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The Sweet Spot of Growth

We recently moved into a house that is almost 100 years old, which means every day feels like a small adventure in charm, character and “what is that sound?”

It has old floors, old doors, old windows and the kind of quirks you only love after you’ve signed the mortgage paperwork. It also has raspberry vines.

At first glance, they are beautiful. Long, lush, sturdy vines growing in good soil, with plenty of sunlight and the kind of established root system you can’t buy at a garden center. These are not fragile little starter plants. They have been here awhile. They know the yard better than I do.

And yet, for all their beauty and strength, they have produced maybe 10 raspberries.

Ten.

For a family hoping for bowls of fresh berries, this feels a bit like false advertising.

The problem, we learned, is not the soil. It is not the sunlight. It is not that the vines are weak. The problem is that they have not been pruned regularly.

They have been allowed to grow in every direction, long and lovely, but not necessarily fruitful.

As a Christian, I immediately thought of the words of Jesus in John 15: “Every branch that does bear fruit he prunes, that it may bear more fruit.” I have heard that verse most of my life. I have nodded along in Bible studies. I have appreciated the metaphor in theory.

But standing in front of my beautiful, unproductive raspberry vines, I understood it a little differently.

Pruning is not punishment. It is preparation.

That is part of why I enjoyed Paul Bloom’s book The Sweet Spot. Bloom, a psychologist, explores a strange but familiar truth about human beings: we do not actually want a life with no difficulty. We may say we do, especially when the calendar is full, the kids are melting down, the budget is tight and the dishwasher is making a sound that suggests it has given up on life. But deep down, most of what gives our lives meaning comes with some level of challenge.

We train for races. We raise children. We commit to marriage. We build careers. We care for aging parents. We apologize. We forgive. We start over. We sit in therapy and tell the truth. We choose the harder conversation because the easy silence is slowly killing the relationship.

None of those things are painless. But they are often where purpose is formed.

Bloom makes an important distinction: suffering itself is not automatically good. Some suffering is harmful, unjust and unnecessary. No one should romanticize abuse, trauma, neglect or hardship that crushes the human spirit.

But there is another kind of difficulty – the kind that stretches us, humbles us, disciplines us and invites us to become more than we would have become if comfort had been the only goal.

That matters in relationships.

A strong marriage is not built because two people never disagree. It is built because two people learn how to repair after disagreement. A healthy friendship is not one where no one is ever disappointed. It is one where people can be honest, accountable and gracious. A connected family is not one where every child is protected from every hard thing. It is one where children know they are loved while they learn how to do hard things.

As parents, this is one of the trickiest lines to walk. We do not want our children to suffer. Of course we don’t. Any decent parent would rather take the pain themselves than watch their child hurt.

But if we remove every obstacle, solve every problem, soften every consequence and rescue them from every discomfort, we may accidentally raise long, leafy vines with very little fruit.

Children need love, safety and support. They also need opportunities to struggle appropriately. They need to lose a game and survive it. They need to apologize when they were wrong. They need to work at something they are not instantly good at. They need to feel disappointment without believing disappointment is the end of the world.

And they need parents who do not simply say, “This is easy.”

They need parents who say, “This is hard, and I believe you can take the next step.”

Partners need the same thing. So do we.

Growth often looks like pruning. A boundary. A hard conversation. A season of waiting. A habit we have to cut back. A dream we have to reshape. A comfort we have to surrender. A truth we can no longer avoid.

At first, pruning can feel like loss. The vine is shorter. The shape is different. What once looked full now looks bare.

But the gardener knows what the vine cannot yet see.

Fruit is coming.

Maybe the sweet spot is not a life with no pain. Maybe it is learning the difference between pain that destroys and discomfort that develops. Maybe it is trusting that not every cut is cruel. Some cuts are careful. Some are loving. Some are making room for what could not grow otherwise.

Our raspberry vines are going to need some work. They will need trimming, tending and patience. They will not become fruitful simply because they are beautiful.

And, apparently, neither will we.

Lauren Hall is the President and CEO of First Things First. Contact her at lauren@firstthings.org

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Overwhelm, Accountability and Relationships That Matter 

Several people have told me lately that May feels less like spring and more like “May-cember.” It’s the December of the school year. 

There are graduations, field days, awards ceremonies, end-of-school parties, teacher gifts, final projects, Mother’s Day plans, Memorial Day travel, sports banquets, recitals, class celebrations, field trips, summer camp registrations and approximately 427 emails from school that all require a response, payment, permission slip or costume. 

