Kids are a great analogy. You want your kids to grow up, and you

In the words of Jonathan Safran Foer, we hear a paradox as old as humanity: “Kids are a great analogy. You want your kids to grow up, and you don’t want your kids to grow up. You want your kids to become independent of you, but it’s also a parent’s worst nightmare: that they won’t need you. It’s like the real tragedy of parenting.” These words ring like a bell that carries joy and sorrow in the same tone. For the task of raising children is both blessing and wound: to nurture them toward freedom, while knowing that this very freedom will one day carry them beyond your reach.

The ancients knew this pain well. In the myths of Greece, Daedalus crafted wings for his son Icarus, teaching him to soar. Yet in giving him the gift of flight, he also faced the anguish of watching his son rise beyond his control. So too is the fate of every parent: to grant wings, but not to guide the winds. To prepare children for independence, knowing that the fruit of one’s labor is not possession, but release. This, as Foer names it, is the tragedy of parenting—to labor with all one’s love toward the very moment of one’s own obsolescence.

History gives us tender examples. Consider Augustine, the great philosopher and theologian. His mother, Monica, prayed ceaselessly for his soul, guiding him through youth and into faith. Yet when he embraced his calling, he walked paths she could not follow. Her influence remained, but her role as guide faded into memory. This is the hidden story of every devoted parent: to prepare the child for a life that no longer depends upon them. The harvest is joyous, yet the field lies empty afterward.

Foer’s words also remind us of the dual nature of love. To cling too tightly suffocates; to release too easily wounds. A parent lives in this balance—between protection and release, guidance and freedom, presence and absence. The heart longs for the child’s eternal need, yet wisdom demands their independence. The deeper the love, the sharper the ache of letting go. Yet in this ache lies nobility, for it is the proof that love has fulfilled its purpose.

The lesson for us is clear: true parenting is not about possession but preparation. The goal is not to keep children tethered forever, but to equip them with courage, wisdom, and strength so they may walk their own paths. The parent’s sorrow—that they are no longer needed—is in fact the highest form of success. For a child who can stand alone carries within them the invisible foundation built by years of unseen sacrifice.

What, then, must we do? First, let us accept the paradox, holding joy and sorrow together, knowing that both belong to the sacred journey. Second, let us not fear the moment when our children no longer need us daily, but trust that our love has been planted deep, like roots unseen beneath the earth. Third, let us live not for possession but for legacy, remembering that our influence endures not in control, but in the lives our children create for themselves.

O seekers of wisdom, take this to heart: the real tragedy of parenting is also its glory. To be needed less is proof of a job well done. To feel sorrow at their independence is proof of a love that ran deep. Do not despair when children rise beyond you, for it is your love that gave them wings.

Thus, Foer’s words endure as both lament and celebration. Yes, to raise children is to prepare for their leaving. Yes, it wounds the heart to be less central in their lives. But this is not failure—it is triumph. For the parent who has the courage to let go has not lost their child; they have given the world a soul strong enough to walk freely. And this, though it feels like tragedy, is the quiet heroism of parenting.