For many years, the prevailing soundtrack in my household has been filled with familiar refrains echoing through the halls — exasperated voices asking, “But why doesn’t she have to do that?” or lamenting, “You never punish him!” Each time those words pierced the air, they struck an all-too-familiar chord of maternal guilt deep within me. Almost instantly, I would begin questioning myself: Had I become complacent, perhaps even inattentive? Was there an unconscious favoritism hiding beneath my decisions, or was I simply inconsistent and disorganized in my approach to discipline? The thought that I might be a parent who favored one child, whether through leniency or rigidity, sent waves of self-doubt rippling through me.
Looking back now, more than twenty-one years and three children into the profound journey of motherhood, I can see that my early interpretations were misguided. Yes, I became incrementally less anxious with each new baby — a natural evolution that comes with experience and perspective — but it was never truly a reflection of diminished care or waning attentiveness. What I finally came to understand was far more nuanced: it wasn’t that my parenting style changed fundamentally over time, but that each of my children demanded, by virtue of their unique dispositions and emotional landscapes, to be parented differently. This realization reshaped my entire understanding of what it means to nurture and guide another human being. Parenting, I discovered, is anything but one-size-fits-all.
My eldest child made this understanding come into focus with remarkable clarity. From an early age, he displayed a thoughtful and reflective nature, one that thrives on dialogue rather than direction. Even now, as a college student navigating his independence, he continues to reach out, often calling to seek my perspective before making important decisions. Our conversations range from the practical to the profoundly personal — he shares his concerns, occasional health worries, or moments of doubt — yet, after we’ve talked things through, he nearly always proceeds to solve his problems on his own. For him, parenting means offering a safe sounding board rather than a commanding hand. In his case, my role has evolved into that of a mentor quietly standing in the background, offering reassurance through trust rather than control. He doesn’t require tight supervision; he requires confidence that he can carry the baton forward independently.
My middle child, in contrast, challenges a very different part of my parental instinct — one that wants to intervene, to shield, and to soften every rough edge she might encounter. She awakens in me the impulse to rescue, to ensure that her path is as free from discomfort as possible. Yet, experience has taught me that such protection, though well-intentioned, can rob her of the opportunity to develop resilience and self-assurance. This daughter of mine is intelligent, capable, and endlessly resourceful, but she processes uncertainty through emotion rather than rational analysis. When her anxiety rises, I feel an almost physical urge to fix things — to create stability for her rather than letting her find it herself. The hardest, yet most valuable, lesson she has given me is this: helping her doesn’t mean fixing every problem, but instead teaching her the tools, language, and confidence to manage life’s complexities independently. My task is to guide her gently toward self-reliance rather than cushioning her from every fall.
Then there is my youngest — a child who seems to have been born with independence coursing through his veins. From his earliest days, he projected an assured sense of autonomy, rejecting interventions that his siblings once relied upon. He bristles if I offer to set an alarm to wake him for school or dare to fold his laundry, insisting that he is perfectly capable of managing his own world. Yet beneath that fierce independence lies a quiet understanding: he wants to know that I’m present, even if my assistance isn’t immediately visible. My part in his life is less about structure or oversight and more about presence — being nearby, unobtrusively, ready to catch him when the ground starts to slip beneath him. Parenting him requires restraint, trust, and faith in his capacity to seek support only when necessary.
For years, I was convinced that parenting had to be uniformly fair, that equality meant sameness — that every rule or consequence applied identically across the board. I carried this belief like doctrine, convinced that consistency demanded identical treatment. Yet, unbeknownst to me, I had been adapting my parenting all along, tailoring my responses intuitively to each child’s distinctive temperament. Ironically, while I criticized myself for treating them differently, I was actually engaging in the most meaningful and individualized form of fairness. Over time, I came to recognize that what one child receives as loving support, another might perceive as stifling interference. What feels like freedom to one might feel like neglect to another. Fairness, I finally understood, cannot be measured by sameness; it must be defined by awareness, empathy, and responsiveness.
Even now, the family soundtrack hasn’t changed much — familiar voices still cry out, “She’s your favorite!” or “Why do you let him get away with that?” But my response has transformed entirely. I no longer respond with guilt or self-doubt; instead, I ask myself a more meaningful question: What does this particular child need from me right now? Not what did their sibling need at this same age, not what cultural or parental expectations dictate I should do, but what truly enables this child, in this moment, to feel secure, capable, and loved. I measure my consistency no longer by uniform treatment, but by the degree to which I am emotionally and intuitively attuned to each of them.
Ultimately, the greatest lesson my children have gifted me is this: parenting is not the act of performing the same role three times over, but rather the art of adapting, evolving, and tuning in to three distinct individuals. Each of them — with their unique strengths, fears, and rhythms — calls forth a different kind of parent from within me. My job is not to mold them in sameness but to help each become exactly who they are meant to be, nurtured by love that recognizes and honors who they already are.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/change-parenting-style-for-each-kid-different-approach-2025-12
