The Hardest Lesson in Parenting & Life: Learning to Let Go

What My Firstborn Taught Me About Trust, Control, and Growing Up (Together)

My firstborn, Photo taken by Laurence Vannicelli.

I’ve carried this story for years. Not because anyone asked me to tell it, but because it now shapes how I see growth, trust, and independence. It’s a reflection on parenting, leadership, and the quiet work of letting go. 

When my daughter was born, love and fear arrived together.

She came too fast, too strong, too determined. The delivery room shifted from calm to chaos. Needing oxygen, they took her before I could hold her. She was tiny, helplessly blinking under fluorescent lights, and I couldn’t reach her.

Soon, I couldn’t see her. I asked to hold her; they said no.  Instinctively, I asked my husband to pick her up and hold her.

After taking her to the NICU, my husband returned with a photo on our small digital camera. I still hadn't studied her face. Or held her. That tiny, blurry picture became my only lifeline to my firstborn for hours as I waited to hold her for the first time.

I’ve replayed that moment since. I regret not fighting harder to hold her. I knew it wasn’t right, but I went quiet. I let protocol outrank my instinct. 

When Love Becomes Control

Unfortunately, my parenting mistakes didn’t stop in the delivery room. My firstborn has carried the weight of my parental learning curve for the past twenty-two years.

When people say we relive our childhoods through our kids, they’re right. I didn’t mean to, but I did.

When I was five, I was building fires in the yard, unsupervised. By middle school, my grades had become proof of my parents’ success. I stopped loving school; anxiety took over. In high school, no one raised objections to the harmful choices I was making. By college, I was largely on my own. I watched other students get care packages, letters, and well-timed calls from their parents. I wondered what it felt like to be claimed as friends were lovingly picked up for winter break.

So when my daughter came along, I made a silent promise: she would never feel unseen. She would never wonder if someone was paying attention. I wanted to build the world I never had, one that was safe, stable, attentive.

But that promise, born from love, morphed into extremes that I now have to unlearn. When my daughter was little, I “helped” too much. I edited her book reports, straightened her science fair boards, and reworked what didn’t need fixing. I thought I was easing her stress, providing her with what I once needed. In trying to rewrite my story, I started writing over hers.

As she grew, my care tightened into control. I offered advice when she mostly needed quiet. When she made choices I didn’t understand, I demanded explanations she didn’t owe me. In college, my anxiety became surveillance: checking locations, calling too often, mistaking vigilance for care.

However kindly disguised, the message she heard was the same: I didn’t trust her. The reality? I didn't trust myself. I used my hypervigilance to calm my doubts. But it came at a cost to her. I began to see my worry reflected in her hesitation and overthinking. She was carrying my anxiety. It wasn’t hers to hold.

What My Firstborn Taught Me

A friend once said that my son was probably meant to be the oldest, but my daughter must have “cut in line.” My daughter knew, she said, that she was tough enough to handle my rookie parenting years. She mused that my daughter and I seemed like we were sisters in another life. 

As improbable as it sounds, it fits. When I overstep, she gives me that half-smile that says, “I know, Mom. You’re still learning.”

And I am.

The beautiful thing about parenting (and life) is that it’s not fixed. When you have an epiphany, you get to adjust. And as you do, trust that love (not fear) will deliver you safely to the other side. 

So now, as my daughter begins to stretch away, I remind myself that the scaffolding I’ve so meticulously built around her can come down. Her life is no longer mine to manage; it’s mine to witness. 

While I’ll probably always say, “Text me when you get there,” I’m learning to let go. I now understand that not constantly hearing from my adult children may not mean something’s wrong; in fact, it may mean everything’s right.

To my firstborn: Thank you for your patience and your grace. For letting me grow up alongside you. I’m no longer giving you directions. I’m proudly walking alongside you. But you are leading the way, as you came into the world ready to do.

From Parenting to Purpose

Bill Reynolds established the W.W. Reynolds Foundation to help kids live independent and purposeful lives. For years, I struggled to give those very things to my kids. Our mission reminds me daily what I wish I’d understood sooner: independence is built, not given. 

No single parenting choice or well-funded program can guarantee positive outcomes for kids. What we can do is offer steady, meaningful support along the way. When they’re ready, pull the scaffolding down. 

Want to Learn More?

Parental Scaffolding and Independence: Diercks, C. M., Lunkenheimer, E., & Brown, K. M. The Dynamics of Maternal Scaffolding Vary by Cumulative Risk Status. Journal of Family Psychology. Read the study

Experiential Learning and Risk: Safety Villages: Simulated Risk and Children’s Safety Behaviour. Read the research