It was on a Friday late afternoon when I went to pick up my son from school. On Fridays, they’re usually at the gym playing soccer or basketball. One of the guardians looked at me with a worried expression, while I looked at my son with a questioning, almost tense gaze. I could feel it in my gut—something had happened.

He approached me with a smile and said that my son and his friend—or ex-friend at that moment—had gotten into a verbal fight. My son was upset because his friend had been cursing his mother—aka, me.

It’s not the first time my son has shared that he’s being bullied by some kids because of his name and mixed race. It’s better now than it was before, and to the school’s credit, they are taking action and disciplining those who engage in bullying behavior.

I tried to lighten the moment by telling the guardian—and reminding my son—that other people’s opinions are not a reflection of who we are. That cursing me doesn’t change my worth or my identity.

Both men looked at me a little confused—as if I’d dropped in from another planet. Maybe they weren’t ready to receive Nadja's dose of emotional intelligence wisdom!

My son was mad. He’s deeply protective of his loved ones and gets especially triggered when his family is insulted. Understandably so. I let him release that frustration and anger—I held space for him, just like I try to do whenever those big emotions arise.

Only when he was calm did I remind him that violence can’t be met with violence. That maybe his friend—or ex-friend—wasn’t trying to hurt him or me, but was struggling to process his own pain, and projecting it outward.

Or maybe he’s going through something difficult at home.

Or maybe… he’s just being a bully.

I don’t know. But I was proud that my son didn’t respond in kind. He didn’t escalate. He did the right thing and informed an adult.

Not every kid feels safe enough to share that they’re being bullied. And even when they do, not every parent is able to convince schools to take it seriously—not to brush it off as just kids being kids.

But we can’t wait until tragedy hits. We can’t wait until a 10-year-old girl takes her life because she was bullied at school.

The story of Autumn Brooke sends shockwaves not just across the United States, but around the world.

In today’s digital age, kids grow up with screens. There’s no way around it. In fact, the EU Kids Online report even warns against completely banning social media—arguing it could backfire. What we forbid, they may chase in secret. Especially at this age, when curiosity and peer pressure are at their peak.

My son has a phone so we can stay in touch. He doesn’t have social media, and the only app we’ve negotiated is YouTube for Kids. He hates it—but that’s the deal.

He also doesn’t love it when I check his phone or insist on having his passwords.

‘You’re invading my privacy, Mom!’

I know. And I tell him: you better get used to it.

He knows I have a button on my phone that can shut his down with one click.

Is it fair?

Nope.

Is it safe?

In my view—yes.

Because at his age, he doesn’t yet have the life experience—or the fully developed prefrontal cortex—to truly grasp the long-term consequences of his actions. Nor the emotional resilience to consistently respond with reason instead of impulse.

Let’s be honest—even adults struggle with that.

So I’d rather he be annoyed with me for having boundaries, than risk discovering something that could harm him.

None of this is easy. It comes with arguments, resistance, and emotional discomfort. Especially when you already have so much on your plate. Parenting in the digital age can feel like trying to stay afloat in a storm.

But what has helped me—and what I felt compelled to share today—is how I’m learning to ride the emotional rollercoaster of keeping my son safe in a world that’s changing faster than any of us can fully grasp.

Because no parent should have to go through what Autumn Brooke’s parents—or so many others—have gone through.

This digital world wasn’t built with our children’s safety in mind. It was built to provoke, to addict, to magnify insecurities and reward harmful behavior under the illusion of anonymity. Kids say and do things online they’d never have the courage to say face-to-face.

We can’t control the entire system—but we can prepare our kids.

We can help them build emotional firewalls—resilience, empathy, critical thinking.

We can equip them to walk through this world with their heads high and their hearts intact.

That’s our job. And though it’s hard, it’s worth every ounce of energy we’ve got.

1. Not Knowing What’s Happening

Parents often don’t know their child is being bullied until it’s too late. Many kids hide it—out of shame, fear of making things worse, or simply not having the words to express what they're going through.

This, in many ways, can feel like the most heartbreaking part of parenting. When our children are small, we’re their entire world. We anticipate their needs, feel their emotions, and understand them without words. But as they grow into their own identity, that emotional closeness shifts. They begin to seek independence, to keep things to themselves, to test boundaries—and this shift can feel deeply personal for us as parents.

