There is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes not from running around, but from holding your breath every single second you are standing still.

I want you to picture two different mothers at the park this weekend. On one side, there’s Sarah. She has a color-coded calendar on her wrist, a snack that matches the theme of the day, and she is hovering approximately three feet above her child, ready to intervene before a scratch happens, let alone a scraped knee. And then there’s Maya. Maya is sitting on a bench, drinking coffee that is actually hot, watching her child climb a tree with the casual detachment of someone who knows gravity will do its job. If you’re like Sarah, you might feel judged by Maya for being too anxious. If you’re like Maya, you might feel judged by Sarah for being too detached. But here is the truth we rarely say out loud: both of them are terrified they are failing. We live in a culture that demands we pick a lane, as if parenting is a binary choice between controlling everything and letting go entirely. Let’s be real for a second. Most of us are living in the messy middle, trying to figure out when to step in and when to step back, while everyone else seems to have it figured out.

We’ve all heard the term helicopter parent. It sounds harsh, doesn’t it? Like a machine gun flying over a battlefield. But I want to unpack what that actually feels like from the inside. For many of us, being a helicopter isn’t about control; it’s about love gone into overdrive. It’s the mother who checks the backpack twice because she remembers how hard it was to find her favorite lunchbox once. It’s the father who rehearses social interactions with his toddler because he’s worried about rejection. When we label ourselves as helicopters, we often strip away the tenderness behind the behavior. We assume we are smothering our children, but really, we are just trying to protect them from a world that feels incredibly sharp and unpredictable. The problem isn’t the protection itself. The problem is the belief that if we don’t hover, something terrible will happen instantly. That belief keeps us in a state of high alert, scanning the horizon for threats that aren’t always there, exhausting our nervous systems in the process.

Then there’s the other side of the coin: slow parenting. Or what some call free-range parenting. This movement encourages giving kids space to explore, to get bored, to solve their own problems. On paper, it sounds wonderful. In practice, it can be its own source of intense pressure. If you choose to take a step back, you have to fight the internal voice that says you’re neglecting your duty. You have to sit with the discomfort of knowing your child might struggle, might cry, might fall. And society loves to judge that, too. They see a child crying and think the parent is indifferent. They don’t see the parent’s heart racing, wanting to rush in but forcing themselves to wait. Slow parenting requires a level of trust—in your child, in yourself, and in the universe—that is incredibly difficult to maintain when you’re tired or stressed. It’s easy to advocate for independence when you’re calm. It’s much harder to do it when you’re worried sick.

Here is where I want us to pause and breathe together. Neither of these labels fits perfectly because neither of them accounts for the reality of being human. Some days, you need to be the helicopter. Your child is dealing with a bully, or they are overwhelmed by a new school environment, or they are genuinely unsafe. Those moments require presence. They require you to swoop in, to hold the umbrella, to be the safe harbor. Other days, you need to be the slow parent. You need to let them tie their own shoes, even if it takes ten minutes. You need to let them fail at building a block tower so they learn resilience. The mistake we make is thinking we have to commit to one identity forever. We don’t. We are allowed to shift gears. We are allowed to be a helicopter on Tuesday and a slow parent on Thursday. Our children are not static projects; they are growing, changing beings who need different things at different times.

So how do we navigate this without losing our minds? We stop looking at other parents’ highlight reels and start listening to our own intuition. Ask yourself: Is my hovering coming from fear or from facts? Am I intervening because my child is in danger, or because I’m uncomfortable watching them struggle? Conversely, am I stepping back because I respect their autonomy, or because I’m emotionally exhausted and checking out? There is no shame in either feeling. What matters is awareness. When you recognize that you are hovering out of anxiety, you can take a deep breath and remind yourself that your child is capable. When you recognize that you are stepping back out of apathy, you can check in with your heart and decide to engage more fully. This self-awareness is the bridge between judgment and grace. It allows you to adjust your approach in real time, rather than getting stuck in a rigid box that doesn’t serve you or your family.

This brings me to something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. We need to create spaces where we can talk about this without shame. Remember that episode we did about dropping the mask? It feels impossible to admit that you’re struggling with boundaries when you’re surrounded by images of perfect, serene families. But vulnerability is the antidote to comparison. When you share your confusion with another mom—when you say, 'I don’t know if I’m doing too much or too little'—you’ll likely hear a chorus of agreement. You are not alone in this uncertainty. In fact, the uncertainty is part of the job description. No one graduates from parenting school. We are all learning on the fly, making mistakes, correcting course, and loving our kids through it all. Building a community of moms who support each other’s choices, rather than judging them, is one of the most powerful things we can do for our mental health.

Let’s define this middle ground. It’s called responsive parenting. It means you are tuned in to your child’s needs, but you aren’t controlled by your own fears. It means you offer support when asked, but you also offer space when needed. It looks like helping with homework when they’re frustrated, but walking away when they’re focused. It looks like comforting a nightmare in the night, but encouraging them to play outside during the day. It’s dynamic. It’s flexible. It requires you to be present enough to notice what your child needs in that exact moment. And yes, it’s hard work. It demands energy and attention. But it also builds a relationship based on trust rather than control. Your child learns that you are a safe base they can return to, not a warden they need to escape. That security is worth more than any perfectly organized schedule or completely unstructured afternoon.

Take a deep breath with me right now. In through the nose, out through the mouth. You are doing a good job. You are loved. And tomorrow is a fresh start to try again. I’ll see you next week.