May arrives with sunshine and flowers, but it can feel like it is wearing December’s calendar. 

And just like the holiday season, this month can leave people over-scheduled, overwhelmed and running on empty. We may be showing up everywhere, but not really present anywhere. We may be getting things done, but not actually doing well. We may be surrounded by people and still feel unseen. 

That kind of pace does not just affect our schedules. It affects our relationships. 

When we are exhausted, we often become less patient, less curious and less emotionally available. We snap at the people we love. We withdraw. We stop asking good questions. We forget to eat well, sleep well, listen well and love well. We confuse survival mode with normal life. 

This is why we need relationships deep enough to hold both vulnerability and accountability. 

Without vulnerability, people may be near us but not really know us. Without accountability, people may love us but never help us come back to ourselves. And where both are missing, relationships may remain pleasant, busy and functional, but shallow. 

Research continues to affirm what many of us know by experience: the quality of our relationships matters deeply. Robert Waldinger, director of the Harvard Study of Adult Development, has said one of the study’s clearest findings is that relationships help keep people both happy and healthy. The lesson is not simply “be around people.” It is that meaningful, reliable connection shapes our well-being over time.

But meaningful connection requires honesty. 

It requires being able to say, “I am not doing well.” Or, “I am stretched too thin.” Or, “I know I said yes, but I should have said no.” Or, “I don’t like who I become when I am this tired.” 

Brené Brown describes vulnerability as uncertainty, risk and emotional exposure. She also writes that “vulnerability is not weakness, but part of courage and connection.” Vulnerability is not telling everyone everything. It is letting the right people see what is true. 

And when vulnerability is met with care, relationships deepen. 

Relationship researchers have described intimacy as a process that involves self-disclosure and a caring response. One important concept is “perceived partner responsiveness,” which means we feel that another person understands us, validates us and cares for us. Research has identified this kind of responsiveness as central to intimacy and healthy connection. 

That means one of the most loving things we can do for someone in a chaotic season is notice them. 

Not just their schedule. Not just their productivity. Them. 

“You don’t seem like yourself lately.” 

“You sound exhausted.” 

“You have been carrying a lot.” 

“Have you eaten?” 

“Have you slept?” 

“What can I take off your plate?” 

“Is this pace sustainable?” 

Those questions are not intrusive when they come from love, humility and trust. They are a form of care. 

But the other half of a deep relationship is accountability.

Accountability has a bad reputation because many of us have experienced it as control, criticism or shame. But healthy accountability is not someone trying to manage your life. It is someone helping you live in alignment with your values. 

It sounds like: “I know you want to be a patient parent, and I can see how depleted you are.” It sounds like: “You are saying yes to everyone, but it seems like you are disappearing from yourself.” 

It sounds like: “You don’t have to keep this pace just because you can.” 

It sounds like: “This may be a season to move through, but it cannot become a lifestyle you maintain.” 

That kind of honesty can be uncomfortable. It can also be a gift. 

John Gottman’s research on couple relationships emphasizes the importance of repair, the ability to take responsibility, soften, reconnect and come back to one another after tension or disconnection. Healthy relationships are not conflict-free. They are marked by the willingness to repair and re-engage. 

The same principle applies beyond marriage. Strong relationships require people who can tell the truth with kindness and receive the truth with humility. 

So how do we know whether vulnerability and accountability are present in our relationships? 

Ask yourself: Do I have people who know when I am not myself? Can I admit when I am overwhelmed without being dismissed, mocked or immediately fixed? Can someone lovingly challenge me without me assuming they are attacking me? Do the people closest to me remind me of who I want to be, not just what I need to get done? 

Then turn the questions around. 

Am I safe for other people to be honest with? Do I listen without rushing to correct? Do I ask before giving advice? Do I notice when someone I love is running on empty? Do I have the courage to gently name what I see? 

If vulnerability is missing, start small. Tell a trusted person something true: “I am overwhelmed.” “I need help.” “I am not sleeping.” “I feel like I am failing at everything.” Depth is built through small moments of honesty met with care.

If accountability is missing, invite it. Say to a friend, spouse, sibling or mentor, “When I get too busy, I lose sight of myself. Will you help me notice when that’s happening?” Or, “If you see me slipping into a pattern that is hurting me or the people I love, I want you to say something.” 

