Tag Archive for: Family

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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Why Mattering Matters, Especially for Children

Most of us learned “basic needs” as a short list: food, water, shelter, safety. Useful, yes. Complete? Not really.

Harvard’s Center on the Developing Child is asking us to widen the list with something that sounds soft but works like a load-bearing wall: mattering. In their working paper Mattering in Early Childhood, they define mattering as the feeling that we are valued and that we have value to add. Put simply: “I’m important to you, and what I do makes a difference here.”

What caught my attention is how direct they are: mattering isn’t a “nice extra.” It’s an essential human need. That doesn’t replace food or housing; it explains why some kids can have the basics and still feel shaky inside. A child can have a full fridge and still quietly wonder, Would anyone notice if I wasn’t here?

Harvard also clarifies a common mix-up. Belonging is about fitting in. Mattering is about significance. You can belong to a family, classroom, or team and still not feel valued. And you can feel loved but never trusted to contribute, which also chips away at mattering. Their paper keeps returning to the two parts: feeling valued and adding value.

This connects to the Center’s long-standing “serve and return” concept: the back-and-forth exchanges between a child and a caring adult. When a baby coos and you respond, when a toddler points and you name what they see, when a child is upset and you help them settle, those moments shape brain architecture and build early language and social skills.

Mattering grows in those ordinary, repeated returns: I see you. I’m with you.

It also helps explain why chronic stress hits kids so hard. Harvard defines toxic stress as prolonged activation of stress response systems, especially when a child lacks supportive relationships to buffer that stress. Support doesn’t erase hardship, but it helps a child’s body return to calm, again and again, which supports resilience.

That’s why “mattering” is so important for kids in vulnerable neighborhoods, or in families with chaos, conflict, untreated mental illness, or substance use. In those settings, mattering can be the first thing to slip, even when adults love their children. When life is unpredictable, kids often stop asking, “Do you love me?” and start asking, “Do I count? Will anyone show up consistently?” The Center’s resilience paper notes that children who do well despite serious hardship often have had at least one stable, committed relationship with a supportive adult. 

So what do we do on a normal Tuesday? Start small on the “valued” side. Make eye contact. Put the phone down for one minute. Notice what they’re trying to tell you beneath the behavior. Comfort first, correct second. That’s serve and return in real life. 

Then build the “value to add” side. It’s faster to do everything yourself, but kids need real chances to contribute. Harvard notes that welcoming a child’s contributions helps build mattering. Let them set out napkins, feed the pet, carry in groceries, sweep after dinner, read to a sibling, and say the quiet part out loud: “That helped our family. You made a difference.”

If you’re tired reading this, you’re not disqualified. Mattering doesn’t require perfect parenting. It requires consistent signals, some warmth, some attention, and some real opportunities to help, until kids believe something sturdy: My presence counts, and I can do good here.

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

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New Year, New We: A Different Kind of Resolution

By now, most of us have made, and quietly broken, our New Year’s resolutions. The gym membership we swore we’d use. The sugar we promised to quit. The planner we bought with the best of intentions… now collecting dust.

But what if this year, instead of resolving to fix ourselves, we focused on strengthening our relationships?

After all, research consistently shows that the quality of our relationships, not our willpower or waistlines, is one of the strongest predictors of happiness, health, and even longevity. In fact, the Harvard Study of Adult Development, one of the longest-running studies on human happiness, has found that close, healthy relationships are the single biggest contributor to life satisfaction and long-term well-being. Not career success. Not money. Not even exercise. Relationships.

So maybe our New Year’s resolutions are aiming at the wrong target.

Part of the reason resolutions fail is because they’re often vague, lofty, and disconnected from daily life. “Be a better spouse.” “Spend more time with my kids.” Noble goals, but not very actionable.

Psychologists draw a helpful distinction between resolutions and habits. A resolution is a declaration of intent. A habit is a behavior repeated so consistently it becomes automatic.

According to behavior researcher Dr. BJ Fogg of Stanford University, lasting change doesn’t come from massive motivation, it comes from small behaviors that are easy to repeat. Or as author James Clear puts it, “You do not rise to the level of your goals. You fall to the level of your systems.”

In other words, strong families aren’t built on grand promises made once a year. They’re built on small, repeated actions done week after week.

Instead of asking, What do I want to change about myself this year? try asking, How do I want the people closest to me to experience me?

Here are a few evidence-based, relationship-centered resolutions, paired with habits that actually make them stick.

