Holding The Line, Letting Them Grow

Lessons from Daycare Drop-off

Last week, I found myself deep in the emotional turbulence of transition—one of the hardest parts of parenting. I have spent years helping parents navigate these moments, guiding them through the uncertainty and emotional strain that comes with watching their child step into something new and unknown. And yet, here I am, struggling with it myself.

My 17-month-old started daycare, and every morning since has been an exercise in patience, restraint, and the quiet war between my emotions and what I know to be true. She cries when I hand her off. She looks up at me with that look that mingles surprise and sadness that feels like a punch in the gut, reaching for me. And then I leave, because I know I have to. And then I check the daycare app obsessively, scanning for pictures, searching for any sign that she’s okay. I remind myself she is safe, she is cared for, she is learning. But the not-knowing gnaws at me.

My older daughter, who is now four, has always been an easy drop-off. All smiles and waves as she trots off to play, radiating confidence. Teachers and parents alike comment on how great and easy she is. And now, as I watch Samantha struggle, I find myself tangled in feelings I didn’t expect. Am I doing something wrong? Is she more sensitive? Is this the wrong school? These surface questions swirl in my mind, offering me an easy escape from the deeper, harder one: How do I love Samantha just as she is, without personalizing her tears as proof that I am failing her?

I know what’s happening here, both in her and in me. She is building new neural pathways, stretching into the discomfort of something unfamiliar, and learning that she can survive hard things. I am, too.

And as I walk through this, I keep thinking of the parents I work with, the ones navigating the emotional landscapes of their adolescents. I have spent years helping parents hold the line, reassuring them that their child’s frustration, sadness, or struggle doesn’t necessarily mean they are doing something wrong. And yet, here I am, feeling the exact same pull—to fix, to rescue, to undo the thing that is making my child cry.

This is the hardest part of parenting: patience in the face of perceived distress. The ability to sit in the discomfort of not knowing, of not fixing, of allowing growth to happen even when it doesn’t look gentle or easy.

Adolescents, like toddlers, are in a season of profound change. They are separating, differentiating, stretching beyond the known and safe. And parents, in both stages, are asked to hold steady while their child struggles through it. To trust that just because they are unhappy in a moment doesn’t mean they are damaged or lost or failing. It just means they are growing. And so are you.

I have always had deep empathy for the parents I work with, but having my own kids has made that awareness even sharper. I know what it is to feel that ache in my chest, to battle the instinct to fix, to carry the weight of uncertainty and still choose to let go. Now I know what it means to trust in my child’s resilience even when every fiber of me wants to intervene. I know what it is to hold back tears in the car after drop-off because the older kiddo is there, to question whether I’m doing the right thing, to sit in the discomfort of waiting for proof that my child is okay.

I also know that this is the work. To trust the process, to believe in the resilience of our children, and to remind ourselves, in those hardest moments, that growth is never painless—but it is necessary.

To all the parents out there sitting in the unknown, resisting the urge to swoop in and save, I see you. I am you. And we are doing the work together.