Parenting the Child You Can’t Figure Out (Even When You’re Supposed to Know Better)

A quiet reflection on self-doubt, invisible exhaustion, and learning to keep showing up anyway.

If we were sitting across from each other at a coffee shop right now — like mugs in our hands, maybe one of us already on refill — I think this is the part where I’d finally say it out loud.

I don’t think my friends know how exhausting this season is. How sad I am. How tired I am. How much joy I don’t have. How isolating it feels. How much help we don’t have. How judgement and self doubt burns a hole through me. I can crack a joke about it, but that just masks my despair.

They wouldn’t know, not because they don’t care.
Not because they wouldn’t listen.

But because we hide it really well.

On the outside, everything looks fine. Normal. Busy. Sports schedules. Work meetings. Life moving forward like it’s supposed to.

And inside our house?

It feels like I’m trying to solve the most complicated puzzle I’ve ever been handed — and none of the pieces come with an instruction manual.

Here’s the part that messes with my head the most.

I talk publicly about leadership. Education. Child development. Belonging. Identity. I help other people think through hard systems and complex humans. People cry in my arms telling me how much I have helped them. That I was put in their path at just the right time to say just the right things. They feel seen, heard and appreciated, by me, often times a complete stranger.

And yet… I can’t always figure out my own kid.

On the surface, he looks like every other teenage boy. Tall. Broad shoulders. That same alpaca like haircut every boy seems to have right now. He blends in easily.

But inside, he feels different.

Like a painted rainbow unicorn standing in a sea of dark-haired boys.

So different sometimes that the best compliment I can offer is, “You look just like everyone else.”

Because belonging feels that fragile.

Last spring, we took him to club lacrosse, just to try— He was growing. Building confidence. Loving the game. Counting down the days until the next practice.

We were proud. Like that deep, quiet pride parents feel when something finally clicks. So many games I watched with tear filled eyes because something ignited in him that was truly his.

And then one day — it was just gone.

No slow transition.
No big explanation.
Just gone. Suddenly going to practice and hiding, possibly not going into the gym at all. Hating it. Not the sport, but what I suspect would be social anxiety that has build things up bigger than they actually are.

He has ADHD. He’s also fourteen. And I’m navigating perimenopause, which means my own hormones are doing cartwheels without warning.

It’s a perfect storm.

I work really hard to keep my emotions steady, to stay calm, to say the right things — and it leaves me absolutely drained.

Last night there was no inspirational parenting speech. No beautifully regulated moment. There was a pep talk from a phone in the car.

I told him to go back to practice. To finish what he started. He could do it. I knew he could. Just finish tonight. That we could talk afterward.

Instead, he left.

He’s afraid of so many things — especially situations with people. Social spaces. Being seen. Being different. Self talk that says everyone else here is an expert, and a giant, a GIANT EXPERT!?!

We do everything we can as parents to give him good experiences. Good people. Safe places. Meaningful trips. Opportunities to belong.

But getting him there feels like dragging someone up a mountain while they’re panicking about how steep it is making the rest of us feel like our backpacks are full of rocks and weights and the kitchen sink.

Maybe it’s social anxiety.

Putting a name to it helps… and also doesn’t.

Because the name doesn’t make the moment easier.

And then there’s the other stuff. The consequences. Phones taken away. Video games restricted. Not because he’s a “bad kid,” but because impulsivity shows up as rudeness, destruction, or choices that make you stare at the wall afterward wondering how you got here.

This isn’t a story about a problem child.

This is a story about how unbelievably hard parenting can be — especially when the child in front of you doesn’t fit neatly into any box.

When I ask him what he wants to do next, the answer is always the same.

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t know” has become his safest response.
A way to avoid choosing.
A way to stay protected from failing.

So I told him this:

Until you know, follow the path.

The path we’ve laid out. The one built around trying, showing up, finding something to belong to — even when it’s uncomfortable.

If you want this life — the privileges, the opportunities — then participation matters.

And I already know what might, mostly likely will happen next.

He may retreat to his room.
Build Legos.

Do just enough to get a couple things back, to just have them taken away again.
Do the opposite of the plan.

And while all of this quietly churns in the background, I retreat too.

I start questioning myself.

Why would I give advice to anyone?
Why would I speak publicly about leadership?
Why would I take the stage when inside my own house nothing feels resolved?

Here’s what I’m learning — slowly, painfully, honestly.

No one stands next to you while you parent.

There’s no real-time feedback. (Besides a death stare from someone who was just told no.)
No performance review. (Besides an uneaten meal that’s not up to their standard or isn’t what their brain had picked out to eat.)
No coach whispering what to try next. No one to ask for help because to go into the depths of what is frustrating you would take so long because it’s so god damn nuanced it would take forever and no one knows what to do. (Just crippling self doubt)

You’re doing one of the most important jobs in the world — and most of the time, you’re doing it completely alone.

You don’t get a rubric.
You don’t get certainty.
You don’t even get confirmation that you’re helping.

You don’t get professional development paid for by your employer, because you are the employer and you’re not getting paid at all. HA!

You just keep showing up and hoping love counts for something.

And maybe that’s the part we don’t talk about enough.

We all have these moments.

The ones where we lie in bed at night replaying conversations.
The ones where we wonder if we’re messing things up.
The ones where we’re exhausted not from doing too much — but from caring so deeply.

If you’re in one of those seasons right now, I want you to hear this:

You are not alone.

You’re not failing because this is hard.
You’re not broken because you don’t have all the answers.
And you’re not doing it wrong just because no one is clapping.

Parenting is invisible work — and some days it’s unbearably heavy.

But you’re still here.
Still trying.
Still loving.

And that matters more than you probably realize.

A GRL Reminder

Here’s the part I don’t think we say out loud enough.

Some days, it’s really hard to do both —
to be the parent carrying heavy things at home and the professional expected to show up confidently at work.

There’s this unspoken expectation that we should be able to flip a switch.

That we can walk out the front door feeling like the most unsuccessful person in our own house…
and somehow walk into a meeting as a capable, confident leader.

But the truth is — it doesn’t work like that.

The emotions don’t stay neatly behind.
The worry doesn’t pause because the calendar says “workday.”
And the doubt doesn’t magically disappear when we put on our professional clothes.

For me, it shows up in unexpected places.

Like pickleball.

I’ll miss an easy shot or fall into a slump, and suddenly my inner voice spirals:

Of course you can’t hit the ball.
You can’t even do this right.
And if you can’t do this… how are you supposed to parent well?

It’s irrational.
It’s unfair.
And yet — it’s so familiar.

Because when one part of our life feels hard, our brain tries to turn it into a story about who we are.

Not what’s happening — but who we are.

That’s the moment we have to interrupt the narrative.

Not with big affirmations or toxic positivity — but with small, honest reframes.

This is hard — but it’s not permanent.
I’m struggling — but I’m still trying.
Today was messy — but tomorrow is another rep.

Progress doesn’t come from having it all figured out.

It comes from continuing anyway.

From taking the next small step.
From showing up again.
From refusing to let one hard moment define your entire identity.

At The GRL Initiative, we believe leadership isn’t about being unshaken.

It’s about learning how to speak to yourself when everything feels shaky.

So if today you’re doubting yourself — as a parent, a professional, a human — take this as your reminder:

Keep moving forward.
Keep trying.
Keep showing up imperfectly.

You don’t need to be flawless to be effective.
You don’t need to feel confident to keep going.
And you don’t need to give up just because today was heavy.

You’re allowed to be learning in more than one area of your life at the same time.

That doesn’t make you weak.

It makes you real.

And you’re not doing this alone.