I was a latchkey kid. Yet, I struggled to give my tween the independence she needed.
I grew up as a latchkey kid and loved roaming the city by myself.
But I struggled to give my tween the same independence I loved so much.
At 13, I caved and let her walk alone to a café.
For months, my 12-year-old daughter begged me to let her walk alone to the strip of stores and cafés a half-mile away from our house in Los Angeles. Craving independence, she wanted to get ice cream, pick out a friend's birthday gift, and do her homework at the coffee shop (anything) so long as she could do it by herself.
Each earnest request was met with a resounding "No." Resentment radiated from my daughter's big eyes. I was the evil witch to her Rapunzel. Instead of a tower, she was trapped in a California bungalow.
Attempting to compromise, I offered to let her go solo on one condition. I'd trail out of sight behind her.
"You won't even see me," I argued.
"Not the same, and you know it!" she shot back.
I was terrified of giving her the freedom I grew up with.
I was a latchkey kid
I understood her desire to explore on her own. I was a latchkey kid growing up in Seoul, where my father was stationed. Once school was over, I'd scarf down some Spam with kimchi while watching my favorite soap opera and head out the door of our apartment. There was nothing I loved more than roaming the bustling city.
I'd walk to the corner store and buy a grape-flavored Popsicle in the shape of a shark that was raspberry red in the middle when I bit into it. I'd ride my bike along the Han River, ferry boats and gleaming skyscrapers streaking by in my periphery. Sometimes, I'd peruse my favorite stationary store, running my fingers along the crisp paper of Keroppi the Frog notebooks. Embedded in these memories was the gratification of doing it all without adult supervision.
I was terrified of giving her the same freedom
But as a 42-year-old mother, I was terrified of allowing my daughter the same freedom. Watching cars blazing through our neighborhood, barely coming to a rolling pause before blasting past a stop sign, my chest seized at the idea of her navigating the streets without me to protect her.
My fears didn't stop at speeding vehicles. Push notifications from apps like My Citizen and Nextdoor were frequent reminders of nefarious activities taking place. In one harrowing post, a girl was accosted and groped by a man as she walked to her middle school in a nearby suburb. Reading the scary details, I thrust my phone into the air. "See!" I declared. My daughter sighed.
Thirty years earlier, when I was 12, I escaped an attempted abduction shortly after my family moved from Korea to the US. In Washington State, a man followed me and tried to get me into his car as I made my way home alone.
The terrifying incident imprinted me with a deep paranoia. It was leaching into my child's adolescence, causing strife. I wanted to keep her safe, but tethering her tightly to my side only created distance between us. She was frustrated and angry. More than once, she called me "Smother."
I needed her to know I trusted her
How could I expect her to be confident and self-sufficient if I didn't show I trusted her? I knew I needed to let go, to let her experience and navigate the world without me holding her hand. To help quell my paranoia, I deleted My Citizen and Nextdoor. Those apps were gasoline to my fiery anxieties.
One Saturday morning, I swallowed the bile gathering in the back of my throat, gripped the kitchen island for support, and told my daughter she could walk by herself to the coffee shop. Her face shone as she promised to abide by my safety precautions. Watching her skip down the front walkway without me next to her, my knees buckled.
Pacing the kitchen, phone clutched in my sweaty hands, I started at her shared location. For a half-mile, the blue dot moved from block to block. Then it stopped. My phone chimed. "I'm here, Mama!"
An hour later, my daughter returned, beaming and exuberant, sipping an iced matcha latte. Meanwhile, I looked like I'd just crawled out from the trenches.
Now 13, my daughter has ventured out by herself on many occasions. Though my nerves still rattle, they've improved with time. When she walks back through our front door, pride and confidence fill her eyes — and mine, too.
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