One of the most humbling shocks of parenting is realizing your kids are wildly different humans. Which, duh, makes total fucking sense… and yet somehow still blindsides you.
When they were little, I thought of my three as “The Boys.” One strategy fits all. If something worked on one, it should logically work on the other two. I assumed those differences would mellow out by 18, that adulthood would smooth the edges and align them into some cohesive outcome.
Wrong. Hilariously, epically wrong.
They are even more different as young men - emotionally, energetically, and especially in how they want (or don’t want) me involved in their lives.
One kid is basically me with better sneakers. He tolerates my lists, my nudges, my obsessive reminders. Sometimes he even thanks me. It feels familiar, like parenting in a language I’m fluent in.
Another one? Look, I love him (all of them) deeply, but my mom “superpowers” don’t always land the same way with him. I’ll send a thoughtful message with a light splash of unsolicited advice and get back “ok.” Or sometimes nothing at all. Once, after I (gently, I swear) pressed him about a school decision, he took a little space from me for a week. I stared at my phone more than I’d like to admit.
That quiet wasn’t rejection. It was a boundary. And it made me pause. My bigs are stepping into their own lives while I was still holding onto an older version of them… the ones who needed more from me than they actually do now.
And then there’s the youngest: suddenly taller than me, calling me “bruh,” launching himself through the house like gravity is optional. Basically every teenage-boy reel on Instagram… living in my kitchen.
Parenting (young and emerging) adults flips everything. The old instincts (hover, manage, fix) are suddenly the wrong ones. My reminders are ignored. My opinions are tolerated on a good day. My role is being rewritten in real time, and I don’t always get a draft copy.
When Their Futures Don’t Match the Ones You Imagined
Another emotional curveball is watching them build futures that don’t quite resemble the ones you once pictured. Maybe you imagined college, a straight line, something steady and predictable. Their version? Gap years. Creative paths. Nontraditional routes.
As for me, my boys are charting their own courses, and none of them look anything like mine.
As for my two bigs, one is studying fashion. He’s found his thing, and he’s good at it. When people say, “He’s lucky you let him do that,” I have to laugh a little. Let him? It was never mine to decide. My role is simply to cheer him on… and yes, occasionally write the checks.
Another is finding his way at his own pace. And that pace sometimes stretches me. I see so much in him and have to remind myself not to project my urgency onto his process. Watching him move through uncertainty isn’t difficult because he’s failing; it’s difficult because I’m learning that my definition of progress isn’t the only one that counts. Maybe progress is quieter than I expected. Maybe it’s simply continuing to try.
And of course there are moments when the familiar parental voice creeps in… the one that wonders if we should have done something differently, pushed a little more here or worried a little less there. I asked my mom once if she ever felt that tension between what she hoped we’d become and who we actually turned out to be. She laughed gently and said, “Of course.” Then she reminded me that what matters most is that they grow into good people.
Their paths aren’t mine. And if I keep gripping the stories I once wrote for them, I’ll miss the lives they’re actually living. I don’t want to be so focused on imaginary outcomes that I overlook the real wins unfolding right in front of me.
At the end of the day, I don’t want to be the mom who made them feel like they had to earn my pride. I want to be the one who showed up for who they are - fully, fiercely, and without hesitation.
Motherhood, Mafia-Style
A little confession time: when my kids are hurt, I don’t instinctively reach for calm or reason (though I promise I do get there, eventually). I go straight to vengeance. Mafia-style. If you come for my kid, we have a problem. I’ve clearly never acted on it (thank you, self-control and a strong desire to avoid prison) but the instinct is bone-deep.
It’s probably why my middle son once told me I remind him of Beth Dutton. After I finished a full season and tallied her felony count, I gently suggested we might need therapy.
This is also why my kids send me the same Instagram reel on repeat.
It’s some over-the-top, feral, badass mom moment where a woman absolutely loses her mind defending her child. Every time they tag it: “This is you.”
They’re not wrong.
And yet, I have a softer side.
My Love Language? Mild Panic and Asking If You’ve Eaten
No matter how old they get or how independent they become, if I hear even the slightest shift in their voice, I default to the same question I’ve asked since they could chew: “Did you eat?”
It doesn’t matter if they’re at work, on vacation, or literally mid-chew. I need to know they’re not starving or spiraling. Their answers range from “Yeah” to “Mom, I’m literally eating,” but I still press. Because “Did you eat?” has never really meant food. It means: Are you okay? Are you taking care of yourself? Do you know someone is still watching out for you?
Maybe one day I’ll stop asking.
But not today.
When the Kid You Raised Shows Up for the Woman You’ve Become
During that quiet week with one of them, the other big showed up for me in a way I’ll never forget. He sat with me while I turned the conversation over in my head… replaying it, second-guessing myself, reaching for explanations that probably weren’t there.
Gently, he reminded me that the situation wasn’t as simple as I was making it. That his brother wasn’t angry or unloving… just overwhelmed. He helped me see that sometimes being the “safe one” means you absorb the unfiltered frustration, not because you deserve it, but because they trust you enough to let it out.
He didn’t try to fix anything or take sides. He just stayed steady. And in that moment, I realized something I hadn’t expected: the kid I raised was now capable of showing up for the woman I’ve become.
Still Paying. Still Praying. Still Wishing They’d Answer My Damn Texts.
Parenting adult children isn’t empty-nest tips and cute checklists. It’s bite marks and receipts. It’s paying the phone bill and still getting sent to voicemail. It’s watching them stumble, soar, ghost you, love you, and drive you slightly insane (sometimes all before noon).
It’s biting your tongue until it’s metaphorically bloody, resisting the urge to fix, and loving them through fires you’re not allowed to put out.
You don’t stop being a mom when they hit adulthood. You just enter the boss-level phase. You’re still the anchor, still the fridge full of their favorites, still the soft place to land. You’re also learning, sometimes painfully, when to step in and when to step the fuck back.
Parenting doesn’t end. It sharpens. Turns out raising adults requires as much heart and late-night crying as the toddler years… just fewer Goldfish crackers.
Tell me how you’re navigating this stage. What’s working? What’s not? What still wrecks you a little?
We’re still their moms. We’re still learning. And we’re not going anywhere.
P.S. I’m hosting another Goodreads giveaway for the #1 bestseller Real Girls Guide to Midlife. This time, 20 paperback copies are up for grabs for women who are tired of pretending they’re fine and ready for the real conversation.
Enter now and share with a friend here.
Giveaway runs March 16–26!
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We’ve earned every wrinkle. Might as well make more laugh lines together.
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