Letting Go Without Giving Up

A raw, rhythmic roar on parenting's silent wars.

Listen.
You poured love into a cup they keep spilling
taught them “hot” but they still touch the flame.
You built roads in the dark, hands bleeding gravel,
while they called you “cruel” for every “no” you gave.

Yeah, I said it, parenting’s a raw deal.
A solo war where the medals come late,
where “thank you” arrives in a thirty-year text,
and “I get it now” is the only applause you’ll take.

A hard head makes a soft behind.
Your mama’s mantra hums in your veins
you bit your tongue when they called you a liar,
dug deep when they claimed you “didn’t care.”

You packed lunches with crusts cut off,
stayed up till 3 AM stitching their tears,
hid your fears in the click of locked doors,
let them hate you so they could survive the years.

Now they’re grown, slamming their doors,
repeating your lines in a borrowed rage
“You’ll understand when you’re older!”
Funny how wisdom doesn’t age.

Stepping back ain’t retreat, it’s strategy.
Let the world rub their edges raw,
let karma collect the debt you’re owed.
You ain’t weak, you’re a war-torn prophet
who knows storms water roots they can’t see.

So let ‘em fall. Let ‘em fail.
Let ‘em scream “You were right!” through gritted teeth.
You’ll sip your coffee, hide your grin,
and whisper “Told ya” to the wind.

‘Cause love ain’t always a hug
sometimes it’s the fist that lets go first.
Sometimes it’s the quiet “I’m here”
when their pride was flat and their lessons hurt.

A hard head makes a soft behind.
The circle spins, their kids’ll scream too.
But you’ll be the ghost in their “I should’ve listened,”
the echo in their “Mama knew.”

So wear your wrinkles like trophies,
your gray hairs like a crown.
You fought the fight that don’t get praised
now watch the seeds you buried
break concrete.