Truth and Trust
“Hey Sandy, you had better talk to your daughter… she has hickies on her neck,” my dad said.
“You’d better talk to your daughter. I don’t like her lying on the floor with her boyfriend under a blanket,” my mom later told me my dad had said.
Growing up, I was probably as truthful with my parents as many people of my generation—more than some, less than others. I tried to live my life and be in relationships to the best of my ability, but I was a teenager after all. Teenagers are works in progress, not fully formed moral philosophers.
My first love was Ted. He asked me to be his girlfriend at the end of our freshman year, and we stayed together until the summer after our junior year. Like most first loves, the relationship felt large and consuming—full of discovery, intensity, and emotions I didn’t yet have the language to name.
This story, though, isn’t really about Ted and me. It’s about what that relationship revealed—about truth, responsibility, and where power actually lived in our family.
During those years, I struggled less with the relationship itself and more with my mom’s worry about it. She saw more than I realized at the time. She understood the risks, the pull, and the ways I was both growing and vulnerable, and still, she chose not to shut it down.
She didn’t step back because she approved of everything, nor because she lacked authority. Instead, she understood something important: ending that relationship wasn’t her job. It was mine.
Adolescence allows only partial truth. It’s a season of exploration—budding sexual awareness, growing independence, and the slow, sometimes messy process of learning to trust your own voice. My mom couldn’t make my decisions for me, and she knew it. She could worry, watch, and quietly carry the weight of it.
At the time, I believed my dad was clueless. I knew my mom was paying attention—that was her role. What I didn’t understand then, but see clearly now, is that she also protected my dad from the nuances of my adolescent life. She didn’t want him disappointed in me, so she absorbed the stress herself.
Today, as a parent, I see this differently.
When one of our kids has an issue that needs to be addressed, Craig and I bring them into our bedroom and face it together. We don’t divide and conquer—we stand shoulder to shoulder. Truth doesn’t belong to just one parent, and neither does the worry.
Truth-telling sits at the core of my values. Dishonesty creates emotional fallout I find too heavy to carry. I want to lay my head on my pillow at night with a clear conscience—for the words I’ve spoken and the way I’ve shown up.
I want my kids to tell me the truth, and I want my reactions to make that possible. My goal isn’t punishment; it’s empowerment and teaching. When my words or actions turn punitive or disrespectful, truth learns to hide—and I try my best to NOT teach that lesson.
Now I understand what my mother understood then: truth isn’t about control. It’s about presence. It’s about creating a steady place where someone can make their own choices and still be held with care.
That’s the truth I’m trying to live now. Not perfect. Not always comfortable. But real—and shared.
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