And when someone gives you permission to speak honestly into their life, treat that permission as sacred. Be gentle. Be specific. Be humble. The goal is not to win, diagnose or control. The goal is to help someone remember who they are. 

“May-cember” may be a funny word, but the exhaustion behind it is real. Many families are limping toward summer with full calendars and empty tanks. And in seasons like this, we need more than another productivity hack or color-coded calendar. 

We need people. 

People who can see past our busyness. People who notice when our pace is costing us something. People who can offer help without judgment and honesty without harshness. People who remind us that our worth is not measured by how many events we attend, how many tasks we complete or how well we hold everything together. 

And we need to be those people for others. 

Because deep relationships are not built by pretending everyone is fine. They are built when love becomes brave enough to tell the truth and safe enough to receive it. 

Lauren Hall is the President and CEO of First Things First. Contact her at lauren@firstthings.org

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What It Means to Put First Things First

First Things First is in the middle of a rebrand.

Same name. Same mission. Deeper alignment.

And as part of that process, I’ve had the privilege of sitting across from some of the founders of the organization and key stakeholders who prompted this work decades ago. I’ve asked them questions that sound simple until you try to answer them out loud.

What does it mean to put first things first? Why did we name the organization that? What does it look like in relationships?

What does it look like on a Tuesday afternoon when the laundry is loud, the inbox is louder and everyone in your house needs something at the exact same time?

Again and again, the answer pointed back to Stephen Covey’s 1990s book, First Things First. Covey wrote about the difference between living by urgency and living by importance. In other words, there are things that scream for our attention, and there are things that quietly shape our lives.

The problem is, the screaming things usually win.

The text message. The deadline. The appointment. The sports schedule. The dishes. The bill. The group chat. The thing we forgot to sign. The thing we said yes to when we should have said, “Let me check my calendar.”

Urgency is not always bad. Children do need to be picked up from school. Bills do need to be paid. Work matters. Dinner, in some form, should probably happen.

But urgency becomes a problem when it consistently outruns importance.

And importance is where relationships live.

Putting first things first means deciding, on purpose, what matters most before life decides for us. It means we do not simply ask, “What needs to get done today?” We also ask, “Who needs to feel loved today?” “What kind of person do I want to be in this moment?” “What kind of family are we building?”

And here’s where the idea of “steps” matters.

Putting first things first will not look the same for every person or every family. We are all in different seasons, carrying different responsibilities, pressures, resources and rhythms. The young couple trying to build trust after a hard season may have a different next step than the parents of toddlers who are just trying to survive dinner without someone crying into a chicken nugget. The empty nesters learning how to reconnect may have a different next step than the single parent who feels like every plate in life is spinning at once.

That is why putting first things first is not about doing everything at once. It is about taking the next right step.

For one person, the next right step may be asking for help. For another, it may be putting the phone away at dinner. For someone else, it may be making the counseling appointment, apologizing first, setting a boundary, joining a community, creating a bedtime routine or simply sitting still long enough to remember what matters.

The step may be small, but small does not mean insignificant. A step in the right direction is still movement. And enough small steps, taken with intention, begin to shape a life.

For individuals, putting first things first may look like taking care of your health before your body forces you to. It may mean choosing rest without guilt. It may mean making time for prayer, reflection, counseling, recovery or friendship before you reach the point of crisis. It may mean having the hard conversation you keep avoiding because peacekeeping has started to look a lot like resentment.

For couples, it may mean remembering that the relationship cannot survive on logistics alone. A marriage or partnership can become a very efficient small business if we are not careful. Who is paying the bill? Who is picking up groceries? Who forgot picture day?

These things matter. But they are not the whole relationship.

Putting first things first in a relationship means making room for eye contact, affection, repair and honest conversation. It means saying, “I’m sorry,” before pride builds a wall. It means asking, “How are we doing?” not just, “What’s on the calendar?” It means treating your spouse or partner as someone to cherish, not simply someone to coordinate with.

For families, putting first things first means understanding that children are not just being raised by what we say. They are being raised by what we prioritize.

If we say family matters but never have time for each other, they notice.

If we say kindness matters but speak harshly under stress, they notice.

If we say faith, character, service or connection matter but every margin of our lives is consumed by achievement, entertainment or exhaustion, they notice that too.

Children do not need perfect parents. Thank goodness, because that ship sailed for most of us somewhere between the missing shoe and the spilled applesauce.

