Courage In Parenting

I Need to Admit Something

I’ve held a gun to my own head in a sandstorm. I’ve carried a dying man’s weight across a field under fire. I’ve seen things that would shatter a normal person. But the hardest thing I’ve ever done? Admitting I couldn’t handle my kid’s spilled juice box.

For years, I hid it. Not just the spilled juice. The exhaustion. The panic when the school called about a meltdown. The way my hands shook trying to pack lunches while my own anxiety screamed you’re failing. I thought courage meant being the unshakable rock. That’s what I learned in the military: Show no weakness. Carry the weight alone. Ask for help? That’s surrender.

So I did. I carried it all. I’d sit at the kitchen table, staring at the untouched breakfast I’d made, while my son screamed about his shoes. I’d force a smile when he asked if I was okay. “Just tired, buddy. Mommy’s got this.” I’d text my husband, “Can you pick up the kids? I’m drowning.” And then delete it. “Be strong,” I’d whisper to myself. “You’re a medic. You’ve seen worse.”

I was wrong.

The Lie I Told Myself

I thought vulnerability was a luxury for people who weren’t fighting for their lives. For me, it was a battlefield. In Afghanistan, I’d patch wounds while bullets whizzed past. I’d tell a soldier, “Breathe. I’m here.” But I’d never let myself breathe. I’d never admit I was scared. I’d never say “I need help.”

Parenting became my new war zone. And I was fighting it alone. I’d scroll through Instagram at 2 a.m., watching other moms laughing with their kids, and think, “Why can’t I be like that? Why am I so broken?” I’d tell myself I was failing my kids. That my struggle was a moral failing.

I was wrong.

The Breaking Point

It was a Tuesday. Rain lashed the windows. My son, Leo, had a meltdown over his socks. Not the “I don’t want to wear these” meltdown. The “I HATE EVERYTHING AND YOU’RE A BAD MOM” kind. I’d been up all night with his fever. I’d had one cup of coffee. I was already late for work.

He kicked the table. Juice spilled everywhere. “I HATE YOU!” he screamed.

I froze. Not from the juice. From the look in his eyes. The same look I’d seen on a soldier’s face after his buddy died in my arms. Raw. Terrified. “Why are you crying, Mommy?” he whispered, suddenly quiet.

I’d been crying. I hadn’t even noticed.

That’s when it hit me: I’d been hiding from him. From his pain. From my own. I’d been so busy pretending I was strong that I’d forgotten he was a kid who needed his mom to be human. Not a superhero.

What Courage Actually Looks Like

Here’s what I’ve seen: - Courage isn’t silence. It’s saying “I’m overwhelmed right now. Can we pause?” - Courage isn’t perfection. It’s admitting “I messed up. I’m sorry.” - Courage isn’t doing it all. It’s asking “Can you help me with this?”

I’ve seen first responders break down in therapy and say “I’m not strong enough.” And I’ve seen them heal when they stopped pretending they were.

Parenting is the same. Real courage isn’t about never falling. It’s about getting up while you’re falling. It’s letting your kid see you take a breath when you’re drowning.

I’ve seen the worst. I’ve seen people survive it. And I’ve seen kids thrive when their parents stopped pretending they had it all together.

The Moment of Honesty

That Tuesday, I didn’t say “I’m fine.” I knelt down. I wiped the juice off the floor. I looked Leo in the eyes and said, “I’m really tired right now. And I’m sorry I yelled. Can we try again?”

He didn’t say anything. He just leaned into me. And for the first time in years, I didn’t try to fix it. I just held him.

That’s when I realized: Courage isn’t what you think. It’s not about being unbreakable. It’s about being broken and still showing up.

What Changed

1. I stopped hiding my exhaustion.

  I started saying, “Mommy needs a minute.” Not to hide. To reset. I’d step outside for 60 seconds, breathe, and come back. My kids saw me doing the hard thing. Not pretending it wasn’t hard.  

2. I asked for help before I collapsed.

  I texted my husband: “Can you take Leo to soccer? I need 15 minutes.” I didn’t wait until I was screaming. I didn’t wait until I was broken. I asked early.  

3. I let my kids see me struggle.

  I’ll say, “I’m stressed about work. I need to take a deep breath.” And I’ll do it right there, in front of them. They learn: “It’s okay to feel this way. It’s okay to ask for help.”  

Here’s What Works (No Fluff, Just Action)

You don’t need to be perfect. You need to be real. Here’s how to start:

- Start small. Text one person: “I’m struggling. Can I call you in 10 minutes?” It’s not asking for a rescue. It’s asking for a lifeline. Do it. - Say the words. When your kid asks, “Why are you sad?” Say: “I’m having a hard day. It’s not about you.” No more pretending. - Let go of the “shoulds.” You don’t need to be a “perfect mom.” You need to be a present mom. If you’re tired, rest. If you’re overwhelmed, ask. Do it. - Model vulnerability. When you mess up, say: “I’m sorry I yelled. I’ll try to do better.” Kids don’t need perfect. They need real.

I used to think courage was about never needing help. Now I know: Courage is asking for it.

The Truth I Needed to Hear

My kids don’t need a superhero. They need a human. They need to know it’s okay to be messy. To be tired. To ask for help.

I’ve seen the worst. I’ve seen people survive it. And I’ve seen the real courage: the mom who cries while making dinner, then says “Let’s try again.” The dad who admits he’s scared to drive, then asks his son to sit shotgun.

That’s the courage I want for my kids. Not the fake kind. The real kind. The kind that says: “I’m not perfect. But I’m here. And I’m trying.”

So if you’re reading this and you’re drowning? Stop hiding. Text that friend. Say the words. Take the breath.

You’re not failing. You’re being human. And that’s the bravest thing you’ll ever do.

— Lois Brown, still serving