The Quiet Chaos: My Journey Through Helicopter Parenting and Finding Myself
How do you explain something you’re only just beginning to understand? That my hesitation wasn’t laziness or lack of ambition—it was a habit, one ingrained so deeply it felt like second nature. For as long as I could remember, someone else had been making the choices for me. And now that I had to make my own, I was paralyzed.
Growing up in a middle-class family, I was loved fiercely—but that love came with strings attached. My parents wanted the best for me; I know that. But their way of showing it was to hover over every part of my life.
“Don’t run too fast; you’ll fall.”
“Why do you need to go out? Stay home; it’s safer.”
“Focus on your studies. We’ll handle everything else.”
They meant well, but their constant involvement left no room for mistakes. No room to fail. No room to grow. They believed they were protecting me, but in reality, they were shielding me from the very experiences I needed to become my own person.
At the time, I didn’t see it. I thought I was lucky to have parents who cared so much. I let them decide my extracurriculars, my friends, even what subjects I should study. It felt comforting, like having a safety net. But the thing about safety nets is, they also trap you. It wasn’t until I hit my 30s that I realized how unprepared I was for life. I’d never truly made a decision on my own—not one that mattered, anyway. Choosing a career felt like guesswork.
Navigating relationships was like walking blindfolded. Every choice, big or small, came with an overwhelming fear of getting it wrong. I had spent my entire life waiting for someone to tell me what to do, and suddenly, there was no one there.
I remember one night after yet another failed relationship, sitting alone in my apartment, staring at my phone. I wanted to call my mom, ask her what to do. But I stopped myself. I felt this crushing wave of guilt. Was this who I was? A grown man who couldn’t even handle his own heartbreak?
People misunderstand me all the time. They think I’m indecisive or unambitious. They don’t see the battle inside my head—the constant tug-of-war between wanting to break free and the fear of disappointing the people I love. Even when I try to explain, I feel judged. People tell me I’m “too nice” or “too soft,” as if being gentle is some kind of flaw.
But here’s the thing: I’m trying. Every day, I’m trying. I’ve started small—choosing what to eat, where to go, what to do with my weekends. It sounds silly, doesn’t it? But for someone like me, those little decisions feel monumental. Each one is a step toward taking back control of my life.
I still love my parents. I always will. They did the best they could with what they knew. But I’m finally starting to understand that their love, as well-intentioned as it was, came at a cost. And now, it’s up to me to unlearn the patterns I grew up with.
Sometimes, I get angry. I get frustrated. I wonder how different my life might have been if they had just let me fall once in a while. But then I remind myself: it’s not too late. Life doesn’t have a deadline for figuring things out.
If you’ve ever felt this way—like you’re playing catch-up in a world that expects you to have it all together—you’re not alone. I’ve learned that it’s okay to feel lost. It’s okay to start over, even if it’s later than everyone else. What matters is that you start.
And if you’re someone who grew up in a home like mine, here’s what I want to say: you’re not broken. You’re learning. You’re growing. And one day, you’ll look back and realize that every step, no matter how small, brought you closer to the person you were always meant to be.
So here I am, figuring it out one day at a time. It’s messy, and it’s hard, and sometimes it feels like I’m walking uphill in the rain. But I’m walking. And for now, that’s enough.
