How I "failed" as a Mother

My oldest daughter is the most driven, independent, motivated, and STUBBORN person I know.

I don't think she fully realizes how much I admire her strength. She's only 25 years old, yet she possesses more maturity than many people twice her age. And that stubbornness I mentioned? Well, let's just say she came by that trait honestly. Her mother isn't much different.

My daughters and I have shared plenty of laughs over the years about how I "failed" them as a mother. From their perspective, I didn't prepare them to be nurturing adults. I prepared them to be strong, independent women who get things done.

The comedy comes in when they tell me stories about how they don't know how to deal with their friends when they're going through difficult situations. Their friends are looking for comfort, sympathy, and emotional support. My daughters listen patiently, and then, almost instinctively, ask the same question they've heard from me countless times: "So, what are you gonna do?"

I've faced some difficult seasons in my life. One of the hardest lessons I've learned is that feeling sorry for myself never fixed anything. Sulking never solved a problem. Life never stopped long enough for me to stay stuck.

So I taught my girls to feel their feelings, but not live in them. I taught them that when something goes wrong, you look for the lesson. You identify what was within your control. You figure out what actions contributed to the outcome and what actions might lead to a better one next time. You're going to take losses. You're going to sustain injuries. Some will be physical. Some will be emotional. Some will be mental.

Feel it. Acknowledge it. Learn from it... Then get moving again.

Keep striving. Keep growing. Become stronger, wiser, and better because of what happened, not despite it.

Looking back, I realize those lessons served my daughters well. Maybe a little too well.

Recently, my oldest daughter found herself facing an extremely difficult situation. She called me completely distraught. My heart broke for her. Instinctively, as any mother would, I began to offer my assistance and give her guidance on what next steps she should take. Instead of accepting my help, she decided to carry the burden herself. She put her head down, developed a plan, and convinced herself she could solve it alone.

And in that moment, I realized there may be one lesson I never taught her.

I never taught her when to surrender.

Not surrender as in quit. Not surrender as in give up. Surrender as in recognizing that you don't have to carry every burden by yourself. Surrender as in admitting that your plan may not be the best plan. Surrender as in acknowledging that someone else might have wisdom, perspective, or resources that could help.

Because being an adult isn't about doing everything alone.

There is nothing weak about asking for help. There is nothing embarrassing about saying, "I don't know." There is nothing wrong with admitting that the path you're on isn't working and it's time to reset and recalibrate.

The challenge is that this lesson feels contradictory to all the lessons that came before it.

When you've spent years convincing yourself that strength means pushing through, it's difficult to accept that strength sometimes means reaching out. When you've built your identity around being capable, it's hard to admit you're overwhelmed. When you've convinced yourself that you're supposed to have it all together, humility can feel like failure.

In my book, Don't Be a DUMB Smartphone, I talk about the importance of performing a hard reset. Sometimes our systems become overloaded. The apps are still running, but performance is suffering. The answer isn't to keep pushing harder. The answer is to stop, reset, and restore what matters most.

My daughter needs a hard reset right now.

The difficult part is that I can't do it for her. She has to recognize the need herself. She has to choose it. And then she has to take a big bite of humble pie and accept the help that's available.

As I thought about this, I realized this isn't just a lesson for my daughter. It's a lesson for leaders.

Many leaders build their careers on competence, determination, and grit. Those qualities help us earn credibility and overcome obstacles. They help us solve problems and deliver results. But eventually, those same strengths can become liabilities, if we're not careful.

We stop asking for help. We stop seeking advice. We convince ourselves that because we're the leader, we're supposed to have all the answers. We carry burdens that should be shared. We fight battles that should be delegated. We cling to plans that should be abandoned. And all the while, we call it strength.

Real leadership isn't knowing how much weight you can carry. It's knowing when it's time to set some of it down. It's understanding that resilience and self-reliance are not the same thing.

Resilience helps you endure hardship. Self-reliance can sometimes convince you that you have to endure it alone.

The strongest leaders aren't the ones who never need help. They're the ones who know when to ask for it.

Like I said earlier, my daughter is one of the strongest people I know.

But as a leader, and as a mother, I would love the opportunity to teach her how to balance that load.

Because strength isn't measured by how much you can carry.

It's measured by having the wisdom to know when you shouldn't have to carry it alone.