Working in human resources for over thirty years, I became an expert problem-solver. At the office, people came to me with workplace conflicts, career decisions, personal crises. I had frameworks, solutions, action plans. I was good at it, really good.
So naturally, I brought that same energy home.
When my older son struggled with math, I didn’t just help with homework. I hired tutors, bought workbooks, created study schedules. When he mentioned being interested in computers, I had him enrolled in coding camps and meeting with IT professionals before the week was out. I mapped out a career path that made perfect sense on paper – computer science degree, internship at a tech company, six-figure salary by thirty.
What I didn’t do? Ask him what he actually wanted. Sit with him in his frustration without trying to fix it. Let him figure things out at his own pace, in his own way.
It took years – painful, stubborn years – to accept I’d been wrong. He’s happy now, truly happy, but we lost time because I was too busy providing solutions to problems he hadn’t asked me to solve.
When fixing becomes the problem
There’s this moment that haunts me still. My younger son, maybe fourteen at the time, came home upset about a friendship that had fallen apart. I immediately went into action mode. Suggested strategies for reconciliation. Even drafted a letter he could send to smooth things over.
He looked at me with these exhausted eyes and said, “Dad, I just wanted you to listen.”
But I couldn’t just listen. That felt like doing nothing, and doing nothing felt like not caring. How backwards I had it.
Every scraped knee became a lesson about being more careful. Every bad grade triggered a new study system. Every heartbreak led to my sage advice about better choices next time. I was so focused on preventing their next hurt that I never helped them process the one they were feeling right then.
The conversations we never had
My father died when I was in my forties. It hit me harder than I expected, partly because of all the things we’d never talked about. Not the big, important things – feelings, fears, what really mattered to him beyond work and responsibility.
You’d think that would have taught me something, but old habits die hard.
I could tell you my kids’ grades from memory, but I couldn’t tell you what kept them up at night. I knew their academic achievements but not their dreams. I tracked their accomplishments but missed their struggles with identity, belonging, purpose.
Three years ago, I lost my closest friend to cancer. During those final months, we talked more honestly than we had in decades of friendship. About regrets, about love, about the times we’d gotten it wrong. It changed how I think about making time for people, really making time. Not to solve or fix or provide, but just to be present.
Learning to apologize properly
Here’s something they don’t tell you about parenting adult children: the apologies matter more than you think.
Not the generic “I did my best” kind, but specific ones. “I’m sorry I pushed you toward that career path when you wanted something different.” “I’m sorry I made your struggles about my solutions instead of your feelings.” “I’m sorry I was so busy protecting you from failure that I didn’t let you learn from it.”
The first real conversation I had with my son about this, we were both adults. I told him specifically what I’d gotten wrong with the whole career thing. Not excuses, not explanations about wanting the best for him. Just acknowledgment.
The door that opened that day? It’s still opening. We talk differently now. Not about achievements or problems that need solving, but about life, real life. His work struggles. My regrets. The way we both sometimes feel lost despite being grown men.
What love looks like now
These days, when my grandkids visit, I catch myself starting those old patterns. One mentions trouble with a friend, and I feel that familiar urge to strategize, to fix, to solve.
But then I remember my son’s fourteen-year-old face, and I do something different. I ask, “Do you want to talk about it, or do you want help, or do you just want to do something fun instead?”
Revolutionary, right? Asking what someone needs instead of assuming you know.
I’ve been thinking lately about what my kids really needed from me back then. Not the college fund (though that helped). Not the perfectly organized birthday parties or the meticulously planned family vacations. They needed me to see them, really see them. To witness their pain without immediately trying to eliminate it. To celebrate their weird interests even when they didn’t lead anywhere practical. To be curious about their inner worlds instead of focused on their external achievements.
They needed me to show them how to be human, how to fail, how to sit with discomfort. Instead, I showed them how to optimize, achieve, and avoid anything messy or uncertain.
Closing thoughts
I’m in my sixties now, still learning what love actually looks like. It’s not the providing and the fixing and the solving, though those have their place. It’s the showing up empty-handed. The listening without advising. The being present in the mess without immediately trying to clean it up.
My kids are adults now, with children of their own, and we’re still working through this together. They’re teaching me as much as I ever taught them, maybe more. About vulnerability. About presence. About the difference between loving someone and loving your idea of who they should be.
If you’re reading this as a parent, maybe you recognize yourself. Maybe you’re the fixer, the provider, the solver. There’s no shame in it – we do what we think is best with the tools we have.
But ask yourself this: When your kids think of love, what will they remember? The problems you solved, or the times you simply sat with them in the unsolvable?
