There’s a strange kind of heartbreak that parents carry—not the dramatic, soul-crushing kind that splinters you in an instant, but the slow, grinding ache of watching your grown children struggle while knowing you no longer get to hold the steering wheel. If parenting young children is a constant act of guiding, parenting adult children is a long practice in surrender.

Recently, I had a series of conversations that reminded me how much growth can happen not through control, but through letting go. And maybe God puts people in your life at the right time. Frodo’s but one consistent companion on his journey all the rest, even Gandolph, came and went.

It began with a chance encounter—a young adult named Jeremy, a trans person who has known our family for years and knows my heart well. They’d witnessed the conflict between me and my own kids, who are also trans, and during one of our conversations, they said something that cut through the static like a clear signal in deep space:

“Not all trans people are angry. Not all of us make a spectacle of things. And your kids? I don’t think what they’ve said about you online is fair.”

Unsolicited. Unexpected. Unburdening.

It was the kind of comment that lifts a weight you didn’t even realize had grown so heavy. Like Morpheus handing you the red pill—not to shatter your world, but to affirm that your perception isn’t entirely broken. That maybe you’re not crazy after all.

Over time, I kept talking with Jeremy. Learning. Listening. Genuinely trying to understand—not just for my kids’ sake, but because it mattered. Because people like Jeremy helped me see that not everyone in the trans community is angry, reactive, or constantly on edge. My own kids often assumed I should already know things, things I hadn’t been taught. But Jeremy never came at me with outrage. No fire and brimstone. No shouting about genocide or calling out every perceived slight. Just honest, patient conversations. A breath of fresh air in what had felt like a stormy room.

They told me most trans folks aren’t like what social media often amplifies. Just people—trying to live, love, and be seen.

Eventually, I introduced Jeremy to a friend of mine—a mother of a trans teen who was really struggling. She didn’t know where to turn, and I thought maybe a conversation with Jeremy would help. Jeremy agreed, and I helped set up the meeting. What followed were several conversations between them that brought real support, healing, and understanding. They even all came over to my house a few times. My friend later told me how meaningful those talks had been for her child. I was just glad to play a small part in something that helped.

And then came Father’s Day.

It was a hard day. I didn’t get a call from my kids. Not even a message for most of the day. I kept waiting, checking my phone, telling myself not to care so much. Eventually, I texted Jeremy and told them how bummed I felt. That’s when they sent me something that stopped me in my tracks.

“You’re the kind of dad I wish I had.”

I sat with those words for a moment—stunned, joyful, and aching all at once. They went on to tell me I was a good dad. Not out of pity, not flattery, but because they’d known our family for a long time. They’d seen the whole messy, human story. It wasn’t cheap sentiment. It meant something.

It was, without question, the most unexpected and precious gift I’ve ever received on Father’s Day.

And yet my heart broke a little, too. For Jeremy. Because their own dad has been mostly absent from their life. If I could’ve adopted them in that moment, I would’ve. I told them: If you ever need anything, I’m here.

Later that evening, my kids finally did send a text. A group message. One of those obligatory “Happy Father’s Day” notes that felt like it had just occurred to them at the end of the day. An afterthought.

You start to doubt yourself after a while. When people repeatedly cast you as the villain in their story, it’s hard not to start auditioning for the part. You begin to ask yourself the question: Am I the bad guy?

But hearing this from someone inside the same community, who has walked their own difficult road, gave me perspective. And, perhaps more importantly, it gave me peace. I don’t need to correct my kids anymore. I don’t need to defend myself on the digital battlefield of half-truths and social slander. I’ve learned not to take it personal and to back off.

That’s not indifference. That’s wisdom. There’s a point where parenting shifts from authority to availability. You don’t steer anymore. You wait for them to ask if they can borrow the map. When they do, something changes.

But things have changed. With this new perspective, I’ve adopted a simple rule: advice is no longer free. It comes at the small cost of a request.

To be clear, I was never a helicopter parent. I wasn’t hovering, micromanaging, or obsessing over every decision they made. But I was quick to offer solutions. If they vented about something, I’d respond with a list of things they should do. Like a well-meaning auto-responder: Have you tried this? You should do that. They’ve made it clear—they don’t want that anymore. So now I wait.

