As I sit down to write this column today, it’s been only a week since a devastating flood swept through Central Texas, claiming the lives of many who had gathered along the Guadalupe River – whether camping, living nearby, or visiting for the holiday weekend. The flood struck in the early hours, before sunrise, so suddenly that there was no time to react. I haven’t come across a single article or news report suggesting that anyone was prepared for this flood, certainly not for a disaster of this magnitude.
Among the most heartbreaking tragedies was at Camp Mystic, a Christian girls’ summer camp situated on the riverbank, where 27 campers and counselors lost their lives in the flash flood. The aftermath has been haunting, unfolding across our screens. The stories of grieving families, now facing life without their loved ones, have pierced us deeply. Every parent I know has echoed the same, anguished words: “I just can’t imagine.” We can’t fathom sending our children off for a joyful, memory-filled summer – only to never see them again. That kind of loss is unimaginable. And yet, as a parent this week, one question has played on repeat in my mind: How do we protect our children without becoming overprotective?
Back in the early ’90s and 2000s, my siblings, cousins, and I would spend hours riding four-wheelers along backroads – no cell phones, no GPS, no way for anyone to track us. Our parents and grandparents wouldn’t see or hear from us for what felt like entire afternoons. We waded through creeks, skipped rocks across waters whose names we never knew, and got lost in places without ever feeling lost. Weekends at our grandparents’ house were a whirlwind of exploration and imagination. The only time we were inside was when hunger called us to the kitchen.
That kind of freedom shaped us. It taught us how to think independently, solve problems, find our way, and invent our own fun. Looking back, I realize how magical those days were – and I often wonder how I can give my own children a taste of that same wonder and wild freedom. But how do we do that in today’s world? A world that we often receive unthinkable news about. Mass shootings in innocent town squares, movie theaters and shopping malls. Rooftop snipers at free public events. Natural disasters no one saw coming.
How do we let our children step fully into the wonder and adventure of life – without hovering so closely that we steal the very freedom they need to grow? How do we release our children to experience the zest of life without being a helicopter parent?
My grandparents have passed and so I can’t go back and ask them now to be certain, but I can’t imagine that the dangers I worry about for my kids are the same things my grandparents worried about for me because the world is a different place now… scarier, or though it seems. So, how do we let go now that we know what we know… now that we’ve read what we’ve read and watched what we’ve watched. How do we find the courage to send them to summer camp again?
I don’t have all the answers. I can’t promise that my stomach won’t knot with anxiety when the day comes to let my child go somewhere without me. I honestly don’t know how I’ll handle it. But what I do know is this: I can’t raise brave, curious, and adventurous kids if I keep them wrapped in the safety of my own little bubble. I can’t tell them to chase their dreams if I’m not willing to let them put in the work and go after those dreams for themselves.
I can’t keep them tethered to me forever – no matter how much safer that might feel. And while safety often seems like the ultimate goal, the very core of my role as a mother, it’s not the endgame. The real purpose is to prepare them to launch – to step into life with strength and confidence, even without me by their side.
That’s the hard work in front of me now, in the wake of Central Texas’ unimaginable sorrow. It’s not just parenting, it’s heart-work. It’s learning to trust that their path has meaning, and that my purpose, day by day and year by year, is to guide, nurture, and slowly let go.
-by Destini McPherson