1. Resolution: “I want to be more present with my family.”

Habit: One device-free window every day.

Research from the Journal of Marriage and Family shows that even brief, consistent moments of focused attention—what researchers call “high-quality time”—strengthen emotional bonds more than occasional big gestures. That might look like 15 uninterrupted minutes after work, phones down at dinner, or sitting on the edge of your child’s bed at night and really listening.

Presence doesn’t require more time. It requires fewer distractions.

2. Resolution: “I want a stronger marriage.”

Habit: One daily moment of connection.

Marriage researcher Dr. John Gottman found that successful couples regularly turn toward each other in small ways—responding to bids for attention, affection, or conversation. A quick check-in. A hug that lasts more than six seconds. A genuine “How was your day?”

These moments may seem insignificant, but Gottman’s research shows they compound over time, building emotional trust and resilience. Strong marriages aren’t fueled by grand romantic gestures; they’re sustained by everyday kindness.

3. Resolution: “I want less conflict at home.”

Habit: Change how you start hard conversations.

According to Gottman’s research, the first three minutes of a difficult conversation predict how the rest of it will go more than 90 percent of the time. He calls this the “soft startup.”

Instead of leading with criticism (“You never help around here”), try leading with curiosity or ownership (“I’m feeling overwhelmed and could use your help”). Same issue—very different outcome.

Conflict doesn’t damage relationships nearly as much as how we handle it.

4. Resolution: “I want to be a better parent.”

Habit: Catch your kids doing something right—daily.

Studies in developmental psychology show that positive reinforcement is far more effective than constant correction. Children thrive when they feel seen for their effort, not just their mistakes.

A simple habit—naming one thing your child did well each day—can dramatically improve connection, cooperation, and confidence. Bonus: it changes your mindset, too.

If you want your resolutions to survive past January, keep these principles in mind:

  • Make them small. If it feels almost too easy, you’re doing it right.
  • Attach them to existing routines. Talk during the car ride. Connect at bedtime. Check in over coffee.
  • Focus on consistency, not perfection. Miss a day? Start again tomorrow. Relationships grow through repair, not flawlessness.
  • Measure what matters. Instead of asking, “Did I stick to my resolution?” ask, “Did my people feel more loved this week?”

At the end of the year, no one will remember whether you kept your plank streak or skipped dessert. But they will remember how it felt to live with you. To be married to you. To be parented by you.

So maybe the best New Year’s resolution isn’t about doing more, but about loving better.

And that’s a resolution worth keeping.

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

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Grief is More Than Five Neat Stages

As lights go up and holiday music follows us into every store, grief has a way of slipping into the season uninvited.

Someone mentioned to me recently that the “five stages of grief” have been debunked.

I knew exactly what they meant. For years, those stages (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance) have floated around like a script we’re all supposed to follow. Movies use them. TV shows use them. Friends whisper them in church hallways and at hospital bedsides: “She’s still in denial,” or “At least he’s reached acceptance.”

So when my friend said that, I started thinking about all the people I’ve sat with after a loss who quietly ask, “Is it bad that I’m not angry?” or “It’s been a year and I still cry all the time. Am I behind?” Underneath the question is the real fear: Am I grieving wrong?

That sent me digging into what the research actually says. Is the “stages idea” truly outdated? And if so, what do we know now about how people move through loss?

First, a little context. The five stages came from psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross back in 1969. She was studying people who were dying from terminal illnesses, not people grieving a loved one who had died. Her work was groundbreaking in its time because it gave language to the emotional world of people facing their own mortality. But as her ideas seeped into popular culture, the stages started getting applied to just about any loss: divorce, job changes, breakups, bereavement.

Even Kübler-Ross later admitted people were misunderstanding her. The stages were never meant to be a rigid, one-size-fits-all roadmap. Real people don’t move neatly from Denial to Anger to Bargaining like kids going through an inflatable obstacle course.

But that’s how we started to talk about grief, as if we could check off emotional boxes and eventually graduate to “acceptance.”

Over the last few decades, grief researchers have been gently, and sometimes not so gently, pushing back on that idea. When they actually follow people over time, they don’t see one tidy sequence. They see a lot of variation. Some people have intense, overwhelming grief that slowly eases. Some struggle for a long time. And some, maybe more than we’d expect, show what psychologists call resilience: they are deeply affected by the loss, but they’re still able to function, experience moments of joy, and keep living their lives even in the shadow of that grief.

