The Mirror and the Child: Letting Go of Control in Parenting
What happens when we stop trying to shape our children—and start truly seeing them?
The Mirror and the Child: Letting Go of Control in Parenting
What happens when we stop trying to shape our children—and start truly seeing them?
We were listening to Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone in the car. My son was wide-eyed, hearing the story unfold for the first time. His forehead pressed to the window, a half-eaten snack resting in one hand. His older sister sat beside him, legs tucked underneath, quietly mouthing along to the parts she remembered. The baby cooed from her seat behind me, adding her own music to the moment.
Then Dumbledore’s voice filled the car, gentle but firm:
“It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.”
No one paused the story. No one spoke. Something in the air shifted.
I found myself holding that line more tightly than I expected. Not just as a piece of wisdom tucked into a story—but as a question. What dreams do we teach our children to dwell in? What reflections do we offer them—not of who they are, but of who we quietly long for them to become?
The Mirror of Erised does not lie. That’s what makes it dangerous. It doesn’t show fantasy—it shows desire. Our deepest longing. In doing so, it tempts us to mistake want for wisdom, imagination for truth.
When Harry first discovers the mirror, he sees his parents. Not as ghosts or visions—but whole, smiling, alive. He returns to it again and again, not for advice or guidance, but to be near what he’s lost. To feel, even for a moment, the presence of something he aches for. When Ron stands before it, he sees himself as Head Boy, Quidditch captain, admired by all. What the mirror reveals is not an unreachable fantasy—but a secret hope, shaped by the quiet places of the heart.
The mirror doesn’t speak. It doesn’t guide. It doesn’t warn. It simply reflects back what we most long for. In that way, it draws us in. We linger. We reach. We believe.
Dumbledore cautions that many have wasted away in front of it, entranced by what they saw, or even lost their minds. The danger isn’t in the vision. It lives in the stillness. The way longing can hold us in place, making it harder to live in the world as it is.
In parenting, we sometimes stand before that mirror unknowingly. We see a version of our child—confident, accomplished, joyful—and we reach for that image with all the tenderness of love. We believe, quietly and earnestly, that if we just guide well enough, care deeply enough, protect consistently enough, we can help them become what we see.
Longing, even born of love, can become a kind of illusion. A distortion. It can bind us to a vision of who we hope they will become and keep us from receiving who they already are.
In Jewish spiritual practice, we are taught to soften the will—not to erase it, but to loosen its grip. The tradition urges us to notice where we’re holding too tightly and invites us to choose relationship over control. The practice of releasing expectations—of quieting our need to steer everything toward a desired outcome—becomes an act of faith. Not a faith in certainty, but a faith in presence. In connection. In what unfolds when we stop trying to shape the story and begin simply bearing witness to it.
Parenting becomes a sacred opportunity to live this out. To trade mastery for mystery. To let go of the version of our child we held in our mind’s eye and make space for the person they are becoming—wildly, wonderfully, and sometimes unpredictably—before our eyes.
This is not apathy. Not detachment. It is presence. Relationship. The quiet courage to say: I release the mirror. I’m here to see you—not just the reflection of who I hoped you’d be, but the truth of who you are.
We may not notice, at first. The striving child and the struggling child both ask something of us. We respond—often with love, often with worry, sometimes with the quiet ache of our own dreams.
We cheer when they shine, soothe when they stumble, and somewhere in between, we begin to shape the story in our minds: This is who they are. This is who they will be. Something in us softens when we really look. Not at their performance, but at their presence. Not at their success or rebellion, but at their spirit. Their essence.
We begin to recognize that what they need isn’t molding. It’s seeing. Seeing without fixing. Witnessing without scripting. Staying present without rushing them toward the person we imagined.
This becomes more than theory. It becomes a daily practice. A call to soften. To listen more than we direct. To honor the unfolding of a child’s soul without trying to rewrite its shape. To allow our children to grow in the direction of their own becoming, not ours.
As our children grow older, this becomes even harder—and even more essential. When they are young, their need defines us. They climb into our laps, call our names, cling to us as if we are the air. Their dependence roots our identity.
Eventually, they begin to think for themselves, stretch toward independence, experiment with decisions we wouldn’t always make. Our role shifts—from protecting to preparing, from steering to standing beside.
Parenting becomes an act of spiritual restraint. We love so deeply that we believe we know what is best. We want to spare them hardship, guide them away from pain. We try to impose the version of life we think will serve them most.
Letting go of that is not easy work. It is ongoing. Every child, every season, every stage asks something new of us. We learn to choose our battles, to discern what really matters, to allow space for mistakes, surprises, and their own unfolding. We move from managing their lives to advising from the margins.
We begin to practice something quieter, harder, and more sacred: letting them. Let them try. Let them fail. Let them feel what they feel, want what they want, say what they need to say—even when it surprises us. Let them disappoint us sometimes. Let them become.
Letting them is not letting go of love—it is loving them enough to let their story unfold, even when we’re not holding the pen.
To love without control is not less—it is more. It is presence over pressure. Stillness over strategy. It is not silence. Some moments require boundaries, redirection, repair. Letting go doesn’t mean abandoning our role—it means resisting the urge to script their life or rescue them from the sacred discomfort that helps them grow.
In my own life, I don’t always get this right. I still reach for the mirror. I still catch myself trying to shape the outcome. Then I remember: the work is not to be perfect. It’s to return. Again and again. To trade expectation for presence. To love them more than the version I imagined.
Sometimes this shows up in the smallest ways. Letting your child wear the outfit they picked, even if it doesn’t match. Letting a science project stay messy because it’s theirs. Letting a teenager voice an opinion that stings, without rushing to correct. These moments aren’t passive. They are deliberate. They say: I trust your becoming.
We begin again, not by dreaming of who they might become—but by loving them as they are.
✨ A Note for Practice:
Letting go doesn't mean stepping away. It means stepping back enough to see your child clearly.
Try this:
When your child makes a surprising or disappointing choice, pause before responding. Ask yourself: Am I reacting to who they are—or to who I hoped they’d be?
When you feel the urge to fix, ask: Is this about their safety… or my discomfort?
Offer presence, not perfection. Say: “I trust you to try. I’m here if you need me.”
Small moments of trust become lifelong messages: You are loved. You are seen. You are allowed to become.
“To trade the safety of expectation for the holiness of relationship.”
🧠 Reflection Prompt:
What mirrors have you carried into your parenting?
What have you been able to release?
What has become more visible since you’ve begun to let go?
📚 Sources:
“Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone,” by J.K. Rowling (1997). Quote and imagery from Chapter 12, The Mirror of Erised.
Jewish spiritual sources referenced here draw from Chassidic and Mussar teachings, particularly those of the Baal Shem Tov and Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler, which explore surrender of the self, the quieting of ego, and the holiness of presence in relationships.