Why facing my kids with truth feels harder than facing the rest of the world- and why I’m choosing to do it anyway.

Okay lovies… here’s a good one.

Today, I am not feeling very brave.

Let’s face it—most days, I fake it until I make it. Especially when it comes to my kids. More so with my older two boys. They terrify me in a way I can’t quite put into words.

I’m not a confrontational person unless I’m completely backed into a corner. But the thought of sitting down and having a real, emotionally honest conversation with one of my sons?

Nope. Not today.
Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.
Just… nope.

So I avoid it. I shut down. I placate. I do whatever it takes to keep the peace, even when it’s slowly unraveling my own. I let things slide—especially with my 16-year-old—because I’m afraid that saying too much will push him away. That I’ll lose him. And that fear? That’s the hardest kind of brave to muster.

I can face illness.
I’ve walked through assault.
I’ve made life-changing, gut-wrenching decisions.
I’ve started over when everything was broken.

But telling my son the truth about how I feel?
Telling him no when everything in me just wants to hold on to the connection?
Being brave enough to say the hard thing out loud?

That’s where I falter.

And I’ve been asking myself… why?

Why is this the kind of bravery that undoes me?

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Here’s what I think:

It’s because our kids carry pieces of our hearts that no one else holds.
Because their reactions hit us at our most tender and unhealed places.
Because we don’t want to be the bad guy—even when we’re right.
Because we are still trying to be the parent we never had, and we don’t want to mess it up.
Because love this deep will twist itself into silence just to keep someone close.

And because sometimes, we are still healing from our own stories—and using our voice still feels dangerous.

But the thing I’m learning is this:
Love that stays silent to keep the peace isn’t love—it’s fear in disguise.

And the longer we let fear sit in the driver’s seat, the more we lose the chance to model real strength. Not control. Not domination. But honest, loving authority. The kind that says, “I love you too much to let you keep doing this,” and means it.

Bravery in parenting doesn’t always look like charging into conflict. Sometimes it looks like a shaking voice reading words written at midnight. Sometimes it’s standing in the kitchen after another quiet heartbreak and saying, “We need to talk.” Sometimes it’s letting your child be mad at you for a little while—because you love them too much to let them coast toward a cliff.

Today, I didn’t feel brave.
But I still showed up.
I wrote the words. I sat with the fear.
And maybe… just maybe… that’s what bravery looks like today.

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💬 Journal Prompt:
Where am I parenting from fear instead of conviction?
What would it look like to let truth and love speak together—even if my voice shakes?

📎 Thought:
If this one hit home for you, forward it to another mama who’s walking this same path.
We’re all just trying to be brave in the ways that matter most.

With grace and everything,
– J