But they do need parents and caregivers who are willing to pause and realign. They need adults who can say, “This is not working. We need to reset.” They need families who understand that busy is not the same as healthy, and full calendars are not the same as full hearts.

On a practical level, putting first things first does not require a complete life overhaul. Most of us cannot quit our jobs, cancel every activity and move to a quiet cabin where no one ever asks what is for dinner.

It starts smaller.

Sit down once a week and ask, “What matters most this week?” Not just what is due, but what is important. Protect one meal, walk, bedtime routine or conversation from the chaos. Put the phone down when someone you love is talking. Say no to something good so you can say yes to something better. Apologize faster. Ask for help sooner. Make space for the people and values you say matter most.

And when you get it wrong, because you will, begin again.

That may be the most hopeful part of putting first things first. It is not a one-time decision. It is a daily practice. Sometimes an hourly one. Sometimes a “take a deep breath in the driveway before walking into the house” one.

So here is the invitation: look at your calendar, your spending, your conversations, your energy and your habits. Not with shame. With curiosity. Ask yourself, “Do my choices reflect what I say matters most?”

If they do, keep going. If they do not, take one step.

Because if individuals put first things first, we would see healthier people. If couples put first things first, we would see stronger relationships. If families put first things first, we would see children growing up with a clearer sense of love, stability and belonging.

And if enough of us did that, our communities would change too.

We would be less reactive and more rooted. Less distracted and more connected. Less consumed by the urgent and more committed to the important.

We may not fix everything overnight.

But we can begin building a world where people matter more than pressure, relationships matter more than busyness, and love is not something we squeeze in after everything else.

It becomes the first thing.

Lauren Hall is the President and CEO of First Things First. Contact her at lauren@firstthings.org

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The Complicated Truth About Second Chances in Relationships 

Some people’s stories don’t come with clean endings. They don’t tie up neatly or offer us a clear hero and villain. They just sit with us, heavy, complicated, and unresolved. 

Recently, my family lost someone like that. 

They were the kind of person you wanted at your dinner table. Funny, warm, generous, compassionate. The first to make you laugh. They were deeply loved. And also, if we are telling the whole truth, they made choices that left a long trail of hurt behind them. 

They walked away from a young spouse and child early on. A decision they spent much of their life regretting. There were attempts at rebuilding, but also more instability. Another marriage. Another divorce. Years marked by alcoholism, substance abuse, DUIs, jail time, and consequences that stacked up across states and decades. 

Eventually, they did get sober. In their late fifties, something shifted. But sobriety came late, and the cost of those earlier years remained. Their body was worn down. Their finances were gone. By their sixties, they were largely alone, relying on siblings for shelter and support. 

And while they wanted, really wanted, to reconnect with their child and grandchild, that door never fully reopened. 

That is the part some family members are struggling with. They feel the child should have forgiven more freely. That keeping distance was too harsh. Even cruel. 

But I find myself sitting in the middle, seeing something more complicated. 

Decades of research on parental substance abuse show that addiction does not only harm the person using. It reshapes the whole family system. SAMHSA’s guidance on substance use disorder and family therapy notes that families are both affected by and influential in recovery, and that healing often requires more than sobriety alone. It requires repair, honesty, changed patterns, and time.

For a child, especially one who experienced abandonment, inconsistency, or fear, the wound is not simply, “My parent made mistakes.” The wound is, “The person who was supposed to be safe was not safe for me.” 

That is a hard thing to unlearn. 

Psychologist Dr. Everett Worthington, known for his research on forgiveness, makes an important distinction. Forgiveness and reconciliation are related, but they are not the same. Forgiveness can be an internal release of bitterness. Reconciliation requires restored trust. And trust is not rebuilt by regret alone. It is rebuilt through consistent, trustworthy behavior over time. 

Still, I do believe reconciliation can happen for some relationships. 

I have seen families repair things I thought were beyond repair. Research-backed family care approaches for substance use disorder suggest that when the person in recovery takes responsibility without defensiveness, listens without demanding immediate forgiveness, and allows the harmed family member to set the pace, relationships can improve. Family-based treatment models also show that recovery is stronger when healthy family support is involved, though that support cannot be forced. 

In other words, hope is real. But hope cannot be hurried. 

A parent in recovery may need to say, “I hurt you. I understand why you don’t trust me. I will keep living differently whether or not you are ready to have a relationship with me.” That kind of humility is powerful. It does not guarantee reconciliation, but it creates the safest soil for it. 

