There is a moment every parent dreads and few talk about.
The moment you realise that loving your child does not mean guiding them, lifting them, or steering them away from pain.
It means standing still while they walk their own path — even when you can see where it might lead.
This week, I saw that moment clearly for the first time.
Not as a theory.
Not as a spiritual insight.
But as a lived, bodily truth.
I saw that my son cannot see what I see.
He cannot understand what I understand.
And no amount of explaining, loving, pushing, planning or protecting will change that.
And strangely — devastatingly — that is exactly how it is supposed to be.
The Illusion of Helping
I realised I had been trying to do for him what no one could do for me.
I tried to lift him out of struggle.
I tried to fast-forward his growth.
I tried to help him avoid paths I had already walked.
But every time I pushed, he resisted.
Every time I explained, he closed.
Every time I tried to guide, the distance grew.
Not because he is stubborn.
Not because he is broken.
But because essence does not accept direction.
Essence moves on its own timing.
And the hardest realisation was this:
The more conscious I became, the less I was allowed to interfere.
Seeing the Pattern Clearly
This realisation didn’t come in a quiet meditation.
It came through life.
Through a theatre show about prestige and power.
Through horses, arenas, crowds and applause.
Through the unmistakable feeling of old belief systems parading as importance.
I recognised it immediately.
I have lived on both sides:
– as someone who wanted to be seen
– and as someone who cheered from the crowd
And suddenly it became obvious:
So much of what we call success, status or direction is just fear dressed up as certainty.
Fear of not being enough.
Fear of falling behind.
Fear of being nobody.
And I saw that I had unknowingly passed that fear on — not through words, but through pressure.
The Moment I Let Go
The real shift did not happen through insight.
It happened when I stopped.
When I sat down.
When I lay in bed.
When I allowed the body to feel the grief without fixing it.
No plans.
No solutions.
No next steps.
Just presence.
That was the moment the instrument retuned itself.
I realised:
I don’t need to walk his path.
I need to walk mine.
And paradoxically, that is the only thing that truly supports him.
Choosing My Life Again
After that, everything became simple — not easy, but simple.
I walked my own path again.
I wrote.
I created.
I tended to my home.
I brought plants into empty spaces because it felt right.
I noticed beauty without needing meaning.
I stopped managing outcomes.
I stopped negotiating with life.
I stopped trying to be ahead of myself.
This is not resignation.
This is not giving up.
This is alignment.
And it is the most loving thing I can do — for myself, and for my children.
What I Know Now
I know this:
•I cannot pull my child out of his learning.
•I cannot shield him from becoming who he is.
•I cannot live his life for him — no matter how much I love him.
But I can live mine fully.
I can stay present.
I can stop repeating the belief systems I once suffered under.
I can walk forward without dragging anyone with me.
And that — quietly, steadily — changes everything