One day, my son asked me what my greatest “invisible” fear was.
I answered honestly: “I’m afraid to say ‘no,’ because I fear people won’t like me anymore.”
That confession was a part of me I don’t usually show. It was a moment of intimacy between us, of real closeness, one that he later integrated into his own life. But it also gave him precious information about how I function and what influences me.
Shortly after, he used it. In front of a friend and his parents, he asked me if the boy could stay overnight at our house. He knew very well our rule: such requests are only to be discussed between us first, and only if we both agree, he may ask the child and their parents.
In that moment, put on the spot, I said “yes”, even though inside me there was a very clear “no.” I immediately realized the rule had been broken, and that I was living exactly what I had confessed: the impossibility of refusing when I feared I might disappoint or seem unkind.
At home, where we were waiting for the guest, we discussed what had happened. I explained that it wasn’t fair to ask me something in public, that he cannot force my limits, and that he must respect the rules we set together. He admitted honestly that he knew this was the only way to make me say “yes.”
With a knot in my stomach, I picked up the phone and cancelled the sleepover. What followed was anger, tears, and reproaches. But I stayed calm, without letting myself be overwhelmed.
Behind the storm, I began to understand what was happening. My children, like all others, observe, experiment, and test our limits as parents. They don’t do it to hurt us or to push us into a corner. It is their relational intelligence, the way they learn to navigate the world and to understand the consequences of their actions. It’s not conscious manipulation, but curiosity and exploration. And that is their “job” as children.
My role as a parent is to draw the perimeter of safety and make sure they are contained and guided with firmness and compassion, for their long-term good.
I realized my role was not only to say “no” and stand firm, but also to be his anchor. When my child collapsed into tears and anger, I had a choice: to be pulled into the whirlpool of his emotions or to remain calm, stable, present.
That is what co-regulation means. Children don’t yet have a nervous system mature enough to regulate intense emotions on their own. They borrow our calm, the way we breathe, our tone of voice, our posture. If I respond with anger to his anger, it creates a wildfire. If I remain calm, the fire diminishes and he slowly learns what peace looks like after the storm.
Co-regulation does not mean giving in or changing my mind. It means staying firm in my decision, but with a warm and stable presence. This way, the child understands not only that limits are real, but also that anger can be felt and passed through without breaking our bond.
Even though he was angry at first, my child learned a few important things:
– that it’s absolutely normal to feel strong, unpleasant emotions when he doesn’t get what he wants, and that these emotions don’t scare me, nor do they make me reject him;
– that a “yes” is not always final, and people have the right to revise their decisions, especially when rules are broken;
– that I, the parent, can be firm and consistent, even if I first gave in to pressure;
– that limits exist not just for him, but for the coherence and safety of the family, and respecting them does not compromise love or our mother–son relationship.
I know that at their age, 8–10, my children don’t yet have the developed executive functions needed for self-control or long-term planning. Their angry reactions don’t mean lack of respect, but the natural way they test limits and learn what is permitted and what isn’t. They learn through direct experience, observation, and immediate consequences.
If I give in and say “yes” when I want to say “no,” I teach them that my limits don’t matter and that pressure wins. If I hold my ground, even at the cost of their anger, I give them a far more valuable message: limits are real, healthy, and don’t mean I love them less.
My limits help my children understand that not everything they want will automatically happen, that there are rules and consequences, and that these rules are constant. This develops patience, frustration tolerance, and the ability to understand the effects of their actions. And when they see me respecting my own limits, they learn to do the same: to know their boundaries, to protect them, and not to give in to outside pressure.
It wasn’t easy to watch my child’s anger and remain firm. Ideally, I should have said “no” the first time and not had to revise after saying “yes.” But for me, even that was an important lesson. I’m proud I was able to do it anyway, even with delay.
More important than making small joys for my children is showing them by example that I, too, make mistakes, that I, too, give in to pressure, but that when I realize it, I fix it, even though it’s very uncomfortable for both me and them.
I want to offer them a model of respect, authenticity, and healthy boundaries. If I don’t respect my limits, how could I teach them to respect theirs?
And the deepest lesson for me was how I faced my fear, apologized for not refusing the first time, and affirmed my boundaries with love and consistency once I realized I had slipped. I hope this becomes their model, too, a way of navigating the world and their relationships earlier than I managed to.