A letter from your child’s therapist

Dear Parent,

Perhaps our paths have crossed already. Perhaps they will one day in the future. In my day-to-day work with children and their families, I am privileged to work with many people from all walks of life. Sometimes I catch myself wondering what your experience of sitting on the couch across the room from me is like.

I find myself curious about what you think I think of you. I wonder what your expectations are, and how this impacts your relationship with your child, and the process in the room. I sometimes wonder whether you fear my judgement, or think I have all the insider answers to the dilemmas we all face as parents. I wonder whether you’re wary of me, or of what I might say, and what that might say about you.

I also wonder whether you see how strong and protective you are of your child…whether you know how lucky they are to have you in their corner…whether you recognise the power you have in knowing your child better than anybody else…whether you see the strength in advocating for them like nobody else can.

Sometimes, I also feel your defensiveness. I sense your prickliness when we wade into things that feel uncomfortable. I see how you dance around the more painful things, the hard things, the things you try not to think about. I can feel when you’re hoping that I don’t call you out on the rough edges and old wounds, and areas of everyday messy parenting that we both know aren’t going as well as you’d like them to.

I need you to know that it is with deep admiration and respect that I watch you engage with the journey your child and family are on from the couch across the room. I am not unaware of how much you love them, and how every part of you wants them to be happy and healthy and thriving. I’m also not unaware of how much they might drive you crazy too, how you also long for more sleep, less uncertainty, more connection and less angst. I’m not unaware that you are a person who is also a parent. There are other hats that you have to wear, and other roles that you play on a stage far more interesting than the couch across the room. More than anything, I’m not unaware of how you’d do anything for your child. The privilege of working with them in areas of their lives that I’m certain you would want to know about and engage with is not lost on me.

I see you.

I see you when you acknowledge the vulnerability of feeling like you don’t know what you’re doing – when your parenting confidence is low, and self-doubt is high, and you’re hoping for some solidarity with another parent (anyone!) who also feels like they’re not quite nailing it.

I see you when you put your hand up, after dropping the ball more than you’d like to. I see you when you turn to the places in your life that are hard to look at, and you find yourself doing the very thing you promised yourself you’d never do to your kids. I see you when you feel teary, angry, resentful, exhausted, and worn out…and unrelenting in your commitment to your children.

I see your courage when you look back through the rear view mirror to your own experience of being parented. Some of it has offered you a well-spring of resources to bring to the task of parenting, while others have left you with an Achilles heel injury that your child knows just how to push.

I see this, and so much more. Because I see it in myself as a parent. And in the hundreds of parents who have shared the couch across the room.

This is what I know for sure:

Almost always, parents are the best medicine. Not a therapist, or a new toy, or a fad.

You are your child’s best resource. You’re their biggest asset, their loudest cheerleader, their strongest advocate.

They need you far more than they need me.

I’ve never met a parent who isn’t doing their best.

Being a parent makes you strong, but strong in all the ways that make you feel vulnerable. Lean into this.

You’ll get there together.

You’re not alone.

I’m cheering for you.

Until we meet again on the couch across the room, look after yourself. You’re doing better than you think.

Robyn