By Jamie Roach
A few years ago, I was sitting in my own home on a Saturday afternoon watching football. I was around fifty years old. No one was coming over. There was nothing urgent to be done.
I was relaxed. Enjoying myself. Fully at ease.
Then I heard my wife, Lea Ann, coming down the stairs.
What happened next surprised me. Without even thinking, I jumped to my feet and started looking around for something productive to do. Straightening a pillow. Picking something up off the counter. Anything that would make it look like I wasn’t just sitting there.
The whole reaction happened before I consciously realized it.
Then, almost mid-motion, I caught myself…and started laughing.
Because here’s the thing: Lea Ann would never say a word. She would happily sit down beside me and watch the game. The reaction had nothing to do with her.
It had everything to do with someone else. Someone from a long time ago.
There I was — a grown man, in my own house, on my own couch — and somewhere deep in my body was still an old message: If someone else is working, you should not be resting. And underneath that, something even older: If you rest while others work, you are a bad person.
That’s what our childhood homes do to us. Not always on purpose. Not always harmfully. But they shape us: in our bones, in our instincts, in the way we parent before we even know we’re doing it.
Most of us didn’t choose our parenting style. We inherited it.
Some of us grew up in homes that were orderly, disciplined and structured. We learned responsibility, follow-through and hard work. Those are genuine gifts. But when structure consistently outweighed warmth, we may have quietly internalized the belief that love has to be earned, that productivity matters more than presence, and that being fully at ease is somehow unsafe.
Others of us grew up in homes that were warm, free and emotionally open. We knew we were loved. But if there were few boundaries or inconsistent expectations, we may have learned that harmony matters more than honesty, and that holding a firm line means risking the relationship.
Neither of these is a character flaw. They are simply the waters we swam in as children. And without awareness, they become the waters our children swim in too.
In the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, Papa’s bed was too hard. Mama’s was too soft. Baby Bear’s was just right.
It’s a surprisingly good picture of parenting.
When we lean too hard — rigid, rule-heavy, emotionally distant — children often feel they must earn love by getting things right. They may look well-behaved on the outside, but carry fear or shame on the inside.
When we lean too soft — over-accommodating, conflict-avoidant, reluctant to hold the line — children may feel cherished but also unmoored. Freedom without guidance doesn’t feel like love to a child. It feels like being alone in the rapids without knowing how to swim.
Children don’t need perfect parenting. They need what feels just right. Worn-in. Steady. Dependable. Not tight and stifling. Not loose and floppy. A parenting posture that says both I love you completely and I’m in charge here, in the same breath, at the same time.
Dan Siegel describes this as the River of Integration: the space between rigidity on one bank and chaos on the other. I like to call it the River of Presence.
In that river, a child’s two deepest needs are honored at once: the freedom to be their own unique, God-given self, and the security of knowing someone trustworthy is lovingly in charge. They don’t have to choose between being fully themselves and being fully loved.
Getting there doesn’t require becoming a different person. It requires becoming a more aware one. When we can look at our own instincts with curiosity and compassion, the way I laughed at myself on the couch, we create the possibility of something new. We stop reacting from the past and start responding to the person right in front of us.
Your children don’t need you to be perfect. They need you to be present.
Present enough to notice when you’re parenting from fear instead of love. Present enough to ask, “Where did this come from in me?” Present enough to soften when you’ve been too hard, or to hold the line when you’ve been too soft.
The river is always flowing. Every moment offers another chance to return — to yourself, to your child, and to love.
About Jamie Roach: Jamie has served on the staff of Youthfront for 35 years, working with students, parents and youth workers. His passion is seeing people live their best life. Jamie is a spiritual director, author, communicator and Licensed Professional Counselor at Youthfront’s affiliate, Presence-Centered Counseling. He received his Master of Divinity degree from Nazarene Theological Seminary and a Master of Arts in Counseling from Mid-America Nazarene University. Jamie loves Nebraska football, reading, walks in the woods and hanging out with his family. Jamie and his wife Lea Ann have four adult children and four grandchildren.
