A brief excerpt from “The Letter Your Teenager Can’t Write You” by Gretchen Schmelzer, originally posted on June 23, 2015:
Dear Parent:
This is the letter I wish I could write.
This fight we are in right now. I need it. I need this fight. I can’t tell you this because I don’t have the language for it and it wouldn’t make sense anyway. But I need this fight.
I desperately need you to hold the other end of the rope. To hang on tightly while I thrash on the other end—while I find the handholds and footholds in this new world I feel like I am in.
I used to know who I was, who you were, who we were. But right now I don’t. Right now I am looking for my edges and I can sometimes only find them when I am pulling on you.
This is what we would say to that teen:
Dear Teenager,
I got your letter. Even if you can’t say the words out loud, even if it comes in slammed doors, sharp tones, or icy silence—we feel it. Sometimes I don’t know how to respond. Sometimes I’m scared, too. But your message came through, loud and clear: you need me to hold the rope.
And I will.
I know this fight is not about clothing or homework or a messy room. It’s about you trying to find your shape in the world, and needing us to hold on while you do it.
And I am. I’m holding on. Even when it hurts.
You’re pulling on the rope between us because you need to feel it’s there. You need to know that when everything feels like it’s changing—even who you are—that something steady is holding firm. That I am holding firm. But it isn’t easy.
What you might not see, and maybe I haven’t said enough, is that I feel unsteady sometimes too. Not because of you, but because when you pull hard, it tugs at old knots inside me—old pain from when I was a child myself. I sometimes don’t understand my own feelings. When you are hurting, I hurt, and I don’t know what to do to make it stop. So I yell. I blame because I feel – felt – blamed. I leave you alone with your angry and scary thoughts because I feel – felt – alone. I don’t always know how to approach you, because you are different, changing, resolving the parts of me so that you can become all of you. That is hard to watch. I miss my little one. The one that loved me fiercely, that wanted to stay with me forever and never stop hugging and kissing me. The ‘one more book kid’, the one that needed a few more minutes of snuggles before falling asleep. It’s not your fault or your responsibility, but please be patient with me. The rope is heavy.
This is where my internal work of parenting comes in. You are pulling on the rope because you need to feel the boundary of our love—not the edge of punishment or shame. You need me to be a secure base when everything inside of you feels unsure. You’re not doing anything wrong, but because sometimes we’re still figuring out how to hold the rope without wrapping it around our own wounds, our message of love gets lost in the gap that has formed between us.
So when your big feelings rise up, it sometimes makes the scared parts of me want to shut it all down. But I’m learning. I’m learning to stay with you instead of shutting down. To breathe instead of react. To listen—really listen—to what’s underneath your anger and distance.
You say you need to see that your shadow isn’t bigger than your light. We need to remember the same thing. As parents, our shadow shows up when we try to control out of fear. When we mistake compliance for connection. When we confuse your growing independence with rejection of us. But I’m working on it. You and I are learning a new language. I’m sorry that I am sometimes a slow learner. But I will hold the rope.
I know I don’t always get it right. Sometimes I say the wrong thing, smooth over something that is really big in your world, or try to control what isn’t mine to control. But I want you to know I am working hard every day to be the parent you need now, not just the one I wish I’d had. I’m trying to do better, not just for you, but for the both of us—for our relationship, for the legacy we’re building, for the healing that’s happening here whether you can see it or not.
And the truth is—I miss you. I miss the version of you that used to curl into me and tell me everything. I miss knowing how to help, how to comfort, how to protect. But I know that the pushing and the distance are not rejection. They are part of your growth. They’re part of you separating from me in the ways that you need to in order to become yourself.
So I will hold the rope.
I will get help from other grownups when I need to—because none of us are meant to parent in isolation. I will find places to cry and vent and gather strength, so that when I return to you, I am ready to try again. I will love you even when you’re pushing me away. Especially then.
And even though I ache with missing you, I will try my best not to take it personally. I will not punish you for becoming. I will love you through it. I will love you when you’re distant. I will love you when you’re angry. I will love you when you’re silent.
Because the truth is—you are not too much. Your feelings are not too big. And my love is not that fragile.
I’m holding the rope, even when my hands are tired and my heart is aching. I’m holding it through the storms and the silence. I’m holding it not to control you or pull you back to who you were, but to remind you that no matter how far you stretch, love doesn’t break. Connection doesn’t end.
And I’ll keep holding it. Again and again. Through every pulling away, until the person you are becoming steps fully into the light. And even then, I’ll still be here—hands open, heart open, loving you just as fiercely as ever.
Always,
Your Parent
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