I know for me, I struggled when my son started keeping things from me. We used to share everything. That distance felt like loss—and at times, rejection. But through the lens of emotional intelligence, I’ve learned to reframe this not as disconnection, but as evolution.

It’s not that the love is less—it’s that the expression of that love is changing. When we try to force closeness or cling to the dynamic we once had, we risk pushing them further away. But when we respect their need for autonomy while staying emotionally present, we create the space for connection to grow on their terms.

For me, that means holding space without pressure. I don’t force my son to talk, but I invite him regularly. I create safe and consistent moments where we bond—through play, shared activities, or quiet conversations. And when I meet him with openness rather than urgency, he begins to open up naturally.

And then, there’s the part I used to feel guilty about—what I do behind his back.

Yes, I check his phone. Yes, I read his class journal—even the messages he doesn’t show me. Is it a violation of trust? In his eyes, maybe. But from where I stand as a parent, it’s an act of love and protection.

He sometimes finds out, and when he does, he gets mad. Other times, he doesn’t. But I’m willing to carry the discomfort of that tension if it means I can spot early signs of harm, isolation, or emotional distress.

What I’ve learned is this: we must reconcile the feeling of guilt with the deeper truth that love often requires courage. And sometimes, courage looks like taking uncomfortable actions in service of our child’s well-being.

We may not always know what’s going on. But with presence, patience, and a balance between trust and awareness, we can stay connected—even in the moments when it feels like we’re drifting apart.

2. Feeling Powerless in the Digital Space

One of the hardest things for me as a parent is realising that I can’t control the world my child is growing up in. Especially the online world—it’s vast, it’s fast, and it’s not going anywhere. Screens are everywhere, and while I can put boundaries in place, I know I can’t be there every second to protect him from what he might see, read, or experience. That feeling of powerlessness is real. And it can easily lead to overreacting, over-monitoring, or trying to control every digital move he makes.

But here’s what I’ve learned—control often creates distance, while connection builds trust. And to create that connection, I have to start with myself.

Before I speak to my son about his digital choices, I check in with my own emotional state. Am I reacting out of fear or frustration? Or am I responding with calm, grounded presence? Because our kids can feel it—they sense when we’re spiralling or when we’re truly holding space.

Self-awareness is my anchor. If I don’t pause to notice my own emotional triggers, I end up parenting from panic, not from purpose. And self-regulation is my steering wheel—it helps me stay calm when I’d rather shout, stay curious when I feel like shutting down the Wi-Fi forever.

So instead of trying to fight the digital wave, I try to meet my son where he’s at. I stay curious about his world, even if I don’t always like what I see. I talk to him about what’s out there—not just from a place of warning, but from a place of shared understanding. I remind myself that my role isn’t to shield him from everything, but to prepare him for anything.

There’s a peace that comes with this shift. Not the kind of peace where everything is perfect or risk-free—but the peace of knowing I’m walking beside him, not just policing him from above. That I’m helping him build the inner tools—awareness, resilience, discernment—to navigate this space on his own, one step at a time. And I’m practicing the same tools right alongside him.

3. Wanting to Fix It Immediately

When our child is in pain, our first instinct is to fix it. It’s a protective reflex—we don’t want to see them suffer. But in those moments, what they often need most isn’t a solution—it’s space to feel. To process. To be heard without interruption or redirection.

And that’s not always easy, especially when their emotions are big—anger, sadness, confusion, shame. But helping our children feel is one of the most powerful things we can do for them. Because emotional resilience isn’t about avoiding pain—it’s about knowing how to move through it safely.

That safety begins with us.

When we hold space without judgment, when we validate their feelings without immediately offering advice or trying to "make it better," we show them that emotions are not problems to solve—they’re experiences to understand. We help them build an inner world where emotions aren’t feared or repressed, but acknowledged and processed.

This becomes the foundation for emotional self-regulation: when children learn that it's safe to feel their emotions, they’re less likely to be hijacked by them. They begin to trust their own emotional landscape. They begin to anchor their sense of safety within themselves, rather than constantly reacting to what’s happening around them.

