As the school year approaches, the idea of sending a child off to kindergarten can feel like a monumental leap into adulthood. It’s a significant transition—handing your little one over to a stranger, encouraging them to forge friendships, and teaching them to follow rules. You prepare with the essentials: a shiny new lunchbox, a trendy backpack, fresh shoes, and even a haircut. You guide them through conversations about expectations and behavior, and then you let them go.
My youngest, Mia, is about to turn five and has already experienced so much in her short life—birthdays filled with cake, days spent at the beach, cozy family cuddle sessions, and countless adventures. She’s learned to swim, write her name, and ride a bike. As her fourth birthday approaches, the thought of school looms.
We’re lucky to have a public school just a short walk away. The staff is welcoming, and the school grounds are well-kept. Although the district isn’t the best—it’s actually quite lacking in some areas—it’s a safe environment, something that many families don’t have access to. After careful consideration, we decided that traditional schooling would be the right path for Mia.
Today was orientation day, and we had been preparing her for it for weeks. After choosing a lovely dress, I laced up her bright pink sneakers and braided her wild curls. Together, we set off for the school. I anticipated some shyness from Mia; she tends to take her time warming up to new people. We’ve introduced her to various group settings, like dance and art classes, but the anxiety remains.
During the orientation, when the moment came for us to leave Mia with her classmates and teacher, it was clear she was not ready to stay. I mean, the chances of me walking out of that room without her were nonexistent. We faced a choice: either we could force her into the classroom, tears and all, or we could take her with us to the parent meeting, hoping things would improve by the first day of school.
With school starting next week, we knew we couldn’t linger in class. We couldn’t even accompany her to her classroom. After some discussion, we decided one of us should stay with Mia to help ease her transition. After some back and forth, I ended up staying with her while her dad and brother left.
I gently nudged her toward the classroom door, but she clung to me tighter with every attempt I made to let go. Each effort resulted in her sinking lower and clinging to my leg as if it were a lifeline. I tried coaxing her with promises of fun activities and treats afterward, but nothing worked. We stood there for what felt like an eternity—about 15 minutes—her gripping my ankle and me holding onto the door handle. My heart ached for her, sensing her fear of the unknown.
Eventually, I bent down and whispered, “Mia, do you want to go home?” With a small nod, she replied, “Yes.” And just like that, we left.
Looking back, the version of me from two decades ago might have felt guilty for not pushing her to stay. I might have worried about what the school staff would think—would they see me as someone who doesn’t value education or who allows her children to avoid challenges? But today, I chose to honor Mia’s feelings.
In a world that often equates success with hardship and perseverance through discomfort, I refused to abide by that notion today. Leaving a child in distress doesn’t teach resilience; it teaches them that their feelings don’t matter. Instead, I chose to be there for Mia, to respect her emotions, and to find alternative paths for her growth.
As we continue our journey, with supportive family, friends, and our own homeschool curriculum, we’re giving Mia the space to develop at her own pace. Whether she eventually embraces school or not, we will be here for her every step of the way.
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In summary, I chose not to force Mia into a situation that made her anxious. Instead, I honored her feelings and allowed her the space to grow at her own pace. As we navigate this journey, we remain committed to supporting her choices and emotions.