The Bread and the Hammer: Parenting Through Presence, Not Perfection

"We are not called to be perfect parents, but present ones — offering the bread of compassion and wielding the hammer of truth with love. In presence, we shape souls more than we fix behaviors."

The other day, I found myself in a deep, unexpected conversation with my middle child—my gentle-hearted son who has been diagnosed with anxiety. His case isn’t severe, but his anxiety often whispers self-doubt into his mind, painting stories of not being enough. And as his mother, it both humbles and challenges me. 

Parenting is never simple, but parenting a child who navigates the world through the lens of anxiety requires something deeper—more intention, more softness, more awareness. I’ve learned that with him, I cannot parent from impulse.

 I must pause, take a breath, and meet him where he is—with language that heals, not harms. I have to remind myself that every word carries weight, and my tone can either soothe or stir the waves inside him.

One day, after a particularly emotional moment, he struggled to find words to explain how he felt. I could see the confusion in his eyes—the way he tried to make sense of something that should never have been his to carry: the weight of an adult’s misplaced emotions.

And in that moment, instead of offering advice, I offered an experience.

I asked him to grab a slice of bread from the pantry. Then I gently asked him to describe it—the shape, the color, the texture, the smell. He looked at me a little puzzled, but he played along. Once he was done, I placed the bread on a chopping board and handed him a hammer. “Slam it,” I said. “As hard as you can.” He did. When the bread was crumpled and pierced with little holes, I handed it back to him and asked him to describe it again.

To his surprise, nothing had really changed. The shape was still there. The smell, the color, the essence of the bread—it was all the same.

And so I told him, “This bread is you. No matter how much someone else’s pain or anger is thrown at you, you are still you. What they say or do doesn’t define you. Your worth, your heart, your being—it stays whole, even if bruised. You are still the same inside.”

As the words left my mouth, I felt their weight settle on my own heart. Because I, too, have been guilty of forgetting this. In moments of frustration, exhaustion, or emotional overload, I’ve placed expectations on my children that were never theirs to carry. I’ve expected them to understand like adults, to act with emotional maturity, to know better—when they’re still learning, still growing, still discovering what it means to be human.

This moment with my son became a mirror.

Parenting isn’t about shaping our children into perfect little versions of ourselves. It’s about guiding them to discover their own light, their own voice, their own sacred path. It’s about loosening our grip and learning to trust—not just in their journey, but in our ability to walk beside them without controlling the steps.

Allowing them to stumble isn’t failure. It’s a gift.

Letting them fail, make mistakes, feel disappointment, or experience heartbreak—these are not things to be feared, but sacred rites of growth. Their scars will become stories. Their falls will become strength. And their pain, if held with love, will one day transform into wisdom.

I’ve come to understand that parenting is not about protecting them from life. It’s about preparing them for it. And that preparation starts by teaching them how to lovingly parent themselves—to listen to their own inner voice, to comfort their inner child, and to trust their sacred heart.

I am not here to mold them.

I am here to witness them.

To hold space for who they are now, and who they are becoming.

And through this journey, I am learning that my children are not just students of my teaching—they are teachers of my becoming. They teach me patience, softness, humility, and grace. They show me my edges, and they invite me—daily—to love beyond them.

So, to all the mothers who feel the weight of getting it “right,” I offer this:

You are allowed to grow alongside your children. You are allowed to make mistakes and learn again. And more than anything, you are allowed to love your children in a way that teaches them to love themselves.

Because in the end, they will not remember the perfection.

They will remember the presence.

The softness.

The safety of your love.