“There are two lasting bequests we can give our children: one is roots, the other is wings.”— Hodding Carter
This morning, my husband and I went to school. Not to study, but to attend our youngest daughter’s parent-teacher meeting. Normally, that would mean receiving a report card, but her high school has a different rhythm. No rank. No memorization drills.
She’s in the business pathway, and their evaluation system follows a university model. Lecturers, not teachers. Projects instead of exams. Teamwork instead of tests. The kind of school that teaches you how to think, not just what to remember.
And honestly, I’m a little jealous. I wish I had studied that way.
Her homeroom teacher said, “She’s very responsible, helpful, and proactive,” I nodded, because that’s exactly who she is at home too: a walking checklist with a heart of gold. Her love language is acts of service; she’s the one reminding us to drink water or helping clean up before I notice the mess.
She’s what teachers used to call an “easy child.” Too easy, in fact. One once told me, “If every student were like her, my job would be so easy.” I laughed then, but now I sometimes wonder: did I get a child or a life coach in disguise?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful beyond words. But having a self-driven child comes with its own quiet paradox. You don’t worry about whether she’ll do her homework; you worry about whether she’ll let herself rest.
Because yes, even responsibility can become a burden when carried too well.
I once even gave her Billy Joel's song 'Vienna' to slow down. Because when I heard the first two lines, I knew I'd dedicate it for her: "Slow down, you crazy child. You're so ambitious for a juvenile..."
Psychologist Carol Dweck, who coined the term growth mindset, once wrote that when children are constantly praised for being hardworking, they sometimes start to fear failure more than anything else. They equate their worth with their performance. And that’s when parenting becomes an act of gentle interruption; learning to say, “You’ve done enough for today.”
 |
| Kyoto, 2015 |
After the meeting, she picked up some stuff from dorm to go home with us. On the way home, we finally found that gorengan stall we’d been hunting for almost a week. Last weekend, we’d driven around in the rain for nearly half an hour searching for it, only to discover that it closes early because at night the stall turns into… a sate padang. Who knew fried snacks could have a nightlife? 😅
Anyway, we came home triumphant with a bag full of crispy happiness. My husband jumped into his online meeting, while the girls and I devoured brunch: rice, calamari made by my eldest, and those glorious fritters. We laughed about small things and big dreams, the way we always do when food and stories collide.
Maybe that’s my favorite part of parenting: when conversations drift without agenda, and laughter becomes the only language everyone speaks fluently. Watching my daughters laugh together reminded me that sibling harmony isn’t something you can force. You nurture it by modeling it. They’ve never really fought, even as teenagers, which still amazes me.
After brunch, I checked a few work messages and then surrendered to a nap so deep, it felt like time folded itself around me. When I woke up, my husband had returned from his offline meeting, my youngest was in the kitchen experimenting with strawberry smoothies for her business project, and the apartment smelled like home; a mix of ambition and garlic.
Dinner was easy. I reheated some warteg veggies and popped ayam ungkep into my retro mini air fryer (one of my top five life-savers of all time, right after dishwasher). We ate quickly because we had Tron: Ares tickets. It was visually stunning, though I can’t say much more because, well, I fell asleep halfway. (It’s my superpower.)
When we got home, I found the kitchen spotless, cleaned by my eldest who’d stayed behind. And somehow, that simple act warms my heart. The small gestures of thoughtfulness sometimes hit deeper than grand gestures.
Sometimes when I watch both of them, one blending smoothies, the other sketching on her tablet, I realized that parenthood, at this stage, feels like watching your heart live in two bodies who no longer need you to steer.
They’ve become their own captains. And I, the ex-captain, am learning the art of quiet observation.
Because once your children start leading their own lives, your role shifts from guide to witness. You still stand close, but not in front. You still care deeply, but you speak less often. You trust that the seeds you planted: kindness, curiosity, responsibility... will grow on their own.
A 2020 Harvard study on adolescent motivation found that kids develop stronger intrinsic motivation when raised with autonomy-supportive parenting. When they’re given room to choose, fail, and self-correct. That’s when responsibility turns into resilience, not anxiety.
And that’s what I hope for both my girls. To not just be “good” but whole. To not just achieve, but feel alive while doing it.
Parenting, much like faith, is about trusting the unseen. Believing that even when you stop controlling everything, things have a way of unfolding beautifully anyway.
So I’m learning to loosen my grip. Because maybe this is the true goal of parenting: to work yourself out of a job you love.
To raise children who can soar. Not because you pushed them, but because you taught them how to trust the wind.