I don’t offer advice unless they ask for it. And surprisingly, it wasn’t long before I got the chance to put that into practice. And from that simple shift, something unexpected happened: The conversations got better. Like stormy weather giving way to clearer skies, we started actually talking—not just reacting. And that shift, as small as it may seem, has made all the difference.

One of my kids texted me recently in a moment of crisis. A contractor was trying to upsell unnecessary home repairs. My kid was spiraling, overwhelmed by costs and responsibilities.  Their world seem to be falling apart all around them. They were afraid of spending all the inheritance money on what they thought was a needed repair to the house.

I resist advice, what was left? Help them with their emotional state. What they needed wasn’t a hero, just a lighthouse. Someone to help them reframe, to talk them down from the ledge of catastrophizing—the mental practice of imagining every possible terrible outcome until reality itself starts to feel like a threat.

I asked, “What’s your emotional state right now?”

They hesitated. “worried,” they finally admitted.

“Good,” I said “that is the first step”. I told them they are catastrophizing and that I ask if they knew they needed to name it. Once you’ve named it your emotional state, you can fight it. That is something my own counselor once taught me. And now I was simply passing on the same wisdom. Like Obi-Wan to Luke, not because I had all the answers, but because I have done it myself.

And then… no more texts. Maybe I’d overstepped? I wasn’t offering unsolicited advice, I was helping them work through their emotional state.

Then a bit later they seemed to have calmed down.  A bit more rational and then we were able to talk about the situation. This time, they asked for my input. And I gave it—gently. About how homeownership isn’t just a burden, it’s an investment. How fixing the old parts of your house isn’t throwing money away; it’s building wealth. Value. Security. How the contractor seems to have unnecessary repairs and an outrageous price. Get a second opinion and only fix what actually needs to be fixed.

I help by reframing the situation and getting them to look at it rationally.  Maybe that has been what I have done wrong in the past, starting with the rational instead of dealing with the emotional state first.

A few days later, they called again. They’d taken the advice—not just mine, but from other dads in their orbit—and they’d navigated through the situation. Even thanked me. I held onto that thank you like Frodo clutching the Phial of Galadriel: a light in dark places, when all other lights go out.  It has been awhile since I had heard a “thank you,” that is one of life’s true treasures.

And more recently I received a text with them all upset on a new issue and decided to call them. This time they were not seeking advice, they just wanted to vent. It was about family drama on their mother’s side. They weren’t asking me to solve anything. Just to listen. So I did.

And that simple act—resisting the urge to fix—seemed to build more trust than a thousand sermons. “Thanks for listening,” they said.  “Thank you” twice in less than a month, my cup runneth over.

Maybe I’ve been an advice monster, I mused. Like a well-meaning Data from Star Trek, constantly offering solutions in the name of logic. But perhaps what they need isn’t an android. Maybe what they need is just… a supportive dad. I don’t think I was ever not supportive, but maybe not in the way they needed.

And I realized something profound: my job isn’t to stop them from crashing. My job is to make sure they know how to get back up afterward. They have their life to lead and it is not the path I had dreamed for them, it is path to their own Mordor.

I still worry. That never stops. But now I worry less about being “right” and more about being available.

So here’s where we are: things are better. Not perfect. The story’s not wrapped up with a neat bow, à la The Princess Bride. But we’re not in Act I anymore. Maybe this is Act II—the part where the characters grow up, not just grow older.

They don’t want unsolicited advice. So I stopped giving it. And oddly enough, that’s when they started asking. Ironic, I know. The universe has a sense of irony that even Loki would appreciate.

In the end, all I really want is to walk beside them when they’ll let me—and to sit quietly nearby when they won’t. I want them to thrive. To know joy. To build lives that are meaningful and whole. And if I can’t always be the dad they want, I still hope to be the kind of dad they one day recognize they needed.

Maybe even the kind of dad someone once told me they wished they had.

Excerpt

Parenting adult children means learning when to speak and when to be silent. In stepping back, I found something better than control—connection. And sometimes, the greatest gift isn’t from your own child, but from someone who sees the parent you tried to be.