And that’s the goal—not just to protect them from the world, but to help them develop the emotional strength to face it.

So now, when my son comes to me upset, I resist the urge to rush in with fixes. Instead, I hold space. I validate. I say things like, “That must’ve felt really unfair,” or “I can see why you’re upset.” I let him cry. I let him speak. I let him feel. And what I see over time is a growing sense of self-trust in him—a soft but steady strength that tells him: I can feel this and not fall apart.

That, to me, is the beginning of real resilience. And it starts with how we choose to hold them—not just physically, but emotionally—when they need us most.

4. Struggling With Communication

One of the most frustrating moments as a parent is when communication breaks down. You can feel something’s wrong—but they won’t talk. Or they shut you out. Or you finally get them to open up, and you end up reacting from fear or anger. I’ve been there more than once. There’s often a wide gap between what’s felt and what’s said—and it’s easy to fall into the trap of trying to fill that silence with lectures, solutions, or emotional outbursts.

But I’ve come to understand that emotional expression isn’t always about words. Sometimes it’s about simply being there when they don’t have the words yet. And sometimes the most powerful form of communication is listening—not to respond, but to truly receive.

When our kids are emotionally overwhelmed, their nervous system often shuts down. They aren’t in a space to take in our words, no matter how wise, loving, or protective our intention is. This is something I remind myself often: communication is not just what we say—it's what they’re emotionally able to receive.

If we speak from our own anger—even if it’s coming from a place of love—they will feel the heat, not the heart. The tone of our voice, our body language, our energy—it all registers with them before the words even land.

So I’ve learned to pause. To breathe. To regulate my state before I try to reach for connection. Because connection can’t happen when we’re both dysregulated. And when I can't find the words—or when he can’t—I let silence be the bridge. Or I write him a message. A note. Something he can read in his own time, when his mind and heart are more open to receive.

And when he does speak, I try to listen fully. Not to fix. Not to teach. Just to reflect back what I hear: “That sounds really heavy,” or “I didn’t know you felt that way.” These are the little moments that tell him: Your voice matters. Your emotions are safe with me.

This is emotional intelligence in action: creating safety for expression, and knowing when to step back and simply receive—not just the words, but the emotions underneath them. And this builds something far more powerful than just communication—it builds trust. The kind that lasts beyond any single conversation.

5. Guilt and Self-Blame

It’s a quiet voice that creeps in when no one’s watching—Should I have seen the signs? Was there something I missed? That heavy, sinking feeling of “I should have known.” And even when we do everything “right,” there’s still that lingering doubt that maybe we could have done more.

I’ve felt it. That ache of wondering if I could have prevented the pain. If maybe, just maybe, I could’ve done something differently.

But here’s what brings me peace: regret and guilt lose their grip when we understand one simple truth—we were doing the best we could with what we knew at the time. We often look back through the lens of who we are now, forgetting that the version of us back then didn’t yet have the insight, the experience, or the clarity we’ve since gained.

Of course we see more now. Of course we would make different choices today. But that’s a sign of growth, not failure. It’s not fair to judge ourselves for not knowing what we simply couldn’t have known.

We are growing right alongside our children. They are learning how to express themselves, and we are learning how to understand them in a whole new language—one that shifts with every stage of their development. There is no perfect script. There is no checklist that guarantees we’ll catch it all.

What we can do is meet ourselves with the same grace we try to offer our kids. To hold space for our own emotions—the confusion, the worry, the sorrow—and know that they don’t make us bad parents. They make us human. And they remind us just how deeply we love.

Because love doesn’t require perfection. It requires presence. It requires us to keep showing up—even when we feel like we’ve fallen short.

And that’s what matters most. That we are still here. Still listening. Still holding space. And in doing so, we offer not just healing to our children, but also to the parts of ourselves that once needed the same kind of gentle understanding.

Some days we’ll get it right. Some days we won’t. But the light is in the showing up. And every moment we choose presence over perfection, we take one step closer to peace—not just in our homes, but in our hearts.

6. Navigating Their Own Emotions

When our children are struggling, we often feel like we need to be the strong one—the calm one, the stable one, the one who has it all together. But the truth is, we feel it too. The anger. The sadness. The fear. The deep, helpless ache of watching someone you love navigate pain you can’t fully shield them from.

