Last weekend, my husband and I decided to take the girls on a hike. But not just any hike. For Atlanta metro residents, climbing Stone Mountain is a rite of passage. Our girls, ages six and nine, are both decorated IronKids, and tackled their first 5k a few months ago. We figured they were probably ready. I hadn’t climbed the mountain since I was a kid, so I did a little research before we left. At only 1 mile to the top, I figured we’d be fine. We packed a picnic for the journey and headed up.

On average, I’m active 5 days a week. I’m a sprint-distance triathlete and a distance runner. This climb was tough. At the halfway point, I was winded. By the last stretch, we were basically climbing vertically. I was speaking words of encouragement through my labored breathing. Our two girls decided to sprint the rest. I was determined to follow. And then we were there, breathing hard but smiling. Our first summit!

We ate our picnic and watched all the people who rode the gondola to the top exit and walk around. My husband and I told the girls how proud we were of them. We explained that some of the people riding the gondola couldn’t hike up the mountain and that doing certain things that are hard just because we can is important.

Soon it was time for the hike back down. We hit that vertical descent we sprinted up shortly before, and I panicked. You see, since the last time I hiked this particular mountain, I’ve developed a bit of a fear of heights. And Stone Mountain isn’t your average mountain – it’s a big hunk of granite, exposed high above the tree line. At the summit, it’s sheer rock. I suddenly felt exposed, small, and really scared. 

The mother who had pushed her kids up the mountain with words of encouragement and no fear faltered. My family was ahead of me, with my six-year-old just in front. “I’m scared,” I admitted, pausing to squat and touch the ground with my hands.

That’s when my youngest daughter turned around and offered me her hand.”It’s okay, Mama, I’ll help you.”

I took her hand. And my parenting role up until that moment shifted.

For almost a decade I’ve been busy guiding small children through life. My daughters still look to me with absolute trust to help them through each day, to dispense advice and bandage their wounds – both physically and emotionally. But that is rapidly changing, and will continue to do so. I will soon have teenagers, then young adults, then wives, mothers, contributing members of society.

That little hand reaching out to me on the side of a mountain got me thinking: I always want to take her hand. 

This world has changed immeasurably in my short lifetime – technology, ideology, even societal norms – are different from when I was their age. And as they grow, it  will continue to change.

I think as we age, the push forward can become a bit overwhelming, a bit scary. Kind of like developing a fear of heights. I wasn’t afraid of heights until a few years ago. Experts will tell you that’s common, that it has to do with your equilibrium. Many of the changes I’ve seen in my lifetime don’t scare me. But the future might.

In our current political climate, I see a lot of division between generations. In many cases, family members simply can’t see eye to eye, at a level I assume hasn’t occurred since the 1960’s. And while much goes into a person’s stance on issues at stake, and everyone is entitled to their own opinion, I think sometimes we forget one thing: to take hold of those who may be a bit more steady on their feet.

The vertical descent didn’t bother my young girls like it did me. For the first time, I let my child, the one I’m guiding, guide me. And I hope it won’t be the last time. She could see the path ahead, she could feel the ground beneath her feet, she had a way forward. So I chose to take her hand and walk together.

I told my girls recently that when I’m old and set in my ways, I want them to call me out. If I hurt their feelings, I want to know. If I am wrong, I want them to take my hand and help me see their point of view. To be honest, they already do it to a certain extent. They teach me something new every day.

So to my girls I will say:  Remember our first mountain summit?  We celebrated together. Then we headed down – and I needed your help. You offered your hand, and I took it. Let’s keep that going, okay? Love, Mama