And the adult child may need space to decide what healing looks like. For some, it may mean a slow reconnection. A birthday card. A short phone call. A supervised visit with grandchildren. Coffee once a year. For others, healing may mean distance and peace. 

Both can be legitimate. 

So when the opportunity for reconciliation is gone, how do you process and handle the grief? 

First, resist turning grief into a courtroom. Just state the facts. One person created the original fracture. The other inherited the consequences of it.

Second, hold compassion in both directions. Compassion for the parent who changed late, tried hard, and died with some regrets still unresolved. And compassion for the child whose trust was broken so deeply they could not simply will it whole again. 

Third, stop confusing boundaries with bitterness. Sometimes boundaries are what make a person healthy enough to keep loving from a distance. 

My family member’s life held joy and sorrow. Humor and heartbreak. Effort and consequence. And maybe the most honest way to honor them is not to force a tidy ending, but to tell the truth about all of it. 

Even the part where reconciliation was hoped for. Even the part where it did not come.

Lauren Hall is the President and CEO of First Things First. Contact her at lauren@firstthings.org

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What Will This Generation Not Hear from Their Parents?

A friend recently posed a question to me that I have not been able to shake. He said that for many Boomers, the phrase they rarely heard growing up was, “I love you.” For many Gen Xers and older millennials, the missing phrase was often, “I’m sorry.”

Then he asked: What will this generation say they did not hear from their parents?

It is such a smart question because every generation tends to correct the mistakes of the one before it. And, being human, every generation also manages to create a few fresh ones of its own.

In many families, earlier generations were not especially verbal with affection. Love was often present, but it was shown through sacrifice, duty, provision and perseverance more than spoken aloud. Then many of us came along determined to become more emotionally fluent. We wanted our children to know they were loved. We wanted them to identify their feelings, name their struggles and feel seen.

That is not a bad correction. In many ways, it is a very good one.

But I wonder if the phrase this generation may not hear enough is this: I believe in you.

Maybe even more fully: I believe in you, and I will support you while you do hard things.

Parents today hear a great deal about helping children identify and process emotions, and that matters. Children should absolutely learn to recognize fear, disappointment, anger, embarrassment and anxiety. They should know that feelings are real and that they are not shameful. But somewhere along the way, many families seem to have absorbed a second message that is less helpful: that feeling uncomfortable is itself a reason not to proceed.

It is not.

A friend told me recently about a family vacation where her 8-year-old son (a rambunctious, brave, beautifully wild little boy in most settings) froze at the idea of doing a high ropes course. He got scared and immediately said, “I’m not doing it.” His mom, to her credit, did not instantly rescue him from the challenge. She told him he could choose the ropes course or the rock wall, but one way or another, he was going to face a fear that day.

He protested. He resisted. He did not feel ready.

But what mattered most was not simply that she pushed him. It was that she stood beside him with the clear message: I believe in you. She was not mocking his fear, dismissing his feelings or throwing him to the wolves. She was supporting him through something difficult and telling him, in word and deed, that he was capable of more than his fear was telling him in that moment.

And he did it.

That is such an important message for children to hear.

Because emotions are important, but they are not dictators.

Fear can be real without being right. Anxiety can be loud without being wise. Discomfort can be intense without being dangerous. Children need help learning that they are not helpless in the presence of strong feelings. They can feel afraid and still move forward. They can feel embarrassed and still try. They can feel unsure and still begin.

Usually, they do that best when a steady adult is nearby saying, “I believe in you.”

That is how resilience is built. Not by shaming children for being afraid, and not by removing every obstacle before they have to face it, but by helping them discover that they can survive challenges and come out stronger on the other side.

Of course, this takes wisdom. Parenting is not about pushing children harshly, humiliating them or ignoring genuine limits. It is about refusing to let a child’s first impulse of fear become the final authority. It is about teaching them that courage is not the absence of fear, but the willingness to act in spite of it, especially when someone loving is there to help steady them.

Maybe that is one of the great parenting assignments of this era: to care deeply about our children’s emotional lives without raising them to believe that their emotions should run their lives.

Yes, help them name their feelings. Yes, sit with them in their struggles. Yes, be a safe place.

But also tell them the truth: I believe in you. You can be scared and still be brave. You can feel deeply without being ruled completely. You can try, fail, recover and try again. And I will be here to support you as you do.

