Parenting is the hardest thing I have ever done. I tried to find

Hear the words of Amy Chua, who speaks with the voice of one who has struggled with love, duty, and regret: “Parenting is the hardest thing I have ever done. I tried to find the balance between the strict, traditional Chinese way I was raised, which I think can be too harsh, and what I see as a tendency in the West to be too permissive and indulgent. If I could do it all again, I would, with some adjustments.” In this confession, she names the eternal trial of the parent: the search for balance between discipline and freedom, between tradition and change, between the iron hand and the open palm.

In the ancient world, nations too wrestled with this question. The Spartans raised their children in iron discipline, stripping away softness to forge warriors of steel. Their society endured for a time, but it lacked tenderness, and in their hardness, much of the sweetness of life was lost. The Athenians, by contrast, allowed their youth freedom to pursue art, debate, and pleasure, yet often their liberty bred weakness and discord. Between these extremes, the wise have always sought a middle path, and it is this path Chua sought as she raised her own children, torn between the harshness of her upbringing and the indulgence she saw in Western homes.

The heart of Chua’s struggle lies in the recognition that love is not simple. To love a child is not only to nurture, but to shape. Yet shaping can wound when it becomes too rigid, and nurturing can spoil when it becomes too lenient. Parents are asked to perform the most difficult of dances: to press hard enough to build strength, yet gentle enough to preserve spirit. Chua’s honesty reveals that she, like countless parents before her, found no perfect formula, only trial and error, and the ache of wondering what might have been done differently.

History gives us another example in the life of Emperor Marcus Aurelius, who sought to raise his son Commodus with the virtues of Stoicism. Marcus was disciplined, wise, and self-controlled, yet Commodus grew into indulgence and cruelty. Some historians believe Marcus, in trying to balance love with imperial duty, failed to instill in his son the humility and discipline he himself embodied. Thus, Rome was weakened by a child raised between extremes, echoing Chua’s reminder that parenting is the hardest thing, and even the greatest of leaders may falter in it.

Yet Chua’s words also carry hope. “If I could do it all again, I would, with some adjustments.” In this, she models humility: the willingness to admit mistakes, to recognize that perfection is beyond reach, and to learn even from one’s own regrets. This humility is itself a lesson for future generations. For the parent who claims to have no regrets is blind; the one who admits regret shows the way of wisdom.

The lesson, then, is clear: seek balance with vigilance. Do not be so harsh that love becomes fear, nor so indulgent that freedom becomes ruin. Look to your traditions, but do not be bound by them. Look to new ways, but do not be deceived by them. Parenting is not the blind repetition of culture, nor the careless embrace of novelty—it is the careful weaving of both, adjusted to the child, to the times, and to the soul of the parent themselves.

Therefore, let every parent who hears these words take action: reflect, adjust, and forgive yourself. Do not cling to the extremes of harshness or indulgence. Do not fear to correct your course when love demands it. And above all, remember that children do not need perfect parents—they need present parents, willing to learn, to guide, and to grow alongside them.

Thus Amy Chua’s words, though personal and reflective, shine with the weight of ancient wisdom: parenting is the hardest of all labors, for it demands balance in a world that tilts always toward extremes. And in striving for that balance—even with mistakes, even with regrets—parents fulfill their sacred duty, leaving behind not perfection, but love tempered with truth.