For most of my sons’ lives, I have been their advocate.
I’ve sat across from doctors, teachers, school administrators, specialists and therapists. I’ve asked questions, requested clarification, pushed when something didn’t feel right and learned terminology I never imagined I would need to know.
But my boys are 12 and 14 now, and lately I’ve realized that advocacy is beginning to look different.
My job is no longer simply to speak for them.
My job is to teach them how to speak for themselves.
And, perhaps surprisingly, that requires a different kind of bravery from me.
From Speaking for Them to Sitting Beside Them
My oldest son is a childhood cancer survivor. For years, medical appointments meant adults talking to adults. I listened to doctors. I asked the questions. I kept track of the information. I made sure he received what he needed.
But he is 14 now.
This year, I have become increasingly intentional about putting him in the front-row seat of his own care. At survivor clinic, audiology, endocrinology and other appointments, I want him listening to what his doctors are saying about his body and his health. I want him to understand why we are there. I want him to ask questions.
Recently, he also participated in his own IEP meeting at school.
Instead of a room full of adults making plans about his education somewhere beyond his view, he was in the room. He heard what was being discussed. He had the opportunity to ask questions and participate in decisions about the support he receives.
My younger son, who is 12, is learning to advocate for himself, too. We are creating opportunities for him to participate in conversations about his education, his IEP, therapy and other decisions that directly affect his life.
They aren’t doing all of this independently.
I’m still there.
I’ve just started moving one chair over.
Self-Advocacy Doesn’t Suddenly Appear at 18
We tell children all the time to “use your voice.”
Speak up.
Ask for help.
Tell someone what you need.
We cannot make every decision, answer every question and conduct every important conversation for our children throughout childhood and then expect them to wake up on their eighteenth birthday knowing how to confidently advocate for themselves.
They need practice while we are still beside them.
That might mean encouraging a child to ask the doctor the question instead of asking it for them.
It might mean helping them prepare what they want to tell a teacher about something that isn’t working.
It might mean asking, “What do you think you need?” before offering our solution.
Sometimes it means simply turning toward them in a meeting and asking, “What do you think?”
These moments may seem small, but they are building self-advocacy skills our children will eventually need in classrooms, workplaces, relationships, medical appointments and countless other spaces where we will not always be sitting beside them.
The Hard Part Is Knowing When Not to Speak
As a parent who has spent years advocating for my children, I know how to take over a room when I need to.
What I am learning now is when not to.
There is a particular kind of discomfort in watching your child search for the right words when you already know exactly what needs to be said.
Sometimes I want to jump in.
Sometimes they look at me because they want me to jump in.
And sometimes I still do.
Teaching children to advocate for themselves doesn’t mean abandoning them to navigate complicated systems alone. There are still situations where adults need to intervene. There are still power dynamics children cannot reasonably be expected to manage. And there are still moments when my children simply need their mom.
Self-advocacy isn’t an all-or-nothing handoff.
It’s a gradual transfer of ownership.
Maybe today I ask the question.
Next time, we prepare the question together and they ask it.
Eventually, they may recognize the question that needs to be asked before I do.
That’s the goal.
Bravery Changes as Our Children Grow
When my boys were younger, bravery in parenting often meant being willing to speak.
It meant asking the uncomfortable question. Challenging an assumption. Requesting another conversation. Saying, “I don’t understand,” or, “This isn’t working for my child.”
I will always be willing to do those things.
But I’m discovering another kind of courage now.
It is the courage to make room.
To resist answering immediately.
To let my children stumble through a sentence.
To allow them to disagree.
To let them ask a question differently than I would have asked it.
To remind them that the adults in the room may have expertise, but they are the experts on their own experiences.
Most importantly, it means teaching them that their voices belong in conversations about their own lives.
Moving One Chair Over
Our children won’t always need us in the ways they need us today.
That’s simultaneously the goal and one of the hardest truths of parenting.
I don’t want my sons to reach adulthood believing they need me in every room in order to be heard. I want them to know how to ask questions, communicate what they need, understand their options and participate confidently in decisions affecting their lives.
So I’m practicing, too.
I’m practicing asking instead of answering.
I’m practicing preparing instead of rescuing.
I’m practicing sitting beside instead of standing in front.
And I’m learning my parental rights for when they do turn 18.
For years, bravery meant walking into the room ready to fight for my children.
In this season, bravery sometimes looks like walking into that same room, taking my seat beside them and giving them the first chance to speak.
I haven’t stopped being their advocate.
I never will.
I’m just moving one chair over.
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