That may be one of the most loving things a parent can say.

Because what children need is not just protection from hard things. They need a parent who believes they are capable of facing them.

And in a world increasingly tempted to treat discomfort as danger, that may be one of the most necessary messages of all.

Lauren Hall is the President and CEO of First Things First. Contact her at lauren@firstthings.org

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When Your Adult Child Hasn’t Launched

There is a particular ache in parenting adult children: they are old enough to vote, drive, and ignore your excellent advice, yet sometimes not quite old enough to stop making decisions that make you want to stare at the ceiling and reconsider every permissive moment since preschool.

The job has changed, but the love has not.

Psychologists call this season “emerging adulthood,” a stretch of life, often from the late teens through the twenties, marked by freedom, instability, and uneven progress. Temple University psychologist Dr. Laurence Steinberg has noted that the path to adulthood now takes longer than it once did, and that many parents and grown children are trying to build a new relationship while the old one is still rattling around in the trunk.

That helps explain why so many parents feel confused. We were trained for bedtime, broccoli, and booster seats. Nobody really prepared us for a 22-year-old with a fully formed opinion, a half-formed plan, and a habit of making choices that leave the family group text one message away from combustion.

The research is surprisingly clear on one point: love helps, but over-control does not.

In a 2016 study in the Journal of Child and Family Studies, Kayla Reed and colleagues found that helicopter parenting was linked indirectly to worse outcomes for emerging adults through lower self-efficacy, while autonomy-supportive parenting was linked to better life satisfaction and physical health. A newer review in Youth likewise found that parents still matter a great deal in this stage, but the healthiest approach balances warmth, expectations, and autonomy support.

The more troubling findings involve psychological control, using guilt, intrusion and manipulation tactics, or treating a grown child’s mind like it is still your rental property. Developmental psychologist Brian Barber famously described psychological control as parenting that “constrains, invalidates, and manipulates” a child’s emotional and psychological experience. In real life, it sounds like: “After all I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me?” or “If you loved this family, you wouldn’t do this,” or “I guess you just don’t care about us anymore.” The key difference is this: behavioral guidance says, “If you live here, you need to follow these rules.” Psychological control says, “I will make you feel guilty until you think and feel what I want.” Research has long distinguished those two forms of control because psychological control is more strongly tied to internal distress, while healthy behavioral limits are a separate thing altogether.

That distinction matters when an adult child has not launched well, or is making decisions that are harmful to themselves or others. Parents are still allowed to have standards. In fact, they need them. But a boundary is not a guilt trip in pearls. “You may not live here rent-free if you are using drugs,” is a boundary. “You are breaking your mother’s heart, and good children do not do this,” is emotional pressure wearing a church hat.

If you are in this season, the research points toward a hard but hopeful middle path: support without rescuing, honesty without humiliation, and love without emotional takeover.

Bowen family systems theory, developed by psychiatrist Murray Bowen, warns that in anxious families, the person who does the most accommodating can end up absorbing everybody else’s anxiety. That is a helpful reminder for parents who have become full-time fixers, financiers, or emotional paramedics. Steinberg makes a similar point in gentler language: the task is not to dominate your adult child, but to learn how to resolve conflict and build a strong adult relationship.

Which is another way of saying: your grown child may still be on the runway, but you do not help the plane take off by tying yourself to the landing gear, screaming directions along the way.

Love them dearly. Tell the truth calmly. Set boundaries you can actually keep. Refuse to confuse rescuing with helping.

That is not giving up on your child. It is making room for them to become an adult, which, in the end, was the assignment all along.

Lauren Hall is the President and CEO of First Things First. Contact her at lauren@firstthings.org

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When “I Don’t Want to Parent” Goes Viral, Kids Still Have to Live There

Every few weeks, social media serves up a new kind of honesty: parents saying they love their kids… and also don’t want to be around them.

Not “I need a break,” but “I only have about 10–15 minutes in me a day,” or “I don’t want to play,” or “My kids irritate me nonstop.”

I believe parents should be able to say out loud: This is hard. We should be able to confess the parts that feel boring, repetitive, loud, sticky, and mentally exhausting. We should be able to admit that sometimes we do not want to build the Lego city, host the 17th tea party, or hear one more dramatic retelling of a playground injustice.

But here’s the line I don’t want us to cross: normalizing the feeling is healthy. Normalizing the withdrawal is not.

