By Dr. Elonda Wilson 
I wish parenting came with a map. Or a playbook. Or even a frequently asked questions section.
Instead, I find myself raising a boy on my own—armed with faith, grit, coffee, and a lot of Google searches that began with “how to get your teenage son to…”
By the time my son was four, his father and I were divorced. And while I hoped we’d co-parent like mature, emotionally intelligent adults who always put the kids first, what I got was…the opposite. His dad grew more distant after the divorce, and I ended up doing most of the parenting solo, both physically and emotionally.
Still, I tried to be fair. At one point, in a bold (okay, desperate) effort to hold him accountable and create balance, I agreed to have two of our kids live with him. It was my way of saying, “Here, you say I’m doing it wrong? Show me how it’s done.” He’d often accuse me of spoiling them or not being firm enough, so I figured this was a chance for him to step up.
That living arrangement didn’t last long. The kids were miserable, and he quickly realized parenting wasn’t just about laying down the law, it was about showing up. Being consistent. Being present. Eventually, the kids moved back in with me, and shortly after, I took a job out of state that moved my career forward, but widened the gap between their father and his role as a parent.
He claimed I robbed him of the chance to parent. I saw it as a cop-out. There were phones, planes, visits, FaceTime, letters, even good old-fashioned effort. He didn’t use any of them. In my eyes, distance didn’t create the absence. His choices did.
And so it was me and my son—me, and this tiny, soft-voiced momma’s boy, who had no brothers and a gaggle of older sisters who adored him. His dad was also a momma’s boy, and it seemed the tradition continued.
He was spoiled, I’ll admit it. He got almost everything he asked for, not because I didn’t have boundaries, but because I was tired. Tired of being the only one. Tired of saying “no” all the time. Tired of the guilt, the tears, the empty promises from someone who was supposed to be my teammate in this whole thing.
He didn’t rebel, and I thank God for that. No drugs, no girls sneaking through windows, no brushes with the law. But he did retreat into his own world. Video games. VR. Online friends. Online girlfriends. His social life happens in servers and headsets.
Now he’s about to graduate. Eighteen years of doing this my way, and suddenly I feel like I’ve run out of ideas. He says he wants to move to Japan and get a job and an apartment. No plan beyond that. No fire in his belly. No real-world ambition. He does what’s required, just enough to avoid me fussing, but never more than that. And I wonder…did I do too much? Not enough? Was I too soft? Too distracted?
I think about encouraging him to join the military. Not because I want to ship him off—but because I see the boy he is, and the man I know he could become. The military could give him structure, discipline, and options. A chance to be part of something. A chance to learn who he is outside of the house, outside of me, outside of his screen.
But part of me feels guilty even considering it. Like maybe I’m trying to pass the baton because I’m tired again.
There’s no manual for this. No right answer. Just a mother, standing at the edge of adulthood, watching her son float between boyhood and the rest of his life, and praying he lands somewhere good.
So if you’re reading this and you’re parenting alone, just know this: you’re not crazy for second-guessing yourself. You’re not weak for feeling overwhelmed. And you’re not alone in wondering if what you’ve done is enough.
We do what we can with what we have. We love hard. We lead gently. And sometimes, we write it all down just to make sense of it.
Even without a manual, we keep showing up.
And maybe…that’s the part that matters most.
by Katie Weber 
by Holly Dignen 