That doesn’t mean they didn’t love the person enough. It means human beings are surprisingly capable of holding pain and everyday life in the same pair of hands.

Researchers have also found that while feelings like disbelief, yearning, anger, sadness, and acceptance do tend to appear at different points after a loss, they don’t line up in neat, universal stages. You might feel mostly numb at first and break down later. You might cry constantly in the early months and find yourself laughing with friends sooner than you expected. You might feel “mostly okay” 90 percent of the time, and then suddenly get hit with a wave of sorrow at the grocery store because you passed your loved one’s favorite cereal.

So has the “stages idea” been “debunked”? In a sense, yes. What’s been tossed out is the notion that there’s one correct emotional sequence everyone should follow on a predictable timetable. The emotions themselves, sadness, anger, bargaining, acceptance, are very real. Lots of people recognize themselves in one or more of those experiences. The problem comes when we treat them as rules instead of possibilities.

Newer grief science paints a picture that’s less linear, more flexible, and honestly, more comforting.

One of the most helpful models I’ve come across describes grief as a kind of back-and-forth motion rather than a straight line. Instead of “step 1: denial, step 2: anger,” it suggests that healthy grieving means moving between two different modes.

In one mode, you’re “loss-focused.” You feel the ache. You talk about the person. You cry, remember, tell stories, look through photos, or sit in that empty chair at the table and let yourself feel how wrong it all is.

In the other mode, you’re “restoration-focused.” You pay the bills, answer emails, bathe the kids, and figure out how to mow the lawn even though your spouse always did that. You learn how to live in a world where this person isn’t here in the same way anymore.

And here’s the key: you don’t pick one. You oscillate between the two. Some days you’re right in the center of the pain; other days you’re mostly focused on everyday life. That back-and-forth isn’t avoidance; it’s how your brain and body pace themselves so you don’t drown.

It also means you’re not failing if you find yourself laughing at a silly video one minute and sobbing in the car the next. You’re not “in denial” because you went to a football game and actually enjoyed yourself. You’re not “stuck in depression” because your eyes still fill with tears when you smell your grandfather’s aftershave. You’re doing what grieving people do: feeling your loss, and also slowly learning how to live inside a changed story.

Another shift in the grief world has to do with what it means to “move on.” For a long time, the goal was described as severing your emotional ties with the person who died so you could “detach” and invest in new relationships. Now, many experts argue that’s neither realistic nor desirable. Instead, they talk about “continuing bonds” and finding ways to stay meaningfully connected to the person who died, even as you move forward.

That might look like cooking your mother’s recipes on holidays, talking to your spouse or your child when you drive by a place they loved, keeping their photo on the fridge and telling your kids stories about them, setting a chair at the table during special occasions, or donating to a cause they cared about.

For many people, those ongoing connections are comforting, not pathological. It’s not that you never accept their death; it’s that love doesn’t evaporate just because a heartbeat stops. It reshapes itself.

Grief researchers also talk more and more about meaning. When someone we love dies, the world we thought we knew can feel shattered. Grieving isn’t just about learning how not to cry in the produce aisle; it’s about slowly piecing together a world that makes sense again. That might involve spiritual questions and identity questions such as: “Who am I now that I’m no longer their spouse, or their caregiver?” It may involve choices about how to live in a way that honors what that person valued.

That’s why grief counseling today often looks less like a therapist trying to drag you through stages, and more like someone walking beside you as you ask, and eventually answer, some of those hard questions.

Of course, not all grief eases with time. A small percentage of people experience what’s now called Prolonged Grief Disorder, which is grief that remains intense and overwhelming for a year or more, to the point that it severely disrupts daily life. If you feel frozen, unable to function, stuck in guilt or yearning or hopelessness long after everyone else seems to think you “should” be better, that’s not a character flaw. It’s a sign you deserve more support. There are therapists and grief specialists who can help anyone in that place find a way forward.

But for most of us, grief looks less like climbing a staircase and more like learning to live with an ache that changes over time. It might be a roaring wave at first, knocking you flat. Then, months or years later, it might show up as a soft tug at your heart when your child graduates, or when you hear a song on the radio, or when you meet someone new and think, “I wish you could have known them.”

So if you’re grieving and worried that you’re not doing it right because you skipped a stage, or circled back, or never felt the thing you were “supposed” to feel, here’s the good news: there is no universal checklist. There is only your love, your story, and your way through.

