I’ve always been a “suck it up, buttercup, you’re going to school” kind of mom. The five-second rule? In this house, it’s more like five minutes—maybe longer, especially if the dog hasn’t licked it yet. Scraped knees? You’re fine. Unless there’s a bone sticking out or blood spurting like a scene from Grey’s Anatomy, you’re walking it off. Call it my ‘80s/’90s upbringing—back when dirt built character and emotions were something you kept to yourself until they exploded in a midlife crisis.
But lately, I’ve been rethinking that philosophy.
Our town recently went through a tragedy. One that made me stop and take a hard look at what really matters when it comes to raising kids with grit.
As much as I want my children to be strong, I don’t want them to grow up thinking strength means ignoring their own pain—especially the kind you can’t see.
If you were raised by a boomer, you know mental health wasn’t exactly a dinner table topic. Anxiety was just “overreacting,” and therapy was something reserved for soap opera characters. I didn’t start therapy until adulthood, and I didn’t really take it seriously until after my second child—when the sleepless nights and emotional overload turned me into a tightly wound ball of nerves held together by caffeine and denial.
I used to think I could outwork my anxiety. Power through with a to-do list and a spreadsheet. But here’s the thing: anxiety doesn’t care how productive you are. And no, watching Inside Out for the 87th time while folding laundry doesn’t count as self-care. (Unless you’re crying when Bing Bong fades away—then maybe it does.)
So when I see one of my kids dragging themselves through the morning like a tiny zombie, refusing even chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream, I pause. When they’re clingy, irritable, or just not themselves, I ask: Is this a day to push through—or pull back?
Some days, we rally. Big test, special event, something fun after school—we talk it through, remind them how far they’ve come, and out the door they go. But other days? We call them in sick. Not “fever and barf bucket” sick. Just soul-tired. And those days matter too.
On those days, they stay home. They build blanket forts. They binge Netflix. They remember that they are more than their spelling tests and timed math facts. That their worth isn’t tied to productivity. That rest is not failure—it’s human.
Will this stop the next tragedy? I don’t know. Probably not. But I do know this: my kids are learning early what I had to learn way too late—that mental health matters. It’s okay not to be okay. That sometimes, the strongest thing you can do is sit down, take a breath, and eat the damn pancakes.
With extra whipped cream.
