Five years ago, I found myself leaning on my child.
I’d recently had foot surgery and was confined to a bulky walking boot. In a spur-of-the-moment decision, my then 14-year-old daughter and I boarded a plane to visit people who loved us unconditionally.
With my foot confined to a bulky walking boot, I knew traveling wasn’t going to be easy. What I didn’t know was who would end up carrying whom.
Through the long corridors,
the tall escalators,
the daunting ticket lines,
Avery never failed to offer me her arm.
Again.
And again.
And again.
If you were following my work back then, you know those were difficult years. We were living through the aftermath of something that changed our family in ways we never expected. Avery and I were both learning how to find solid ground again.
In the face of so much pain and uncertainty, I often wondered if I was taking the best possible steps, saying the right things, and loving her as supportively as I could.
I worried constantly about what those difficult seasons were taking from her.
During that time, I held on to this belief:
A child’s path to independence can be tumultuous
and still end up ok…
if we’re willing to stay present through the pain.
At the time, those weren’t words of certainty.
They were words of hope.
Last week, I watched that hope—now 19 years old—walk into a summer camp for children with cancer and their siblings. A camper in Avery’s unit had huddled inside a bathroom, unwilling to return to the cafeteria. Avery said she couldn’t blame her. It was loud, chaotic, and overstimulating.
So, Avery sat with her. Rather than demanding she return to lunch, she explained the situation and offered her a little more time.
And when they finally walked back together, Avery asked,
“Can I walk with you?”
“Ok,” said the middle schooler.
Up until that moment, she had only wanted to walk by herself.
Later that night, Avery told me about the interaction. Amazed by her instinct, I asked how she’d known what to do.
“I explained that I was in a tough spot. I told her I understood the lunchroom was loud and hard for her, but I needed to get back because the other counselors and campers needed me. I asked her, ‘How can I help you and still do what I need to do?’”
Then Avery added something that made me pause.
“I just treated her like I wanted to be treated when I was struggling.”
I’ve been thinking about those words ever since.
Years ago, I worried that life’s hardest seasons were taking something from Avery.
Looking back, I can see they were giving her something, too…
They taught her to recognize overwhelm before it became defiance.
They taught her that inviting someone into the solution builds trust.
They taught her what it feels like when someone steps back instead of pushing harder.
They taught her that sometimes the bravest question isn’t,
“Why won’t you cooperate?”
It’s,
“How can I help?”
In that moment, I saw the connection.
Five years ago, Avery offered me her arm.
Last week, she offered someone else the same steady presence.
Different gesture.
Same love.
Sometimes the very experiences we wish our children never had become the source of their deepest empathy.
When I told my friend Kerry Foreman, a therapist, how naturally Avery seemed to connect with the campers, Kerry didn’t even hesitate.
“Walking through hard things builds you for this stuff.”
Avery wasn’t relying on a training manual or camp protocols in that moment. She was drawing from the hard places she had already walked through.
She remembered what it felt like to be overwhelmed.
To feel vulnerable.
To wish someone would explain instead of demand.
To need understanding more than instruction.
Because she remembered, she knew how to help.
As parents, we often wonder whether our children who go through hard things will be okay. We rarely get to see the answer all at once. Instead, it arrives in pieces.
In the way they speak to someone who’s frightened.
In the way they notice the child standing alone.
In the way they instinctively choose connection over control.
Looking back, I realize the hope I carried five years ago was well placed.
A child’s path to independence can indeed be tumultuous…
and still become something beautiful.
And part of the beauty is this:
Healing doesn’t always look like leaving our hardest seasons behind.
Sometimes it looks like carrying what those seasons taught us into someone else’s life,
so another person doesn’t have to make the journey alone.
My hand in yours,
Rachel
Hearing Avery tell me about that camper reminded me of a lesson that has carried my family through some of our toughest seasons:
Fear wears disguises… so does grief… so does anxiety.
When we learn to see the human beneath the behavior—whether in our children, our partners, our parents, or ourselves—everything begins to change.
In this month’s Treehouse Teaching & Reflection Gathering on Sunday, June 28 at 4 p.m. Eastern, I’ll share the story that first taught me this lesson, along with two practical tools that have helped my family return to connection when fear, grief, or anxiety speaks through behavior instead of words.
One of those tools prompted a mother to write after moving her daughter into college:
“Instead of taking control and being mom with a zillion questions and demands, I just asked her, ‘How can I help?’ Then she turned to me and said she was anxious and trying not to let that make her angry or lash out. She thanked me for asking what I could do. We both smiled and hugged. Thank you for your article, which helped us stop the anxiety from becoming something else and helped me focus on her needs rather than my own fears.”
I’ll share the practices behind that shift and provide both tools in a downloadable PDF so you can keep them nearby whenever you need them most.
If you’ve been thinking about climbing my Treehouse ladder, this would be a wonderful month to join us.
For $5 a month, you’ll become part of Rachel’s Treehouse—a place where we walk beside one another through life’s hardest seasons, strengthen our relationships, and practice returning to ourselves with compassion.
Whether you join us live or watch the replay later, I’d love to have you with us. Zoom link will be sent via email on Saturday. Replay sent on Monday. Subscribe here.