And yet, how we respond to our own emotions in those moments matters just as much as how we respond to theirs. Because our children may not always listen to what we say—but they are always watching what we do.

We teach them how to process emotions by how we process our own.

We teach them how to self-regulate not just by giving them tools, but by using them ourselves.

We model what it looks like to feel angry without lashing out, to feel overwhelmed without shutting down, to be hurt and still choose compassion.

When they see us take a pause before reacting…

When they see us own our mistakes and come back with humility…

When they see us honour our own limits and speak with kindness—they learn something profound:

That emotions are not dangerous. That feeling big things doesn't mean you're out of control. That it's safe to be human.

So no, we don’t have to have all the answers. We don’t have to be perfect. What our children need most is not a parent who never struggles—but a parent who navigates struggle with intention, self-awareness, and love.

Because when we model emotional resilience—not through words, but through presence—we give them permission to build that resilience in themselves. And in a world that often demands them to be ‘fine’ or ‘strong’ before they’re ready, that permission is everything.

7. When It’s Our Child Causing Harm

It’s never easy to hear that your child may be the one hurting others. As parents, it’s natural to feel denial, guilt, even shame. But the truth is, this isn’t a reflection of our failure—it’s a powerful moment of choice. Not to defend or explain away their behaviour, but to gently lean into why it’s happening, and what needs to change.

Because children don’t engage in bullying by accident. There’s often a deeper emotional pattern driving it—pain, insecurity, a need for control, or even a lack of healthy boundaries in their environment. Sometimes they act out to belong, to be seen, or to feel powerful in places where they otherwise feel small. Sometimes it’s modeled behaviour they’ve absorbed without realising it.

Our role as parents is to respond—not with shame, but with clarity. Not just with compassion, but with leadership.

Empathy is essential, but it’s not a substitute for accountability. We can hold space for why they may be acting out and make it clear that hurting others is never acceptable. Sometimes, love looks like setting firm, non-negotiable boundaries. Sometimes discipline—calm, consistent, emotionally grounded—is the very thing that helps a child feel safe. It teaches them that their actions have consequences, that respect goes both ways, and that relationships are built on trust.

This is also where modelling becomes vital. Kids don’t just listen to what we say—they absorb how we treat others, how we handle frustration, how we navigate our own emotions. If we’re serious about teaching empathy, we have to live it. And if we want them to take responsibility, they need to see us take ownership too.

We’re not trying to raise perfect children—we’re raising emotionally responsible humans. Ones who know that strength isn’t about dominance, but self-awareness. That kindness isn’t weakness, but wisdom. And that making a mistake isn’t the end—it’s a chance to learn, repair, and grow.

So if your child has crossed a line, it’s okay. It’s not too late. But this is the moment to pause, look deeper, and choose a new direction—one rooted in truth, responsibility, and love that doesn’t look away.

Parenting in today’s world can feel like walking through a storm with no map—just your heart, your instincts, and the hope that you’re doing the right thing. Whether your child is being bullied, is struggling in silence, or is the one acting out, none of it is easy. But if there’s one truth that’s echoed through every part of this conversation, it’s this:

You don’t need to have all the answers.

You just need to keep showing up.

With presence. With intention. With love that holds both softness and strength.

Peace isn’t the absence of chaos—it’s the ability to remain rooted within it. It’s in the pause before you react. The breath you take when you're overwhelmed. The choice to listen instead of fix. The boundary you hold with care, not control.

Your child doesn’t need a perfect parent. They need you—as you are, growing alongside them. Modeling what it looks like to feel, to fail, to reflect, and to try again. Every time you do that, you're teaching them something powerful:

That emotions aren’t dangerous.

That safety can exist even when things feel uncertain.

That love is not a performance—but a daily practice.

So wherever you are on this journey—angry, afraid, unsure, or just tired—you are not alone. You are not failing. You are becoming. And that’s more than enough.

Keep going. Keep breathing. Keep holding space.

And remember: peace isn’t out there waiting for you to earn it—it’s already within you, waiting to be returned to.

Love,

Nadja

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