogether. “What’s the point of learning an instrument if I can’t perform?” she reasoned, and I completely agreed.
After my husband and I separated a year and a half ago, I began taking guitar lessons to cope, and to my surprise, she wanted to join me. “I’m more advanced than you,” she playfully remarked, but we decided to give it a shot. Three months later, she had immersed herself in learning and surpassed me.
Last week, her band played a gig at Webster Hall in Manhattan, and this week, she awaits news about college acceptances. She’s been anxious, fearing she might not get into any school. I reassured her, “I don’t care where you end up in college. You’ll find your place, or you won’t, and if needed, you can always take a year off to reapply. You’ll learn and grow wherever you land. I know this because I just witnessed a girl who once struggled with stage fright sing her heart out on stage.”
As she prepares to leave this fall for her next adventure, I’ll still have her younger brother, who is 8. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if, by the time he turns 18 and faces a similar situation at school, we as a society have evolved to let our children navigate their own journeys?
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Summary
The author reflects on the challenges of modern parenting in a high-pressure educational environment, contrasting the tiger mother approach with a more relaxed, empowering parenting style. She shares personal anecdotes about her children’s experiences, emphasizing the importance of allowing them to forge their own paths and make their own choices, particularly in regard to education and personal interests.