Entering school is a significant milestone in a child’s life. There’s something undeniably mature about sending your child off to public school: entrusting them to unfamiliar adults, encouraging them to forge friendships, and teaching them to sit quietly. You prepare by buying a lunchbox, a backpack, fresh shoes, and even socks that aren’t worn out. You trade in those old, faded jeans for new ones, get their hair styled nicely, and talk about rules and expectations. And then you have to let go.
In a month, Mia, my fourth child out of five, will turn five years old. Five whole years filled with birthday celebrations, beach trips, cozy family moments, scraped knees, and giggles. She has mastered writing her name, swimming, and riding a bike. There have been countless milestones documented in my mind, even if I never got around to making her baby book (after all, she’s my fourth).
We’re lucky; the public school is just a short stroll from our home. The staff is friendly, and the campus is well-maintained. Although the school district isn’t particularly stellar — it’s actually quite lacking — we recognize that it offers a safe environment, which is a privilege not everyone has. Homeschooling didn’t seem like the right fit for us, so we opted to send her to kindergarten.
Today was orientation day, a moment we had been preparing for over the past few weeks. We dressed Mia in a cute outfit, tied her new sneakers, and braided her hair. Then we walked to the school, eager yet anxious.
I anticipated some shyness from Mia. She’s always taken her time warming up to new people, and while we’ve introduced her to various group settings — gymnastics, art classes, and more — her anxiety never fully dissipated.
When it was time for us (her dad, her brother Jake, and I) to leave her with her new classmates, the reality hit. Mia was not ready to stay. I mean, there was zero chance I could leave her in that room. We were faced with the option of essentially forcing her into the classroom while she cried or taking her along to the parents’ session, hoping that the first day would go smoother.
School starts next week, and we can’t even walk her to her classroom. We can’t volunteer for weeks. With nearly 500 other kids around, how could we expect her to remain calm?
In the midst of the chaos and tears, we decided that one of us would stay to help ease her into the classroom. There was some back-and-forth about who would take on that role, and I ended up staying behind while Jake and Mia’s dad left.
I gently encouraged Mia to step toward the classroom, but she resisted. Every time I tried to loosen her grip from my leg, she only clung tighter. With each attempt, she sank lower, first gripping my thigh, then my calf, and finally, my ankle. I tried to persuade her, enlisting the teacher for help, but all I got was more tears.
I offered various promises: “We’ll go swimming afterward! We can play afterward! You’ll have fun!” but nothing worked. We stood there for what felt like an eternity — though it was merely 15 minutes — her tears flowing and mine threatening to spill.
My heart shattered for her. I could feel her overwhelming fear. She just wanted the comfort of home. I squatted down and quietly asked, “Mia, do you want to go home?” With a tiny nod, she responded, “Yes.” So, we left.
A younger version of me, with less experience as a parent, might have walked away. I would have worried about how it would look to the administrators: Would they think I didn’t value education? That I was allowing my kids to get away with everything? That I was a soft touch?
Why did I once think like that? Because our society often equates success with sacrifice and perseverance through discomfort. Whether it’s losing weight at the expense of mental health or staying in a job you hate, we often glorify suffering over well-being.
Today, when the world suggested I should leave Mia crying, I chose to honor her feelings instead.
What does leaving a child in distress truly teach them? Does it send the message that they should endure discomfort for the sake of completion? Or does it suggest that success comes through suffering? Where do we draw the line between achievement and unhappiness? I don’t see pain or sadness as victories in parenting. They don’t teach lessons; rather, they convey abandonment in times of need.
Mia has moved on from her first day of school, showing no signs of regret or sorrow about missing it. She simply didn’t want to go. I respect that. Our family, along with our nanny and friends, will continue with our homeschool approach for now, giving Mia the space she needs to grow and adapt.
She may eventually warm to the idea of school, or she may not. Either way, we will be there for her, providing support when she needs it.
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, a mother shares her decision not to force her anxious daughter, Mia, to attend kindergarten orientation, highlighting the importance of honoring a child’s feelings. Instead of succumbing to societal pressures to demonstrate adherence to educational norms, she prioritizes her child’s emotional well-being. By opting out of forcing Mia into a distressing situation, she aims to foster a secure environment for her daughter, emphasizing that success shouldn’t come at the cost of happiness.