A reflection on emotional safety, co-regulation, and the quiet role community plays in helping children navigate hard days. This piece explores what it looks like to stay present with our children, not to fix their pain, but to hold it.
My son had a hard day. One of those days that doesn’t look dramatic from the outside, but quietly asks a lot from a small nervous system. I nearly missed the signs that he was about to break
During basketball practice, a teammate was pushing him more than usual. Initially, it looked like ordinary, playful defense. But it kept going. I watched my son grow increasingly frustrated. He looked at me, potentially for reassurance, perhaps asking me to intervene, or maybe just to know I was there. Eventually, he pushed back. I signaled for him to stop, and I could see it then: something was off. He was holding it together, but barely.
I distracted myself by talking to other parents, trusting the moment would pass.
As soon as practice ended, my son rushed over wanting to give me all the details. Since we had his teammate riding home with us, I simply said, "Look. I believe you. I know that was tough. Let's talk when we get home." He accepted this.
Once we were home, the story came out. Not just in words, but in his body. He showed me what happened by reenacting the shoves, pointing out where he was hurt, clinging close, then pulling away. I listened. I acknowledged his frustration. We talked about how sports can be tricky: how parents can’t always step in, how coaches are the ones who intervene, reacting could mean a foul called on him, and how frustration can be channeled into skill-building rather than self-blame.
Then he sat quietly and said, “Mom, today was not a good day.”
What followed wasn’t just about basketball. He told me about being pushed and mocked by a friend at school. For the first time, he shared that he had stopped playing at recess and sat alone for a moment. My first reaction was sadness. Then I realized something else might be true: he may have been regulating himself. He could recognize there were only thirty seconds left before recess ended.
He told me about a trampoline burn from a friend’s house. About feeling left behind when his grandmother didn’t wait for him during their evening routine. About being rushed by his grandfather. None of these moments alone were catastrophic. Together, they were heavy.
This nine-year-old had spent an entire day managing pain, disappointment, and confusion all while not feeling well physically and when he finally couldn’t hold it anymore, he broke down.
I didn’t analyze. I didn’t teach. I didn’t fix.
I looked at him and said, “You’re right. This was a really hard day. You handled so much. I love you. I believe you. I’m here.”
He cried. He nodded. I put Aquaphor on his wound. I asked if he wanted a hug. He said, “Not yet.” I told him that was okay. I sat beside him.
In that moment, I wasn’t thinking about my role as a pediatric trauma psychologist. All I knew was my son who needed me.
My son will go back to school. There will be more tough days, more moments when friends are unkind or games get too rough. But tonight, he knows he can fall apart. He knows his emotions won't overwhelm me. I wanted him to know that boys, who grow into men, are allowed to feel. That emotions are not dangerous. That adults can handle them. That he doesn’t have to be smaller, quieter, or tougher to be loved.
Eventually, he leaned into me for a hug. And as we lay there getting ready for bed, I remembered something I believe in deeply: community.
I asked him who he trusts. Who he feels safe going to. Which adults he could turn to if I wasn’t there. We named a small inner circle. I felt immense gratitude that I am one of those people for him.
In my work, I have seen what happens when children don’t have safe adults. I have sat with stories that stay with you long after the day ends. I’ve wondered, quietly, if I would be able to create something different for my own child. That night, I felt grateful, and humbled, that he came to me.
Later, I reflected on what made it possible for me to stay present. Not perfect. Just present.
I realized it didn’t begin that evening.
It began with my community.
My mom tribe: women I’ve grown alongside over time. Women with shared values, room for difference, and a deep commitment to seeing the best in our children and each other. Their presence allows me to parent without constant comparison or defensiveness.
My friends: people who know me at my core. Who let me fumble. Who love me without performance. Who support me, challenge me, and remind me who I am.
My sense of purpose: having work and passion that feel aligned. When I am connected to what matters to me, I am more available at home. Less resentful. More grounded.
That night reminded me of something simple and essential: our children don’t just need regulated adults in their hardest moments. They need adults whose lives are supported enough to stay with them when things fall apart.
This is what community does. It holds us, so we can hold them.
And sometimes, that’s what a hard day is really asking for.