Parents & Families Archives

Hope Comes Full Circle

In my last column, I wrote about hope as a skill. Hope isn’t passive, and it isn’t something we either have or we don’t. Like any skill, it has to be built through small choices, steady practice, supportive relationships and repeated evidence that change is possible.

Once hope is developed in a person, it can be shared with those around them.

But rather than keep talking about hope, I want to let you see it in action.

For the next two columns, I’m handing this space over to Chris Cooper. Chris is a member of the First Things First team and directs our EPIC Dads program.

Chris also graduated from a First Things First fatherhood program a decade ago. But I’ll let him tell that story.

Chris’s story is one of hope, not as an abstract idea, but as something built, practiced and passed along.

Over the next two columns, I want you to hear his hope in action.

Enjoy.

Part 1: From Participant to Leader

By Chris Cooper

In 2016, I sat at a First Things First table as a participant in the fatherhood program Dads Making a Difference. I was trying to navigate child support, custody and the emotional weight of wanting to be a good dad during a difficult season.

I wasn’t leading anything then. I was trying to steady my life and figure out how to be the father my kids deserved.

Nearly a decade later, I sit at that same table in a different seat.

Today, I facilitate EPIC Dads, guiding men through the kinds of conversations and lessons that once guided me. I’m not just an employee of First Things First. I’m a former participant and a beneficiary of the work we do. That lived experience shapes everything about how I lead.

The work didn’t end when I completed the program. I kept showing up. I volunteered. I stayed connected. Over time, the tools I learned helped me stabilize my life, strengthen my relationships and eventually gain full custody of my sons, who are now 26 and 24.

Today, my wife and I are raising our 17-year-old daughter in a home built on the lessons I once came here to learn. The stability we’ve built together is living proof that when a father grows, the entire household grows with him. That’s the same hope I carry into every EPIC Dads session.

When a dad walks into one of my sessions, I know exactly what he may be carrying: uncertainty, stress and the desire to show up for his kids even when life feels complicated.

Because I’ve been in his seat, I don’t talk at the men in my group. I talk with them.

We share stories. We confront real-world struggles. We create a space where honesty is welcomed and growth is possible.

One dad recently told me, “This is the only thing I’ve ever completed.”

That moment reminded me why this work matters. Sometimes a completed session, a breakthrough or one honest conversation can change the direction of a man’s life—and his children’s lives.

Being a father is the most important job a man will ever have. When a dad grows, an entire family grows with him.

My sons, my daughter and my wife have all witnessed my transformation—the struggle, the work and the commitment it took to become the man I am today. Their lives remind me every day why this work matters.

Through EPIC Dads, we’re not just teaching skills. We’re building stability. We’re restoring confidence. We’re helping men write new futures for themselves and their children.

I once sat at that table searching for direction. Now I sit there helping other men find theirs.

That full-circle moment is the greatest honor of my life.

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

July 26, 2026/0 Comments/by Christopher Cooper

The Stories That Make Us Strong

A dear friend of mine, who is a marriage and family therapist, recently sent me a piece of research because, as she put it, it reminded her of my family.

This is both a compliment and a small accusation.

I’ve often felt I know more family history than the average person should. Not just the sweet stories. Not just the “your great-grandmother made the best biscuits” stories. I know the uncomfortable ones, too. The ones most families might tuck away in a drawer labeled “Let’s not bring this up over brisket.”

One of those stories is about my paternal grandparents. When I was seven or eight years old, I learned they had once been on the brink of divorce. This was decades before I was born, and the story was shared at a family gathering over barbecue with the same casual tone someone might use to discuss a Christmas memory.

I was stunned.

We had recently celebrated their 45th wedding anniversary. They seemed so in love. Even in their early 60s, they held hands, laughed together and seemed genuinely delighted to be in the same room. This stood out to me because many of my friends’ grandparents appeared more “mildly annoyed roommates” than “true life partners.”

As I got older, I asked more questions. I learned their near-divorce was not the end of their story. In many ways, it became the turning point. The almost collapse of their marriage helped catapult them into the beautiful relationship I later witnessed. It also explained why they were so adamant that my dad and his brothers not only “get married and stay married,” but adore their wives. Date them. Laugh with them. Play together. Enjoy each other.

I did not realize how much that story shaped my own understanding of marriage until I was married myself.

This is exactly the kind of thing psychologists Robyn Fivush and Marshall Duke at Emory University have studied for years: the power of family stories. Not just the shiny stories. The whole story.

