Positioning Ourselves Properly

The Art of Not Getting in the Way

©selimaksan via Canva

Most parenting missteps aren’t failures of care. They’re failures of placement.

We don’t get things wrong out of neglect. We get them wrong because we don’t notice where we’re standing—or how easily we drift into positions that were never meant to be ours.

Where we place ourselves determines who carries the weight of a moment. Who gets to decide what it means. Who moves first, and who has to catch up.

It’s rarely about big decisions. It’s about the small, repeated moments where position does the teaching.

Our kids are paying attention to this long before we think we’re teaching anything—watching where we step in, where we hesitate, and when we decide something is finished.

And we usually don’t recognize the misplacement until we’re living with its effects.

When We Arrive Before They Do

Kids don’t just want experiences. They want the chance to recognize themselves inside them.

It often happens in ordinary moments—after something disappointing, unexpectedly successful, or simply unclear. Our kid hasn’t said much yet, still sorting what it meant to them, and we step in anyway.

We rush to reassure, elevate, or minimize: it’s okay. You’ll understand this later. This matters more than you think. It’s not a big deal.

The intent is protection.
The effect is displacement.

The moment closes before our kid has decided what it was to them. Meaning arrives fully formed—placed there rather than discovered. They nod, relieved and slightly unsteady, absorbing once again that understanding arrives faster when someone else gets there first.

When we repeatedly arrive before our child does, we aren’t supporting them. We’re taking over the work of experience.

We enter moments they haven’t fully inhabited yet, angle them toward conclusions they haven’t reached, and keep things moving before they’ve had time to register what actually landed.

Over time, these kids become articulate without being anchored. They can explain situations clearly, even insightfully, but feel oddly removed from them. They’ll say things like, “I don’t know why this matters to me,” or “I can’t tell if my reaction makes sense.”

They aren’t confused.
They’re detached—having had little practice sitting inside their own experience before it was defined for them.

Too Far Behind

Standing too far behind creates a different problem, but the disorientation is just as consequential.

It rarely shows up in crisis. It shows up in omission. A kid handles something difficult without mentioning it—not because it went well, but because it never occurred to them that someone might meet them in it.

By the time we notice, there’s nothing to respond to. The experience has already been handled internally. They’re calm, composed, and quiet in a way that suggests completion, even though nothing was ever held in relationship.

What is often labeled maturity is really self-management without support.

Without anyone to meet the moment with them, their experience never quite organizes inside. Gradually, a pattern forms.

These kids learn that pausing to check in complicates things. That waiting for someone else to engage slows everything down, and it’s easier to keep moving than to bring experience back for shared consideration.

So they do. Even without knowing where they stand, they keep going.

In the process, something essential is lost: the sense that experience has somewhere to go once it’s lived.

Position Becomes Intimacy

Mispositioning doesn’t only affect competence. It reshapes intimacy.

Children who grow up with parents consistently out in front learn that closeness comes with correction. To be near is to be guided, interpreted, or redirected. As this repeats, proximity stops feeling supportive and starts feeling intrusive. As they grow into adulthood, they keep people at a careful distance—not out of fear, but out of preservation. Connection feels safest when it doesn’t reach too far inside.

Children who grow up with parents consistently behind them learn something different. Closeness feels unreliable. When things get complicated, they expect to manage alone. As adults, they bring capability into relationships instead of need—steady, functional, and largely unaccompanied. Intimacy becomes something to offer, not something to lean into.

Both patterns form in the name of care.
Both distort connection.

Where we place ourselves teaches our kids what they have to give up to stay close to another person—either their own sense of experience, or their permission to need support.

Where Capacity Is Built

Standing just behind our kids creates a very specific relational environment.

From this position, our kids can move forward under their own power while knowing someone is close enough to notice if they falter. Uncertainty is permitted without abandonment, and time remains intact—time to pause, to reorient, to decide what something means before being directed past it.

We don’t rush in to steer, and we don’t vanish. We stay within range, allowing movement without forfeiting connection. This is where capacity forms—not through pressure or absence, but through supported effort that belongs to them.

Standing beside our kids communicates something related but distinct: that capability doesn’t require solitude, and autonomy doesn’t mean isolation. It signals partnership without takeover, presence without correction. They can act, decide, and engage while knowing they aren’t doing it alone.

Stepping in front does have its place, but only occasionally and intentionally—when danger is real, or when a situation exceeds a child’s developmental capacity to manage it safely. In those moments, moving ahead isn’t about control; it’s about containment until readiness catches up. And when danger passes, or readiness arrives, we reposition accordingly.

Staying Put Is Hard

The hardest place to stand isn’t far ahead or far behind. It’s close enough to matter and restrained enough not to intervene.

Staying there means watching our child work through something that isn’t dangerous, but also isn’t smooth, and resisting the urge to step forward—not because they’re lost, but because uncertainty hasn’t resolved itself yet.

This kind of restraint is uncomfortable. Stillness can register as negligence. Waiting can feel indistinguishable from failure. In those moments, movement becomes tempting—not because it’s needed, but because it soothes our own unease.

So we adjust.

We step ahead to feel useful, to restore a sense of competence or control. Or we fall back to feel unentangled, to avoid the pull of responsibility that proximity brings.

Standing well offers neither relief nor validation. It asks us to remain present without becoming central, to stay available without directing the route, and to trust that our kids can find their footing while we remain within reach.

This discomfort—more than ignorance or indifference—is what causes even thoughtful parents to drift.

Returning to Position

Most moments don’t require intervention as much as an honest look at where we’re positioned.

Where am I standing in this moment?

Am I ahead of my kid here, or not actually with them at all?

If I step in now, is it because my kid needs support—or because waiting makes me uneasy?

Am I hanging back because they’re ready—or because staying close feels like more than I can manage right now?

What would happen if I let this moment stay unfinished a little longer?

We will misplace ourselves.

We will step in when waiting would have served them better, and hang back when presence was needed. What matters is recognizing when we’ve drifted—and choosing to return.

Position, repeated, becomes identity—ours and theirs.