Hardly a week passes without my encountering a parent lamenting that their child feels unhappy, frustrated, or utterly unfulfilled in some area of their life—whether that be an extracurricular pursuit, an advanced placement class, or even a friendship that no longer provides comfort. In these moments, these same parents almost invariably declare, with firm conviction, that they will not permit their child to abandon the activity or relationship in question. Many seem to have internalized a rigid cultural narrative that equates quitting with weakness and parental failure, viewing the willingness to let a child quit as an abdication of responsibility and a blemish upon their moral character. The familiar refrain of ‘I’m not raising a quitter!’ still echoes loudly through playgrounds, homes, and parent–teacher conferences alike.
In contrast to this prevailing mindset, I have chosen to adopt a markedly different approach with my own four children—two teenagers and two tweens—by embracing the belief that quitting can, under many circumstances, be not only acceptable but deeply beneficial. There exist entirely valid and healthy reasons to step away from commitments that no longer serve one’s wellbeing or growth. To me, quitting is not a shameful act but a learned skill—one that teaches discernment, self-awareness, and emotional regulation. As an adult, I do not hesitate to resign from a job that erodes my mental health, withdraw from a friendship that becomes toxic, decline a volunteer role that overwhelms my schedule, or adjust family holiday plans when they no longer align with our needs. If such decisions are both reasonable and responsible for adults, then I must ask: why should a different standard apply to children? Shouldn’t part of guiding our children toward becoming well-adjusted, self-sufficient adults include teaching them how to recognize when to let go? If the ultimate goal of parenting is to raise thoughtful, balanced individuals who can navigate life with wisdom, then surely allowing them to quit—when the situation calls for it—is a valuable lesson, not a moral shortcoming.
Take, for example, my experience with letting my children quit sports. Last year, one of my teenage daughters participated in an intensive, short-term elite athletic program. We initially believed that the rigorous environment and so-called ‘tough love’ coaching style would instill resilience and strengthen her performance. Yet the opposite proved true. Our daughter, who naturally flourishes with calm, individualized guidance and responds better to constructive, private feedback, found the aggressive approach demoralizing. Her enthusiasm for the sport waned, and she began expressing a genuine desire to quit altogether—not merely the program, but the activity she once loved. Recognizing her distress, we promptly agreed to let her withdraw. The cost to her mental wellbeing far outweighed any perceived benefit of staying in an ‘elite’ environment. In retrospect, the decision to quit was transformative. She rediscovered her passion, continued pursing her sport at a healthier pace, and regained balance. In short, quitting worked—it preserved her joy and restored her motivation.
I have applied this same principle to relationships as well. Often, family friendships arise out of convenience—the result of parents enjoying one another’s company more than their children do. Yet, over time, kids inevitably change, grow apart, or sometimes realize they never particularly liked each other to begin with. Rather than forcing my children to sustain uncomfortable or mismatched friendships for the sake of social appearances or adult convenience, I allow them to disengage gracefully. Ending a relationship does not require confrontation or dramatics; sometimes the healthiest exit is a quiet fade. Through these experiences, my children are learning to evaluate people’s influence in their lives—to distinguish supportive, reciprocal relationships from ones that drain or diminish them. The logic extends naturally into adolescence and even dating: breaking up with someone who is not a compatible partner is not evidence of failure but of emotional intelligence. I have shared my own story of friendship loss when, during my battle with breast cancer, two of my closest friends withdrew from my life. Though deeply painful, I ultimately recognized it was better for my wellbeing to release those connections rather than plead for their continued presence. By sharing this with my children, I hope they come to understand that sometimes letting go is the kindest, most self-respecting act one can make.
The same mindset applies to academics. Once students reach high school, scheduling flexibility affords them greater control over their workloads and interests. One of my daughters, for instance, chose to drop a science class after realizing it contained far more mathematical rigor than she had anticipated—and math happens to be a subject she finds immensely challenging. Though she possessed the qualifications to enroll, the reality of the class proved overwhelming. In such cases, prestige or academic labels like ‘advanced placement’ or ‘dual credit’ should never outweigh a student’s mental health and stability. As a college instructor myself, I have witnessed the repercussions of students taking on too much—burnout, plummeting grades, and disillusionment with learning itself. I would much rather my children learn, early on, to recognize when a course or commitment exceeds their capacity, letting them make a thoughtful choice to withdraw before it consumes their wellbeing. Through that process of weighing pros and cons, of making an intentional, values-based decision, they develop confidence, self-trust, and maturity—all essential skills for adulthood.
Another area where our family embraces the healthy version of quitting is in the realm of mental health. We are fortunate to live in a state that designates official ‘mental health days’ for students—excused absences that permit them to pause, rest, and recharge without penalty. While taking such a day is not technically ‘quitting,’ it embodies a small, temporary act of stepping back—an intentional stillness that allows one to assess personal needs and return stronger. I encourage my children to recognize when they are overwhelmed or nearing burnout, and to make use of these days when necessary. In my view, perfect attendance awards inadvertently reward inflexibility and ignore the diversity of human limits—they often veer toward ableism by celebrating endurance over wellbeing. I would much rather see my children learn to listen to their own minds and bodies, to become attuned to their internal warning signs, and to respond with compassion toward themselves. Learning when to rest, to pause, and to recalibrate is not weakness—it is a practice of lifelong resilience.
Ultimately, letting my children ‘quit’ is not an act of indulgence or moral laxity; it is a conscious effort to teach them discernment, emotional intelligence, and the courage to prioritize their wellness. By allowing them to make thoughtful choices about what to continue and what to release, I hope to raise individuals who equate success not with relentless endurance, but with balance, self-awareness, and authenticity.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/kids-should-be-allowed-to-quit-sports-friendships-classes-2025-11
