
What pride wants to hide.
She asked how she's supposed to know she'll be okay if even I don't know. I didn't have a clean answer for her. I'm not sure there is one.
Every part of me wanted to perform certainty anyway, to look like the man who has it handled. I'm starting to think that performance would cost her more than the truth ever could.
God, it is terrifying to look at my daughter and admit I don't have a plan. Every part of my pride wants to build a fortress around her and pretend I'm completely in control. But I'm realizing that if I teach her I'm perfect, I leave her unprepared for a world that isn't. Give me the humility to let her see me learn, so she knows it's okay that she's still learning too.
The hardest part of admitting I don't have the answers is the fear that it means I'm failing her. But maybe I don't lead her through this by keeping up a perfect front. Maybe I lead her by letting her watch me walk through the not-knowing with some integrity.
True parenting isn't about handing them a completed answer key. It's about showing them that even when the path is unclear, you can still take the next step together. You don't lose your authority by admitting you're a beginner in a hard season, you gain their trust by being the person who stays at the table when things get heavy.