Part 5: Parenting With Tenderness
If there’s one thing I’ve learned on this wild, relentless, sacred journey of parenting, it’s this:
Tenderness is not weakness.
Tenderness is strength in its most radical form — dressed in its softest clothes.
It’s courage that holds a trembling hand instead of raising a voice.
It’s the quiet, daily decision to meet the world’s chaos with gentleness — not armour.
Raising my boys — in a world that doesn’t always make space for difference, softness, or complexity, and where disability is often misunderstood — has shown me the rawest edges of both love and exhaustion.
This life isn’t linear, and it certainly isn’t easy.
But it’s taught me a kind of resilience no podcast, no TED Talk, no parenting book could ever come close to describing.
And it’s forced me to develop strategies for navigating the minefields of life that sometimes feel like they were pulled straight from The Art of War..
I’ve learned that children absorb our nervous systems.
They learn not just from our words, but from the silences between them —
from how we breathe through stress, from how we respond when plans fall apart (again), and from the softness we offer even when we’re running on fumes.
I’ve learned to whisper “I love you” even on the days I don’t recognise myself in the mirror.
To speak softly, even when the noise inside my own head is deafening.
To hold their trembling hands, even when my own strength is slipping.
To show up broken — because showing up broken still counts as showing up.
To teach them it’s okay to fall apart — because tenderness is what stitches us back together.
Through Hunter, I’ve come to understand that time is not a fair measure.
That milestones are not a race.
Every step is a mountain climbed.
Every word, every movement, every moment of connection — a victory in its own right.
Progress isn’t always visible.
Some victories are felt only by the heart.
I’ve watched him fight battles most adults couldn’t begin to imagine — and he does it with this quiet, lionhearted bravery that leaves me breathless.
His challenges have reshaped the way I define progress.
His light reminds me daily that there is beauty in persistence — and in rest.
Through Lachlan, I’ve watched a boy grow up far too fast.
He’s walked through shadows nobody should ever have to — and still, he chooses kindness.
I’ve seen him selflessly make his needs invisible to try and reduce the burden of life on me.
He is the gentle soul who holds space for his little brother, for me, for a family held together by something stronger than circumstance — by choice. By fierce, chosen love.
His grace isn’t loud, but it’s steady.
And in that steadiness — in his quiet empathy — I see reflections of my own strength.
There are days when I want to scream at the sky.
Days when my body doesn’t just ache — it burns.
When lifting my feet to walk becomes an unbearable task that takes every ounce of concentration.
Days when my body screams, my mind frays, and everything feels like it’s on the verge of breaking.
When the medication feels like water, the meditation no longer works, and the pain is so intense that I’m unable to speak, unable to move — and all I want is for it to end.
When I start to crumble from the lack of sleep and the invisible weight of it all.
When I question if I’m doing enough. Being enough. Holding it all together well enough.
But even on those days — especially on those days — I choose tenderness.
Because in this life, we don’t always get to choose our battles.
But we do get to choose how we fight.
And I have chosen love.
Fierce, defiant, soul-deep love.
Love that rocks a child to sleep at 2am.
Love that doesn’t keep score.
Love that burns quietly like a lantern in the dark — never demanding to be seen, just determined to never go out.
We talk a lot about building resilience in kids.
But what if it starts with us?
With choosing tenderness when anger is easier.
With choosing softness when the world demands hardness.
With creating safe space — even when we feel anything but safe ourselves.
With acknowledging that what they’re feeling is real and valid for them.
And when they do open up, I’m always grateful — and I always believe them.
Trust builds honesty.
With showing them that you can be strong and tender — all at once.
Because when we model compassion, they learn it’s okay to feel.
When we model boundaries, they learn that love can be fierce and protective — not permissive.
And when we model tenderness, even when we are fraying at the seams, they learn that gentleness is a kind of power the world can’t take from them.
Here’s what I know to be true:
I won’t get it right every time. I’ll mess up. I’ll lose my cool.
I’ll give my kids the bird behind their backs when they’re being obnoxious.
And I’ll cry behind bathroom doors.
But I’ll always come back. Always apologise. Always hold space.
Because more than anything, I want my boys to know:
You are loved.
Not because of what you do. But because of who you are.
And that love — soft, unconditional, weathered by time and truth —
Will be their anchor.
Their compass.
Their quiet reminder that tenderness is never wasted.
And if I teach them nothing else but that —
then I have done enough.
Because that is the life I choose.
Every messy, beautiful, complicated day of it
