My one - word parenting resolution.

As a solo mother of three one launched into adulthood at 25, two still very much at home at 17 and 16 I have become intimately familiar with the tyranny of the word yes.

Yes to lifts that clash spectacularly with conference calls. Yes to topping up Revolut accounts (my younger son, mainly). Yes to “just this once” extensions on curfews, deadlines, pocket money and patience. I say yes partly because I can, partly because I want to keep the peace, and partly because after a long day in a corporate job, resistance can feel harder than surrender.

What I don’t have, unlike many families, is another parent in the house to play bad cop. Every boundary is mine to draw and mine alone to enforce. That makes the word no feel heavier, more loaded, more personal. When I say it, there’s no counterbalance, no one else to absorb the fallout.

And yet, here we are in 2026, navigating GCSEs and A levels with all the emotional intensity they bring, and I’m starting to suspect that my reflexive yes-saying may not be the parental virtue I once believed it to be. Convenience masquerading as kindness, perhaps. Exhaustion dressed up as generosity.

I know, in theory, that young people don’t benefit from having every obstacle cleared from their path. They learn resilience by encountering friction. They build confidence by solving problems that aren’t immediately smoothed away by an obliging parent with a diary, a debit card and a nagging sense of guilt. I also know because my eldest is living proof that children eventually grow up regardless of how many times you remind them to revise, tidy, or plan ahead.

So this year, I’ve decided to experiment with a quieter, firmer approach: saying no more often not so much to them, but to myself. No to the guilt that creeps in when I do something for myself. No to always being available to everyone else while putting myself last. The list could go on.

No to nagging about untidy rooms that reset themselves into chaos within hours. No to hovering anxiously over revision timetables for exams they ultimately own. No to repeatedly asking them to do things I could just do myself and be done with. No to the low-level stress that comes from trying to manage every detail of teenage life alongside a demanding career.

This isn’t a manifesto for detachment or indifference. I still care deeply. I still show up. I still listen. But I’m learning that constant intervention is not the same as support and that stepping back can be as loving as stepping in.

Teenage years are fleeting. I know that better than most, with one child already beyond them. And yes, I still want to make my children happy. But perhaps happiness doesn’t always come from being accommodated. Perhaps it comes from being trusted to cope.

And if, along the way, I reclaim a little balance fewer knots in my stomach, fewer battles I never needed to fight then that may be one of the quieter wins of parenting we don’t talk about enough.

Fiona x