Duke, Fivush and their colleagues developed what is called the “Do You Know?” scale, a set of 20 questions designed to measure how much children know about their family history. The questions are simple. Do you know how your parents met? Do you know where your grandparents grew up? Do you know the source of your name? Do you know about an illness, injury, hard time or lesson your parents experienced when they were younger?

The point was not to see which children had memorized the most family trivia. This was not Ancestry.com meets standardized testing. The researchers wanted to understand whether children who knew more about their family’s past also showed stronger emotional well-being.

In one study, Fivush, Duke and Jennifer Bohanek looked at 66 adolescents, ages 14 to 16, from broadly middle-class, mixed-race, two-parent families. The teens completed the “Do You Know?” scale along with standardized measures of family functioning, identity development and well-being. The results were striking. Adolescents who knew more about their family history showed higher levels of emotional well-being and stronger identity achievement, even when researchers controlled for general family functioning.

Earlier work found similar patterns among younger children. Higher scores on the “Do You Know?” scale were linked with higher self-esteem, a stronger sense of control over life, better family functioning, lower anxiety and fewer internalizing and externalizing behavior problems.

But here is the important part: Fivush and Duke were clear that simply stuffing a child’s brain with facts about Uncle Larry’s old Ford truck does not magically make them resilient.

The power is not in the facts alone. The power is in the process.

Families who tell stories are usually doing something deeper. They are creating connections. They are showing children where they come from. They are giving them a larger narrative to stand inside when life gets hard.

And, according to Duke, the healthiest family narratives are not only ascending stories, where everything gets better and better. They are not only descending stories, where everything falls apart. The most helpful stories are often “oscillating” stories: We had hard times. We got through them. We had good times. We lost our way. We found our way again.

That matters because children do not need a family tree full of perfect people. In fact, good luck finding one.

Children need to know their family has survived real life. They need stories of grandparents who struggled, parents who made mistakes, relatives who repaired relationships, people who changed, families who grieved and laughed in the same kitchen.

Of course, this does not mean every story is appropriate for every age. We do not need to hand a six-year-old a full documentary on generational trauma while they are trying to eat macaroni and cheese. But we can tell the truth in age-appropriate ways.

“We had a really hard season, and we had to learn how to love each other better.”

“Grandpa made some mistakes when he was younger, and he worked hard to make things right.”

“When I was your age, I felt left out sometimes, too.”

“Our family has been through hard things before, and we know how to take the next right step.”

So how do we use this research in real family life?

First, tell stories at ordinary times. The best family storytelling often happens in the car, at the dinner table, on the porch, during holidays or while washing dishes. You do not need a formal family history night, although if your people will tolerate that, bless them.

Second, tell the whole story, not just the polished one. Share the wedding day and the almost-divorce. The job promotion and the job loss. The answered prayer and the season of waiting. Children learn resilience when they hear that struggle is not proof their family is broken. It is proof their family is human.

Third, connect the story to meaning. Do not just say, “Your grandmother lived through a hard time.” Say, “That taught her to be generous,” or “That is why she cared so much about keeping family close.” The lesson helps the child carry the story forward.

Fourth, ask questions. Try a few from the “Do You Know?” scale. Ask your children what they know about where you grew up, how you met their other parent, what you were like as a child or what mistakes taught you the most. Let them ask follow-ups. Let the conversation wander.

Finally, remember that family stories are not about creating pride in perfection. They are about creating belonging.

When I think about my grandparents now, I do not think less of their marriage because it almost ended. I think more of it. I saw the fruit of repair. I saw two people who had weathered something hard and built something beautiful on the other side.

That story gave me more than information. It gave me imagination.

It helped me believe that love can mature. That repair is possible. Those hard seasons do not have to have the final word.

And maybe that is one of the greatest gifts we can give our children: not a flawless family history, but an honest one sturdy enough to hold them.

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

July 12, 2026/0 Comments/by Lauren Hall

Parents & Families, The Relatable Report for Parenting Things

Dad’s Earliest Job May Be More Important Than We Thought

Last Sunday, we celebrated Father’s Day.

There were cards with handprints, neckties that may or may not ever be worn, backyard cookouts, phone calls, social media tributes and children proudly presenting homemade gifts involving glue, glitter and questionable spelling.

Father’s Day gives us a chance to say what should probably be said more often: Dads matter.

But sometimes I wonder if we say it so often that it starts to sound like a greeting card instead of a truth with real weight behind it.

A recent Penn State study gives us another reason to take fatherhood seriously, not just as a sentimental idea, but as something that can shape a child’s health years down the road.

