Soul Dump Sunday: Worthy Struggle

This summer has kicked our asses back and forth about 20 different ways. Honestly, last summer was pretty similar. It’s a long story, not fit for one post alone, but in a nutshell: almost like clockwork, at the end of 8th grade for our youngest, things got very hectic.

We didn’t fully see the struggles he was having—teenagers can be elusive, and parents tend to hope for the best, assuming misbehavior is just part of becoming a young man. But when it started surfacing again this summer—same bat time, same bat channel—it hit me hard. He needs more support than we had been giving. That includes psychiatric support and medication.

That rabbit hole is not a fun one. I had no idea the amount of time, repetition, and re-telling of traumatic family events it would take. The endless insurance calls, waiting for the next incident, and rejection after rejection. And when there’s violence—punching walls or otherwise—the help in all the “best” places turns off. Deep support like residential programs can cost $40,000+ a month.

I’m the type to dive in headfirst, swimming hard toward solutions. That brings hyper-focus, moments of extreme loneliness and frustration, and rejection that would be hard for anyone to bear—in business and in life. Sprinkle on top the control issues that come from always being the rock in situations like this. The only one not suffering from a mental health challenge in the family—it’s rough and very lonely. Don’t they know? I’m the last man standing. I’m the only one who can do this…

And the truth is, there’s no way for one person alone to handle all of the logistics in a situation like this. But the truth about control is that we don’t really have any. Or at least, very little. Another lesson in surrender, I suppose.

During one of my son’s trips to a behavioral clinic this summer, my neighbor suggested I write him letters while he was away. “Write one every day so he knows you’re still here,” she said. I added it to my list of things to do, but it didn’t end up feeling like a task. Instead, it gave me space to support him in a way spoken words couldn’t. It let me process, and gave him time to digest.

These letters became something he looked forward to. They gave me a way to coach without being in his face. He thanked me for them—and even asked for more.

Then came the latest rejection. We’d made it through the summer with weekly therapy, a biweekly psychiatrist, and a current cocktail of meds that actually seem to be helping. He began showing up differently for himself—using self-regulation tactics, baking, planting, and even starting a T-shirt business instead of reaching for old habits.

So I applied for a school here in Austin with high hopes. Smaller classes, less chaos, a schedule that fit his needs. A fresh start. We were accepted! Finally, something going our way without a long, drawn-out fight.

He was up at 6am, showered, in uniform, ready to go. He liked it. The first two days went really well. I thought: this is going to work. I started to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Then came the dreaded call at 2:30 on the second day. A cheery voice: “You need to come pick your son up, he’s been administratively discharged.”

That gut-punch rejection. Fear surging through my body. What? They can’t do this. Why? Already? Day 2?

Turns out his record from his last school, bad behavior, truancy, bringing illegal substances on campus had followed him.

So back into solution mode I went, I spent four hours preparing. He has protections under an IEP—an Individualized Education Program, which is supposed to ensure students with learning or behavioral challenges get the support they need. By law, they can’t just expel him without a hearing. I went in confident I could turn it around, only to be shot down again, with zero compassion, no compromise, no second chance. Hearing the words we are within our rights doesn't bring a sense of hope.

After crying for a day and sitting with my son’s disappointment, I asked him what he was taking away from all this. His first reaction was: “Nothing.” Then he stopped himself.

“Well, actually, I realize this is because of the things I did last year.”

That reflection? That’s growth. It means he’s connecting the dots, even if the lesson stings.

I wrote him a letter that day. Here’s an excerpt:

August 14, 2025 – Worthy Struggle

Tristan,

This rejection from school hit hard, and the truth is, you didn’t even do anything wrong this time. You showed up, went to class, and did what you were supposed to do.

Here’s the thing: struggle is inevitable.

But worthy struggle, the kind that teaches us and makes us stronger that’s where growth happens.

You’re already building new habits. You’re already showing up differently. And yes, sometimes we still carry the weight of old choices. That’s part of moving forward.

The struggle doesn’t define you—it shapes you. It teaches you. And I’ll keep reminding you: you’re not alone in this.

Love, Mom

The struggle is real, as they say. And at moments it feels like we can’t go on—that we are completely fried—and for a parent, each one feels like a failure. We should be able to fix this, to find the best thing for our kids.

But that’s our struggle: to learn to let go. To let them go through their own suffering and ride their own waves in life. To discover that failure and struggle are part of growth. And without them, we wouldn’t get stronger.