Because kids don’t experience our disengagement as a trendy hot take. They experience it as their home.

And right now, families are carrying a lot. In 2024, the U.S. Surgeon General released an advisory focused on parents’ mental health and well-being, pointing to high stress levels among parents and calling for stronger support systems. That doesn’t surprise anyone who has ever tried to answer work emails while cutting grapes into legally safe sizes.

That same advisory highlights something else that matters: many parents are not just tired, they’re lonely. When you parent in isolation, every normal challenge feels like a personal failure. And when parenting starts to feel like constant failure, emotional distancing can start to feel like relief.

Psychologists even have a name for a pattern that includes this kind of chronic exhaustion and “backing away” emotionally: parental burnout. Researchers describe it as intense exhaustion related to parenting, emotional distancing from your children, and feeling like you’re not the parent you used to be. And here’s the part that should sober all of us: studies have linked parental burnout with higher risks of neglectful and harmful parenting behaviors, not because most parents want to hurt their kids, but because overwhelm can erode self-control and compassion. 

So when the internet shrugs and says, “It’s fine to check out,” I want to say, gently but clearly: it may be common, but it’s not harmless.

Now, about that “10 minutes a day” idea.

Focused time matters. A short window of undistracted attention, phone down, eyes up, child-led, can be powerful. But it’s not a magic spell that covers the other 23 hours and 50 minutes.

Even research on parent-child time tends to land in a nuanced place: quantity of time isn’t the only ingredient. In some studies, the amount of time moms spend with children isn’t strongly tied to every outcome people assume it is, especially once you account for the bigger picture of resources and family context.

But nuance is not the same as permission to disappear.

Kids don’t only need “connection time.” They also need availability through a parent who is emotionally reachable enough to notice, respond, repair, and guide. In early childhood especially, Harvard’s Center on the Developing Child describes “serve and return” interactions (those back-and-forth exchanges between a child and a caring adult) as a key building block for healthy brain development. 

That doesn’t require you to be Mary Poppins all day. It does mean your child should not feel like they have to audition for your attention.

So what do we normalize instead?

Let’s normalize saying: “I’m maxed out.”
Let’s normalize saying: “I feel irritated.”
Let’s normalize saying: “I need help.”
And then let’s normalize doing the next part, the part social media rarely films:

Finding a safe place to tell the truth without making your child pay for it.

Sometimes that safe place is a friend who won’t judge you. Sometimes it’s a parenting group, a faith community, a coach, a therapist, or a support circle where people can say, “Me too,” and then move toward skills and support, not just venting and resignation.

Because here’s what worries me: we are raising kids in a culture that already preaches individualism like a religion. “Protect your peace.” “Choose yourself.” “Do what’s best for you.” Some of that language has helped people escape truly toxic situations. But applied carelessly to parenting, it can turn into something ugly: My comfort is the highest good, even when I’m the adult and you’re the child.

Parenthood changes your identity. Not because you stop being you, but because you become you-with-responsibility. Love isn’t only a feeling; it’s a practice. And kids can’t thrive on a practice we only do when we feel like it.

If you’re reading this and thinking, “I relate a little too much,” I’m not here to shame you. I’m here to name what might be true: you may be depleted, depressed, anxious, unsupported, or burned out. And you deserve help.

But your child deserves something too: a parent who doesn’t just normalize the urge to check out, who learns how to come back.

Not perfect. Not performing. Just present.

Lauren Hall is the President and CEO of First Things First. Contact her at lauren@firstthings.org.

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Honoring Where You’re From While Building What Comes Next

The first time you pack a home to start a new one, you realize you’re not just moving furniture, you’re moving a culture.

I found that out the year my husband and I wrapped and packed our new dishes next to his large trunk of travel souvenirs and my grandmother’s floral music box. On paper, that box held a smorgasbord of fragile things. In practice, it carried a thousand little “we always…” and “we never…” statements that would follow us wherever we went.

Starting a family has a way of bringing those scripts to the surface. Holidays arrive, and suddenly there are three ideas of when and where to celebrate, as well as four opinions about what type of food should be on the table. Bedtime comes with a debate: two stories and a song? A quick goodbye or a slow cuddle? We inherit so much: our values, stories, jokes, grudges, and the choreography of everyday life.

The trick isn’t to erase what came before; it’s to honor it while shaping a culture that fits the people we are becoming.

