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My Sensitive Daughter Doesn’t Need Tougher Skin
Loving my daughter often feels like gazing into a mirror—her expressions, her gestures, those moments when she retreats into her thoughts. Most days, I think to myself, “You are the part of me that won’t need therapy later on.” Then reality hits me: she’s in middle school, a time when everyone could use a little therapy for the awkwardness that abounds.
I still remember a particularly embarrassing moment from my own middle school days. I once went to a haunted house with friends and was so frightened that I had a little accident. Riding home, I awkwardly clutched a plastic bag meant for candy—only to discover there was none inside. Wet pants and no candy made for an unforgettable night. Somehow, everyone else seemed oblivious to my plight, but I certainly wasn’t.
Middle school can be extraordinarily tough.
Just a few months back, my daughter broke down while recounting how some cruel words and judgmental looks from her peers had wounded her deeply. As she shared her feelings—each one heavy with significance—I held her close, wishing I could ease her pain. “I just needed to let it out,” she said once she finished, and I admired her bravery in sharing her heart with me.
She is gentle and perceptive, and while the world may push her to toughen up, I hope she understands that her sensitivity is not a flaw. If she is courageous, she will recognize that softness can be a powerful form of strength. It’s a lesson I can’t learn for her, even though I wish I could.
Throughout her life, I’ve tried to protect her from hurt. Recently, she was excited to show me her new kneepads for volleyball. We got them not just to cushion her falls, but to give her the confidence to fall without fear. As I watched her, it struck me that while those kneepads were a great help, they couldn’t protect her from the hurtful words of others. I can’t shield her from every emotional bump along the way.
What I can do is teach her that being sensitive is its own brand of strength. I can share my own experiences and the falls I’ve faced without any cushioning, showing her that I’m still standing and growing from those experiences.
Instead of telling her, “Don’t cry,” I encouraged her to embrace her emotions. “Let it all out for as long as you need.” I may not recall when I learned that softness isn’t synonymous with weakness, but I do know that feeling deeply, whether in joy or despair, is what makes us truly alive. If it weren’t for my own falls, I wouldn’t appreciate the joy of standing tall.
I’ve decided it’s time to stop reminding my daughter to “be careful” and start encouraging her to “be brave.” Be courageous enough to take risks. Be bold enough to express your feelings. Avoiding pain is not the answer.
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In summary, my daughter doesn’t need to toughen up; she needs to learn how to harness her sensitivity as a source of strength. I will continue to support her through her journey, showing her that vulnerability is a powerful thing.