“Mom, I need to go to the bathroom right now!” my eight-year-old exclaimed from the backseat, his voice edged with urgency and rising panic. We were caught in the slow-moving chaos of a packed Starbucks drive-thru after school, with cars idling in every direction. His three-year-old brother was fast asleep in his car seat, his head tilted at an uncomfortable angle that I didn’t dare disturb. Caught between my older child’s immediate need and my inability to move the car, I made a quick, practical decision – one that, in hindsight, tested both of our comfort zones. “Alright,” I told him, forcing a calm tone into my voice, “you can go inside by yourself, and I’ll meet you on the patio in front once I pull through the line.”
Before I could even finish, his six-year-old brother piped up enthusiastically from beside him, announcing, “I have to go too!” It was clear that my attempt at delegating independence to one child was now becoming a group effort. I unlocked the car door and watched as the two of them climbed out together, holding hands briefly before crossing safely in front of my car. They moved around the building with determination, disappearing from my line of sight. It wasn’t until they vanished that I realized what had just happened: I had, for the first time, let them do something entirely on their own. The realization made my heart flutter with unfamiliar nervousness.
My thoughts raced as I compared this moment to my own childhood. In the 1990s, it was perfectly normal for kids my age to roam around playgrounds, wander library aisles, or run quick errands inside stores without an adult shadowing their every move. Why then, I wondered, did something so small fill me with such disproportionate anxiety? My mind jumped straight to worst-case scenarios—unwanted strangers, distracted drivers, or even just the possibility of them getting lost inside. My overly cautious inner voice, ever eager to catastrophize, whispered a dozen reasons to panic.
But as soon as I made my way to the Starbucks patio, my fears evaporated. There they were, returning triumphantly, their faces glowing with pride. They were beaming with the unmistakable joy of success, their excitement radiating through every smile. In that single moment, I saw how meaningful it was for them to have been trusted—to have navigated a tiny piece of the world without my help. It struck me powerfully that my role wasn’t simply to protect them, but also to prepare them, and that required letting go.
This realization echoed something that social psychologist Jonathan Haidt, author of *The Anxious Generation*, recently explored in collaboration with Lenore Skenazy and Zach Rausch. Their Harris Poll survey of more than five hundred American children between the ages of eight and twelve, reported in *The Atlantic*, revealed a jarring truth about modern childhood. Despite the fact that roughly seventy-five percent of these children regularly immerse themselves in expansive online environments like Roblox—digital worlds where they roam, build, and explore freely—a strikingly small portion of real-world freedom remains. Fewer than half of the eight- and nine-year-olds surveyed had ever walked down a grocery-store aisle by themselves.
Initially, I found this hard to believe. I caught myself judging those parents—how could they be so restrictive, so unwilling to let their children take even a few steps independently in a safe place like a grocery store? But then, humility arrived quickly. As I reflected, I realized that while my own kids might independently browse nearby shelves when we shop together, I rarely allow them to move beyond my direct view in other settings. I, too, had been tightening an invisible leash without realizing it.
Haidt’s summary of the findings resonated deeply with me: without genuine, physical-world independence, children lose the opportunity to build key life skills—competence, confidence, and the capacity to navigate everyday challenges. Digital autonomy, he argued, cannot substitute for the self-assurance developed through tangible experiences like speaking to a cashier, finding a restroom, or solving small problems on their own. It dawned on me that if I refused to let my kids practice independence, they would never learn how to internalize it naturally.
Motivated by this, I decided to experiment, to consciously create more moments that allowed independence to grow. We started small—at Target, a place familiar and relatively controlled. Normally, I would browse the book section while my boys wandered the adjacent toy or video game aisles, but this time I wanted to take a deliberate step forward. I handed my eight-year-old a modest but purposeful assignment: to walk a few aisles over and pick up a loaf of bread, while I collected yogurt and cheese nearby. Within a minute, he returned, clutching the bread like a prize and grinning with unmistakable pride. The task had been minor, but the satisfaction it gave him was enormous. And, to my surprise, the errand itself felt lighter, more efficient, almost joyfully collaborative rather than burdensome.
The pattern repeated itself in subtle but meaningful ways. On another trip, when my six-year-old needed to use the restroom, his older brother volunteered—his voice steady and confident—to accompany him to the front of the store. I agreed, but as soon as they disappeared, my mind betrayed me again with its catalog of “what-ifs.” What if they couldn’t find their way back? What if they wandered too far? What if they panicked—or worse, what if I was the one being careless? I fought the urge to run after them for an eternal few minutes before giving in, abandoning my cart mid-aisle and hurrying toward the restrooms. To my relief and mild embarrassment, they were perfectly fine—the younger one inside, the older seated patiently on a bench outside, exactly as they promised. In that instant, something inside me finally shifted. My son knew what to do. He was capable, responsible, and delighted that I trusted him enough to let him prove it. The obstacle had never been his readiness; it had been my own fear.
That understanding crystallized during one last, unforgettable moment. We had stopped at our favorite neighborhood pizza place to pick up dinner, and I decided to let him handle the order alone for the first time. He paused briefly in the car before opening the door, nervously whispering the words he needed to say—“I’m picking up an order for Sydni Ellis”—as though rehearsing lines for a performance. Watching him gather his courage, pacing just a few steps before entering, stirred something fierce and tender in me. I resisted the impulse to intervene, to make the process easier. Instead, I kept still and allowed him to take that final step on his own.
When he reemerged a few minutes later, pizza box in hand, his face glowed with sheer accomplishment. His smile was so bright it felt like the culmination of every small act of trust we’d been building. It wasn’t only pride that shone through—it was the dawning realization of his own capability, the kind of quiet confidence that can only be earned, never given. I will never forget that look.
That moment gave rise to a great truth I will carry with me: this is why childhood independence matters. It teaches our children to rely on their judgment, to problem-solve without constant supervision, and to feel the exhilarating satisfaction of success. My son had done something ordinary but transformative. He had stepped into the world with courage, discovered what he could do, and returned stronger for it. In allowing him to practice independence—one small errand, one act of trust at a time—I was not loosening my bond with him, but strengthening it. Together, we were both learning that letting go, however difficult, is a powerful expression of love.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/how-to-give-young-child-more-independence-2025-12