You’re allowed to have days when you function just fine and days when you can’t stop crying. You’re allowed to keep their sweatshirt in your closet or talk to their photo, or bake their favorite cookies every year on their birthday. You’re allowed to laugh. You’re allowed to feel joy. You’re allowed to fall in love again. None of that erases what you had; it just means your heart is big enough to hold more than one thing at once.

Maybe the most merciful thing modern grief research tells us is this: you’re not behind. You’re not broken because you don’t fit into five tidy stages. You are a human being who loved someone and still loves them. You’re finding your own path forward, one breath, one memory, one day at a time.

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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Sharenting and Your Child’s Digital Footprint

I’ll go first: I haven’t been the best about guardrails around my kids’ “digital identity.”

Like a lot of parents, I posted the happy, the funny, and sometimes the very specific—team names, school logos, “We’re here!” vacation snaps. However, I’ve recently learned more about digital footprints, and while it didn’t send me into a shame spiral, it did nudge me toward a reset. There are simple ways for any parent to begin.

The big idea is this: move from impulse to intention. Researchers have long noted that parents often create a child’s first “digital dossier,” shaping an online identity years before kids can consent. There’s even a legal name for it: “sharenting.” It highlights the tension between a parent’s right to share and a child’s interest in privacy as they grow. At the same time, many parents use social media for community and advice, which is understandable—and common. The goal isn’t to quit celebrating our kids; it’s to celebrate with thoughtful guardrails.

A practical first step is to set a few family rules you can actually remember. The American Academy of Pediatrics recommends families create a media plan—simple, written norms for what gets shared, when, and with whom. Their online tool walks you through age-by-age decisions and helps you revise as kids grow. Many families land on versions of this: no live location tags, no medical details, avoid pairing full names with school or team identifiers, and post after you leave a place instead of while you’re there. UNICEF’s parent guidance adds quick wins like turning off geotagging in your camera settings and checking app privacy defaults so your photos aren’t broadcasting more than you intend.

Consent can start early and evolve.

For little ones, consent looks like choosing dignity on their behalf—skip bath or swimming pics, diaper shots, discipline scenes, or medical specifics that might follow them later. As kids enter school age, ask before you post and offer options: “Okay to text to grandparents? Okay in our private album? Okay to post?” By the tween/teen years, many experts suggest treating consent as a negotiated default—assume “no” unless you hear “yes,” and invite kids into the decision. This shifts the culture at home from “parents publish everything” to “parents steward.”

If you want a quick gut-check before sharing, try three questions: Who is this for? What does it reveal (face, name, school, routine, location, health)? How might future-them feel about this? If anything snags your stomach, save it to a private album instead of a public feed. Many parents find they still share faces—just with fewer breadcrumbs in the caption and without real-time location.

That middle lane keeps joy public and privacy intact.

Cleaning up older posts doesn’t require burning your archive. Start with the highest-risk items (partial nudity, health details, discipline, or posts that reveal routines/locations), then narrow the audience on what remains. Update tag settings so you approve what appears on your profile. 

Schools, teams, and clubs deserve a glance, too. Read those photo permission forms—most let you opt into yearbooks or private galleries but out of public websites. If your league posts to public pages, ask whether they can use a password-protected gallery or skip tags with children’s names. One gracious question often resets the group norm.

If you’re co-parenting or have a big extended network, write the basics down so everyone’s pulling in the same direction: what you’ll share, where you’ll share it, and how you’ll handle requests. Keeping it simple and documented lowers the temperature and reduces “But I didn’t know” moments. (The AAP’s family media plan is a helpful template to reference together.) 

And because the point of all these photos is connection, don’t forget the fun alternatives: a private shared album for the inner circle, a rotating digital frame at Grandma’s, printed photo books on the coffee table. You’ll often end up sharing more with the people who matter—and less with the entire internet.

None of this requires perfection.

Parents are already carrying a lot, and surveys from The National Poll on Children’s Health show that concerns about kids’ device use and social media are top-of-mind across the country. The win isn’t a spotless feed; it’s a steadier habit: celebrate broadly, protect quietly, and invite your child’s voice as they grow.

I’ll end where I began: I’m not great at this. I’m just starting this new journey of learning how and why to protect my children’s digital identity. I plan to keep sharing the joy of our family, but with guardrails that let my kids inherit more control over their own stories. If you’re starting here too, you’re right on time.

