I’ve found myself having the same conversation with several friends lately: their grown or nearly grown kids are making choices that don't match what the parents envisioned. Personal choices, motivation, direction, identity — the things young adults wrestle with quietly until it becomes loud enough for a parent to notice. Every one of my friends was worried. Every one of them felt helpless in a way they never expected. Then I spoke to another friend — a father of three boys — who told me he’s tough with his sons. He said, “I’ll support you and guide you, but I’m not living your life or absorbing the consequences of your decisions.” I understood his point and agreed with parts of it, but I also told him, “You’re not a mom.” He laughed and admitted the dynamic is different.
The truth is: I’m standing at that transition myself. My youngest is a senior in high school, and he’s beginning to make real choices — his choices. Nothing dangerous or reckless. Just not always what I would choose for him. And it’s bothering me more than I expected. It’s like a quiet, nagging ache in the background of my day. I tried to ignore it for a while until I finally admitted what it was: it’s vulnerable to watch your child become a person you no longer control. It’s vulnerable to realize they’re shaping a life that is no longer an extension of you. It’s vulnerable to accept that they may not come to you with everything anymore. A part of you becomes insecure and starts asking, “What if they choose wrong? What if they get hurt? What if I can’t catch them in time? What if I lose influence? Should I let them make certain choices, or should I step in?”
That middle place — between guiding and letting go — is one of the hardest places a parent stands. So how much do you let go, and how much do you still hold on? My personal philosophy has become this: let them make their own choices unless the consequences will be devastating. Then step in. I believe in letting kids feel the sting of their own missteps — especially when they’re little and the consequences are small. The bruises of childhood teach discernment before the stakes are high. Scripture says it plainly: “No discipline seems pleasant at the time… but later it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace.” — Hebrews 12:11. It’s the small stings that prepare them for adulthood. It’s better they learn the weight of choices when the price is minor.
And the foundation for this begins early. As Proverbs reminds us: “Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it.” — Proverbs 22:6. You do the heavy lifting in the early years — teaching values, discernment, consequences, and emotional regulation — and then, at some point, you have to trust the groundwork. You have to trust that what you instilled is still alive inside them, even when you can’t control or supervise every decision.
Because adulthood is built on personal responsibility. You cannot carry someone else’s life for them — not even your child’s. Paul said it clearly: “Each one should carry their own load.” — Galatians 6:5. There comes a moment where your job shifts from protecting them from every fall to helping them stand up from their own. From managing their life to guiding it. From control to partnership. And that shift — that letting go — is where the real inner work of parenting happens.
As I stand here with my youngest being nearly fully grown, I find myself looking back — not with anxiety, but with curiosity. I’ve already raised one good one — my daughter, steady and grounded, reflective by nature. My son is different. Harder. Riskier. Faster-moving. Raw at the edges. Emotional in ways that mirror parts of me I don’t always want to admit are there. For a long time, that scared me. But now I see something else emerging: the very traits that once felt like liabilities in me may be the raw materials of strength in him.
When I look at him today, I don’t see a boy repeating my story. I see a young man writing his own. Yes, I recognize the impulsiveness, the intensity, the hunger for independence — because I once carried those same traits. But I also know what God can do with a life shaped by both grit and grace. Maybe the children who resemble us the most are the ones who invite us to grow the most. Maybe they stretch us, not because something is wrong, but because God is preparing them — and us — for the next chapter.
And that’s where the shift happens. The real work is no longer about directing their steps; it’s about trusting the foundation we laid and the God who continues the work. We guide, we model, we teach — but at some point, we must step aside so their purpose can rise and God can shape what we cannot. Scripture tells us, “He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion.” That promise isn’t just for us — it’s for our children, too.
So even when they wander, we trust they won’t wander too far. Even when they struggle, we trust the struggle is shaping them. Even when they fall, we trust they’ll rise wiser. Our role isn’t to perfect them — it’s to prepare them. To stay steady. Stay present. Stay open. Stay faithful. And then allow God to do what only God can do.