Research gives us permission to take that work seriously. Decades of studies point to something deceptively simple: families who build steady routines and meaningful rituals tend to function better. Kids are more secure, parents report lower stress, and couples feel more satisfied, not because life gets easier, but because those small, repeated touchpoints stitch everyone together. The Gottmans would say these rituals are part of how couples “create shared meaning,” the sturdy beams of the Sound Relationship House. It’s not just the big traditions; it’s the goofy goodbye at the door, the nightly five-minute check-in, the Sunday call to Nana. Tiny things, done on purpose, turn into the grammar of “us.”

Still, none of us starts with a blank page. The way we handle conflict, money, faith, chores, and affection often echoes our family of origin. Attachment researchers have shown that early relational “templates” have a way of hitching a ride into adulthood. That can be a gift. Maybe warmth around the dinner table comes naturally. It can also be a challenge. Maybe we flinch when voices rise because that never ended well in our childhood home.

Naming those patterns doesn’t dishonor our parents or grandparents; it gives us the agency to decide what we’ll carry forward and what we’ll set down.

Marriage researcher Scott Stanley has a phrase I love: “decide, don’t slide.” He uses it for big transitions, but it fits family culture, too. It’s easy to slide into what’s familiar: we host because we always have, we drive six hours because that’s what’s expected, we serve the dish no one eats because it’s “tradition.” Deciding looks different. It sounds like, “We’re grateful for that, and here’s how we’ll do it now.” Intentional choices beat inertia every time.

Of course, our families of origin don’t stop being our families just because we start a new one. Therapist Esther Perel talks often about boundaries, not as walls to keep people out, but as guardrails that keep relationships safe. In practice, that might mean you send the holiday schedule to both sets of parents at the same time so no one is surprised. It might mean you ask that certain couple of conversations remain just that—between the two of you. It might mean expanding the table some years and narrowing it others. Boundaries make room for generosity because they reduce resentment.

I saw all of this come to life on the holiday we tried to please absolutely everyone. We committed to two Christmas meals, the long drive between them, and the “quick stop” at a third house that turned into a three-hour detour. By dessert, we were smiling for photos and privately exhausted with each other. The next year, we did it differently. We sat at the kitchen table with coffee and made four little lists, not as a manifesto but as a conversation.

First, we asked what we wanted to keep exactly as it was. Then we looked at what to tweak so it fit our season: the marathon holiday drive became a huge no. We decided one year we’d host, one year we’d travel, and one year we’d keep it small and invite anyone who wants to join us. We chose one thing to start that felt like us: a quick “rose, bud, thorn” check-in at dinner where each person shares a highlight, a hope, and a hard thing. And finally, we retired one tradition that had quietly stopped serving our family. We didn’t bury it; we gave it a grateful goodbye.

None of that made our family perfect. But it did make us more deliberate. We tied our choices to values we wanted to grow: gratitude, hospitality, playfulness, faith. Our rituals weren’t just busywork; they were habits of the heart. We put the small things on the calendar, because meaningful traditions rarely survive on good intentions. And we gave ourselves permission to laugh when the beautiful plan met the very real toddlers.

If you’re wondering whether any of this matters beyond feeling cozy, the answer is yes. Scholars like Brad Wilcox and others have shown that, on average, children do better (academically, emotionally, and financially) when they grow up in stable, committed two-parent homes. There are wonderful exceptions, and every family constellation can be loving and strong.

But it’s fair to say that investing in the culture of your home is not just sentimental, it’s one of the most practical ways to give kids a secure base. Rituals and routines are how love puts on work clothes.

So maybe this is your season to sift the heirlooms. Keep what is unmistakably good. Sand and refinish what needs adapting. And be brave enough to build a few pieces of your own. It might be Friday night pizza on the floor, a monthly family service project, a standing date night, or a once-a-week FaceTime with the cousins. It might be the boundary that says, “We’ll join you Saturday morning, but we’ll sleep in our own beds Friday night.” It might simply be the quiet promise that your partner gets the benefit of the doubt, even when the day goes off the rails.

Years from now, your children may not remember what you served or whether the napkins matched. They’ll remember the feeling around the table. They’ll remember that in your home, people showed up, stories were told, forgiveness was normal, and love was practiced on purpose. That’s what it means to honor where you’re from while building what comes next.

Lauren Hall is the President and CEO of First Things First. Contact her at lauren@firstthings.org.

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