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

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The Comfort of Discomfort for Both Parents and Children

My two-year-old loves chocolate milk, especially in the morning with breakfast. Every day she asks for a big glass to drink with her fruit and toast. Most mornings I mix it up for her, but one morning we were out of chocolate syrup. Tragedy followed. 

The crying and the gnashing of teeth, the wallowing on the floor and refusal to eat breakfast–it was almost enough to make me serve her a handful of chocolate chips to suffice.

But as much as I want to smooth the path, I’ve learned (sometimes the hard way) that a little discomfort is not the enemy, it’s the gym where resilience grows.

Psychologists sometimes call this the “Goldilocks zone” of challenge, not too much, not too little. Research following thousands of people over time found that those who had some adversity, not none, not a ton, ended up with better mental health and well-being. Like muscles, our coping skills strengthen when they lift manageable weight. You see it in schoolwork, too. Learning scientists talk about “desirable difficulties.” When we let kids wrestle with a problem, space out their practice, or mix up what they’re learning, it can feel harder in the moment, yet it actually leads to stronger, longer-lasting learning. Struggle today, stick tomorrow.

Pediatricians say play is the perfect training ground for this. The American Academy of Pediatrics calls developmentally appropriate play a “singular opportunity” for building social-emotional skills, self-regulation, and a healthy stress response, the heart of resilience. Play isn’t a break from learning; it is learning. And yes, a dash of “risky play” (the supervised, common-sense kind—climbing, balancing, moving a bit faster than feels comfy) can boost confidence, risk detection, physical activity, and resilience.

Bubble wrap is for packages, not childhood.

Here’s the tricky part: our help can become a handicap if we give it too fast and too often. When we rescue kids from every uncomfortable moment, tying every shoe, solving every social tangle, emailing every teacher, we may accidentally teach them, “You can’t handle this.” Studies link chronic over-involved parenting with more anxiety and less self-efficacy in kids and young adults. Even our praise can backfire. Consistent research shows that praising kids for being “so smart” can make them avoid challenges and crumble after mistakes. Praising effort, strategies, and progress nudges them to lean into hard things and try again. That’s the heartbeat of a growth mindset.

If you’re thinking, “But watching them struggle hurts,” same. Here’s a reframe that helps me at home and at work: discomfort is data. It tells us where growth is happening and what support, not rescue, our kids need. When my toddler totters up the slide, my job isn’t to shout “No!” from the bench; it’s to spot, set a boundary (“feet first”), and cheer her small wins. When my first grader melts down over a tricky word, my job isn’t to say “I’ll read it for you”; it’s “Let’s slow down, try the first sound, and check the picture.” That style fits with what brain-based parenting experts like Dr. Dan Siegel teach: co-regulate first (our calm becomes their calm), name the feeling, offer a doable next step, and let kids take the lead as they’re able. We’re not tossing them in the deep end; we’re being swim coaches in the shallow end.

Here’s a simple loop we use around our kitchen table.

  • First, name the feeling: “Looks like this is frustrating.” Feelings first; logic later.
  • Second, normalize the struggle: “Hard means your brain is growing.”
  • Third, narrow the next step: “Let’s try just the first piece,” or “Show me two ways you might start.”
  • Fourth, notice the process: “You slowed down and tried a new strategy—nice.”
  • Finally, let it be a little messy. Resist the urge to fix. Sit with them—coaching, not controlling.

None of this means tossing safety out the window. Letting kids be uncomfortable is not letting them be unsafe. Helmets, seatbelts, and clear boundaries aren’t negotiable. The research on “risky play” isn’t a free-for-all; it’s a reminder that age-appropriate challenges build judgment and confidence when adults provide a safe “yes-space” and supervise with wisdom.

Now for the part we don’t say out loud: sometimes our kids’ discomfort dents our image of being a “good parent.” It stirs our anxiety. It slows the morning routine. It’s messy. But growth shows up messy and right on time. When we choose to tolerate our own discomfort by watching them wobble, try, fail, and recover, we model the exact courage we hope to see in them. And we don’t have to make grand speeches. We can practice in low-stakes moments: letting them talk to the cashier, carry the backpack, or work out a playground mix-up. Parenting author Jessica Lahey calls these the “gifts of failure,” small, safe chances to learn how to bounce back while the price tags are low.

So here’s what this looks like in real life.

