Parenting Without the Panic

You know the drill.

Monday: soccer practice. Tuesday: tutoring. Wednesday: church youth group (which you feel guilty about skipping because of Thursday's select team tryouts). Friday: the birthday party your kid doesn't want to attend but you RSVPed yes because the parents are "good contacts." Saturday: tournament two hours away. Sunday: homework you didn't know was due Monday.

Repeat.

We moved here for the Florida life. Good weather, relaxed atmosphere, time outdoors for the whole family. And we got it. But somewhere along the way, we also got something else: a low-grade anxiety that hums beneath everything we do.

Is my kid keeping up? Are we doing enough? What if they fall behind?

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There's a quiet pressure that runs through life in St. Johns County. It's not always obvious. But it's there.

We love our kids. We want the best for them. And somehow "the best" has become a moving target that requires a color-coded calendar and a small fortune in registration fees.

Here's what we are scared to say out loud and almost get defensive if somebody hints at it: we're exhausted. And our kids are exhausted too.

The pressure to perform—academically, athletically, socially—has become background noise. We don't even notice it anymore. It's just how things are.

But it doesn't have to be.

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I'll be direct: we've built a parenting culture that worships achievement.

It's not malicious. But it is a kind of religion.

The gospel is simple: your child's worth is tied to their performance. The rituals are endless practices and test prep. Salvation is a college acceptance letter or making that travel team.

And here's the spiritual problem: we start believing our job as parents is to produce high-achieving kids.

But that's not what we're called to do.

We're called to raise beloved kids. Kids who know—deep down—that their worth isn't tied to their GPA or their playing time or where they get in.

The real question isn't "How do I get my kid into the best school?"

It's "How do I help my child know they are loved—truly loved—regardless of what they achieve?"

Those are two different missions. And only one of them leads to peace.

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The desert mothers and fathers practiced what they called a "Rule of Life." It wasn't a productivity system. It was a trellis—a structure that supports growth without crushing it.

What if we built something like that for our families?

Not another planner. Not another optimization hack. A framework that reminds us—and our kids—who we are and whose we are.

A few practices that ground us in love, not performance. In belonging, not achieving.

Here's what that might look like:

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1. Build in Sabbath Moments

You don't need a full 24-hour Sabbath (though if you can, do it). Start smaller.

One meal a week with no phones. No TV. Just presence.

One evening where nobody has to be anywhere. Where boredom is allowed. Where your kid can flop on the couch without guilt.

Sabbath isn't laziness. It's resistance. It's saying: "Not today. Today, we just are."

Your kids need to see you rest. They need permission to be unproductive. They need to know their worth isn't tied to their output.

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2. Practice Gratitude Together

At dinner: "What's one thing you're grateful for today?"

Not "How did you do on your test?" Not "Did you win?"

Just "What made you smile?"

Gratitude shifts the lens. It teaches kids to notice the good that isn't about performance. It rewires anxious brains—yours and theirs—to look for gifts instead of gaps.

Amma Syncletica said, "There are many who live in the mountains and behave as if they were in the town, and they are wasting their time. It is possible to be a solitary in one's mind while living in a crowd."

Your practices matter more than your geography.

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3. Let Them Fail

This one's hard.

But failure isn't the enemy. Perfectionism is.

When your kid bombs a test or doesn't make the team, your response matters.

Are you devastated? Scrambling to fix it?

Or are you steady? Present? Compassionate?

Your child is watching. They're learning: Does my parent love me only when I succeed? Or even when I fall short?

If they never see you accept failure—yours or theirs—they'll believe failure is unacceptable. And that will haunt them.

4. Talk About God's Love (Not Just Expectations)

We're good at teaching kids what they should do. Go to church. Be kind. Serve others.

But do they know they are beloved? Not because of what they do, but because of who they are?

The Gospel's foundation: you are loved. Period.

Not loved if. Not loved when. Just loved.

That's the message your kid needs. Over and over. In a world that tells them they have to earn everything.

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Here's the shift:

Stop asking, "How do I raise a successful kid?"

Start asking, "How do I raise a whole kid?"

A kid who knows they're loved. Who can fail and recover. Who can rest without guilt. Who believes their worth is inherent, not earned.

That's not laziness. It's resilience.

Kids who know they are loved—deeply, unconditionally—are free to take risks. To try. To fail and get back up. Because their identity isn't tied to the outcome.

The anxious kid who melts down over a B+ isn't afraid of the grade. They're afraid of losing your approval. Your love. Their worth.

You can change that. Starting now.

![Child peacefully resting in grass with