Witnessing: The Hardest Job in Parenting
When I watch Law & Order, I notice something curious: so much of the drama revolves around witnesses. Insurance claims, police reports, news stories—someone has to have seen it, said something, been there. Witnesses are vital. Not because they act, not because they fix anything, but because their presence matters.
Parenting older children—teenagers, young adults—is often the same. The doing, the fixing, the firefighting… those are the things I know how to do. But sometimes, my most important role is simply to witness. To be there. To see it all—the accidents, the chaos, the mistakes, the pain, but also the successes, the wins, the joys, the accomplishments. They all matter, but they stick more, seem more real, when there are witnesses. Witnessing—not in silence, but visibly present; recounting the moment, describing the perspective, listening to the retelling aloud. Present, yet not the protagonist, the savior, or the antagonist. On the side.
Because without witnesses, sometimes we don’t realize we are not alone—and sometimes, not being alone changes everything.
Being a parent of children who are neither kids nor adults is hard. Often, people point to hormones—“it’s just their hormones”—as if that explains everything. But is it really about hormones? I have gone through menopause; that, too, is hormonal. Men experience gradual hormonal shifts as well, yet life continues, and we do not simply resign.
The real difficulty is not biology. It is that parents often feel their usefulness is taken away. The skills that once defined us—anticipating, guiding, protecting, fixing—are suddenly resisted or no longer requested. We are afraid of scaring them, of doing damage, of pushing too hard. And in that fear, we fail to see something important: scaring is not always harm. Sometimes, it is evidence of healing, of growth, of change already underway.
Blaming hormones avoids presence. It creates blinders—it lets us trust in fate rather than in presence. So, we console ourselves and say, “let it go.”
But there are two types of letting go. One is driven by resignation: an acknowledgment that there is nothing else we can do, or the confusion that we don’t know what else to do. It is action-driven—my actions have been taken away from me and transferred to them, whether I like it or not.
The other type of letting go is bolder, harder. It is driven by presence—the courage to sit and witness with a mindset of “I don’t know, but I will stick around.”
This let-go doesn’t do more; it uses the energy to look, to observe, to be present. And it is hard, because staying present without acting leaves us facing our fear, discomfort, and vulnerability.
A friend shared a story over Christmas. Her in-laws were on their way to a holiday gathering, navigating the worst winter weather. Along the highway, they witnessed a car accident: the car swirled and ended up in a ditch. Because they had seen it all, they knew where the car was. They safely stopped, called 9-1-1, and were instructed not to move the passengers.
“Help is on the way,” they told the people inside the car.
They stayed by the car, and in less than five minutes, help arrived. Later, they learned that the family was grateful—not just because the call was made, but because their voices reminded the passengers that someone was there, that someone saw them, that someone had stayed.
Witnessing, in that moment, gave meaning to what had happened. Simply being present made the experience real—it said louder than words what had occurred.
In parenting, I am learning the same: my presence can give my children’s lives that same weight and acknowledgment, even when I cannot fix anything.
It is not my role to fix. It is my role to witness.
I sometimes don’t know the difference between what my kids are capable of and what they need me for. I realize I am sometimes not the firefighter, not the police—I am simply a witness.
I know how to put out fires.
I know how to catch the bullies.
I know how to sign them up for programs.
I know how to remind them to study.
I know how to cook, clean, and coordinate.
But I don’t know how to witness.
It feels wrong. It feels lazy. It feels like abandoning.
Yet perhaps, especially in these in-between life stages, giving our children space doesn’t mean leaving the scene.
There will be accidents.
There will be bleeding.
There will be pain.
But we are there—to see it, mark it, cry with them, laugh with them.
Witnessing is foreign to me.
But now I am learning. Deep breaths are not just to plan the next action. Sometimes, they are simply to hold me still. To keep me here. To let my child know:
“I am here. Help is on the way.”
“I am here. You can do it.”
I am not the helper.
The doer.
The fixer.
I am here to witness.
Witnessing is not neutral. Sometimes, it requires bearing witness to pain—to lament. The word bear is interesting: it means both to carry and to endure. To bear witness is to hold the weight of another’s experience without trying to erase it. To stay with their frustration, grief, mistakes, and suffering, while silently testifying: this matters. This is real.
This kind of witnessing is uncomfortable. It exposes emotions I would rather avoid. Yet it is also a profound act of love.
Your timeline.
Not mine.
Being a witness adds weight to lived experience—it testifies that what is happening is real. It acknowledges what is happening and quietly says: This is seen.
And sometimes—unexpectedly—witnessing leads somewhere else.
It lasts only a moment. Fleeting. Warm. Childlike.
Delight.
In twenty years of parenting, I have known relief far more than delight:
Relief that there were no phone calls.
Relief that I did enough.
Relief that I averted catastrophe.
Relief that there were no meltdowns.
But delight?
Delight feels too rare, or too fragile to claim.
Perhaps this is my chance. Delight comes from presence. From staying. From seeing. Not from fixing, rescuing, or acting—just from being here.
Delight does not come from resolution. It comes from noticing.
And in that seeing, I get to experience amazement. Strength. Perseverance.
