A small victory for most pre-teens, but not this one. Just a couple of years earlier, his fear of the water kept him from joining his siblings’ water play. And only the previous year had he finally let his sister talk him into canoeing with her, still a far cry from voluntarily getting in. From the beginning, his will to do “what the other kids did” fought against a sensory system that perceived the most benign stimuli as hostile. Logically, he knew the water wouldn’t hurt him, but his body told him otherwise. “Progress” meant willing himself to trust his knowledge in spite of his fear. And to trust us.

We recognized from the beginning that TJ would struggle to do “what the other kids did,” at least at the same age. As a mom, my instinct was to protect him—to keep him close, avoiding the disappointment inherent in trying something he “should” have mastered, but couldn’t quite accomplish. Looking back, I was afraid to let him try because I didn’t want him to come up short. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, I was afraid to let him fail.

At some point, though, my attitude changed. If TJ was willing to put himself out there, even if it meant coming up short, did my fear justify holding him back? So when he asked to play rec-league soccer like his older brother and sister, we said sure, but told him “you might have to work harder than the other kids.” He accepted that from the get- go. Sure enough, twice the effort yielded half the success, but he enjoyed playing and slowly, his skills began to improve and with that, his confidence grew. That confidence led him to try otherthings, and I’ve seen the cycle repeat over and over as he’s grown.

Over the years, lots of “firsts” began similarly. We lived across the street from the small-town school campus—the junior high building sat across the street and down a couple of hundred yards from our front door, with the elementary the kids attended on the far side of that campus. TJ was in about fifth grade when he wanted to walk to school alone. By then, he had a wonderful aide that sat beside us on the “shore.” I would text her when he left, and she’d text me when he arrived. After a few weeks, even that ceased. He’d taken another step toward independence and never looked back.

Other “firsts” followed. His first solo trip with the sixth-grade band. Then out-of-town trips with the basketball and track teams became typical. Later, he’d ask to ride his bike around the school block to a friend’s house, and they’d ride together. (We lived in the small town I grew up in, and I knew that the moms all the way along the route kept an eye out for him, just as I did for their kids.)

Eventually, it was learning to drive, getting a job, going to the arcade with friends—all of the “normal” things teenage boys do. Again, those milestones came a bit later than most of his peers, and after a lot of hard work, but he’s risen to every opportunity. Now he’s on the verge of going away to college. The natural progression of maturity takes him farther and farther from “shore.”

But I’ll always be there. Watching from an ever-growing distance, cheering him on, and encouraging him to take the next step toward his full potential, whatever that might be.