Researchers looked at how mothers and fathers interacted with their babies at 10 months old, how parents worked together when the children were toddlers, and then how those children were doing physically around age 7. They were especially interested in markers connected to heart and metabolic health, including inflammation and blood sugar regulation.

What they found was striking.

Fathers who were warm, responsive and developmentally supportive with their babies at 10 months were more likely to have healthier dynamics with the child’s mother when the child was 2. In those families, children showed better health markers years later.

In other words, the way a father interacted with his baby before that child could walk, talk in full sentences or form lasting memories was still connected to the child’s physical health in second grade.

That is worth sitting with for a minute.

We often talk about fatherhood in terms of provision, discipline, coaching, teaching life skills or showing up at big events. And all of those things matter. But this study points us back to the earliest, quietest moments of fatherhood.

A dad getting down on the floor with his baby.

A dad responding gently when his child fusses.

A dad noticing when the baby is overstimulated and needs a break.

A dad making silly faces, reading the same board book 400 times, changing diapers, singing off-key, offering comfort and delight.

Those moments may not look impressive from the outside. They do not usually make it into baby books. Nobody gives a trophy for calmly rocking a tired infant at 2 a.m.

But children’s bodies are listening long before children have the words to explain what they are experiencing.

Babies learn whether the world is safe. They learn whether their needs matter. They learn whether the big people in their lives are predictable, warm and available. They learn, in the deepest parts of their developing brains and bodies, whether stress is something they have to manage alone or something loving adults will help them carry.

This does not mean fathers are solely responsible for a child’s health. It does not mean mothers matter less. It does not mean every later health issue can be traced back to whether Dad was cheerful during tummy time.

Research does not work that way, and families do not work that way.

But the study does remind us that fathers are not background characters in a child’s development. They are not occasional helpers, backup babysitters or comic relief. Fathers help create the emotional climate of the home. They influence how parents work together. They shape the environment where a child’s nervous system, relationships and health begin to develop.

That should encourage dads, not crush them.

Because the takeaway is not that fathers have to be perfect. No parent is warm, patient and developmentally appropriate every minute of every day. There are days when the baby will not sleep, the toddler melts down in public, work stress follows you home and everyone in the house needs a snack and an attitude adjustment.

The point is not perfection. The point is presence.

A father’s consistent warmth matters. His tenderness matters. His ability to repair after frustration matters. His willingness to learn his child, not just manage his child, matters.

And this is where mothers, grandparents, employers, faith communities, schools and neighborhoods have a role to play, too. If we believe dads matter, we have to do more than applaud them once a year over barbecue.

We need to make room for fathers to be involved from the very beginning.

That means encouraging dads to take parental leave when it is available. It means not treating fathers as incompetent when they show up at the pediatrician’s office, the preschool classroom or the grocery store with a baby carrier strapped to their chest. It means workplaces understanding that fathers have sick children, school meetings and bedtime routines, too.

It also means helping couples build healthy co-parenting patterns early. When parents are competing for a child’s attention, withdrawing from each other or undermining one another, children feel that tension. When parents cooperate, encourage each other and share the work of caregiving, the whole family system becomes healthier.

So maybe one of the best gifts we can give children is not just an involved dad, but a supported dad.

A dad who is invited in, not pushed to the margins.

A dad who is allowed to be nurturing, not just strong.

A dad who knows that holding a baby, soothing a toddler and working as a true partner are not side jobs. They are central to fatherhood.

Since we just celebrated Father’s Day, it is tempting to pack the gratitude away with the cards and move on. But the real work of fatherhood happens in the ordinary days after the holiday.

It happens in the bedtime routine.

It happens in the car seat buckle.

It happens in the kitchen while cutting grapes into impossibly tiny pieces.

It happens when a father puts down his phone, looks into his child’s face and says, with his attention as much as his words, “I’m here.”

Years from now, that child may not remember the moment.

But their body just might.

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

June 28, 2026/0 Comments/by Lauren Hall

Parents & Families, The Relatable Report for Parenting Things

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

June 14, 2026/0 Comments/by Lauren Hall

Parents & Families, The Relatable Report for Parenting Things

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

May 31, 2026/0 Comments/by Lauren Hall

Parents & Families, The Relatable Report, The Relatable Report for Parenting Things

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

May 24, 2026/0 Comments/by Lauren Hall

General, Parents & Families

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

May 3, 2026/0 Comments/by Lauren Hall

Parents & Families, The Relatable Report, The Relatable Report for Parenting Things

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

April 26, 2026/0 Comments/by Lauren Hall