When my six-year-old asks for help, I’ve started saying, “Show me what you tried first.” Then I add one hint—not the answer. When my toddler wants to climb, we make a quick “yes plan”: shoes on, rules set (“feet first, one at a time”), grown-up nearby. 

If you’re anything like me, you want your kids to be capable, kind, and brave. That future doesn’t come from clearing every hurdle out of their lane. It comes from running beside them, sometimes out of breath but always cheering them on while they learn to clear those hurdles themselves.

A little discomfort, for them and for us, is a sign we’re both getting stronger.

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

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Should Parents Care If Their Kids Like Them or Not?

I received a phone call from a concerned grandfather, parent and community leader recently. He said he and his wife have been volunteering at several elementary schools in the area, and there’s one glaring factor that school faculty are concerned about: Parents seem to be more concerned about whether or not their kids like them than anything else. 

Here’s an uncomfortable truth: I want my kids to like me, and they often do, but that’s not the North Star of my parenting. My job is to love them, keep them safe, teach them how to be decent humans, and give them room to grow. If they like me along the way, wonderful. If they’re temporarily mad because I said “no” to midnight YouTube or ice cream for breakfast? Also okay.

So should parents try to be “liked” by their kids?

The better target is connection and trust, not popularity. Psychologists have studied this for decades, and the style that helps kids thrive is called “authoritative” parenting. It blends warmth and responsiveness with clear limits. In plain English: you listen, you explain, and you still mean what you say. Studies consistently link this approach with better social skills, mental health, and school outcomes compared to harsher or looser styles.

When “please like me” becomes the main goal, it’s easy to drift into the land of “anything for a smile.”

That’s what researchers call permissive parenting—high on warmth, low on boundaries.

It feels peaceful in the moment, but over time it’s tied to more behavior problems and tougher emotions for kids. I’ve seen that in families we serve, and the research backs it up.

There’s a trap on the other side, too. If we fixate on obedience above all else, we can slide into psychological control with guilt trips, shaming, love-withdrawal, or “because I said so and you should feel bad for questioning me.” That style may get quick compliance, but it’s consistently linked to more anxiety, depression, and acting out. Kids need guidance; they don’t need their inner world micromanaged.

What does the middle path look like in a Tuesday-night living room?

It starts with connection.

You get on their level and name what’s happening: “You’re furious about the tablet being turned off. I get it.” Then you hold the limit calmly and explain why: “Sleep fuels your brain for school; the tablet is done for tonight.” That combo, warmth plus structure, is basically the recipe the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends: clear expectations, positive reinforcement, natural or logical consequences, and no corporal punishment.

Some parents worry that if they hold firm, they’ll damage the relationship. The evidence points the other way. High-quality parent–child relationships, marked by warmth, support, and trust, are connected to better well-being even in adulthood, across many countries and cultures. Your child may not like your decision tonight, but the steady, caring relationship you build by being both kind and clear pays dividends years down the road.

Here’s a simple gut-check I use at home: Am I saying “yes” because it’s best for my child, or because I want to dodge a meltdown? Did I connect first, then correct? Would “future me” thank “present me” for this decision? If my answer is mostly about keeping the peace or protecting my image as the “fun parent,” it’s time to reset.

None of this means you can’t be playful, goofy, and close with your kids. Please be all of those things. It does mean we shouldn’t make our children responsible for our feelings.

When we chase their approval, we can start negotiating every boundary or using emotional pressure to pull them back to us. A 2009 Developmental Review study on autonomy-supportive parenting shows that when we respect a child’s need to feel some ownership of their choices—within sensible limits—they develop more internal motivation and healthier coping skills. That’s very different from letting them run the show. It’s also very different from controlling their thoughts and feelings to keep them “close.”

So, should parents strive to be liked? I hope my kids like me. I hope they think I’m fun and fair and safe to talk to. But my real aim is to be trustworthy. Trustworthy parents tell the truth about limits and hold them without drama. They apologize when they blow it (we all do), repair quickly, and keep showing up. Ironically, kids often end up liking and respecting those parents the most.

If you’re a parent who’s been leaning hard into “please like me,” you’re not alone. Start small. Pick one boundary you believe matters. Explain the “why,” hold it kindly, and follow through. Expect pushback. Stay calm. Then do it again tomorrow. You’re not auditioning for their best friend; you’re building a relationship that can carry your child through big feelings, bad days, and growing-up moments.

In the long run, that’s better than being liked, it’s being loved and trusted.

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

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