When our love protects too much, and strengthens too little
There’s an old tree at the edge of our farm—wide-bodied, wise, and well-weathered. One monsoon, I tried shielding a nearby young sapling by wrapping it in plastic, worried it might bend in the storm. The rain was furious that year. And to my relief, the sapling stood tall through the winds. But months later, something unusual happened—it stopped growing. Its trunk remained thin, and its roots, when examined, were shallow.
Nature, it seems, has no tolerance for misplaced kindness.
In today’s homes, love wears a heavy robe of caution. We protect our elders from minor discomforts, overmanage our children’s lives, cushion our loved ones from every stumble—hoping to preserve joy, avoid conflict, or prove our care. We over-serve, over-schedule, over-interfere. And quietly, without realizing, we prune the very branches that needed the space to stretch.
Families are shrinking. With fewer people to care for, and more means to do so, our caring has become concentrated—like overwatering a single pot. Where once resilience grew from shared responsibilities, modest means, and silent watching, we now feel the impulse to intervene at every turn. No fever can wait, no failure can stand, no frustration must remain unaddressed.
But behind the mask of concern often lies a subtle fear—of not being needed, of not being acknowledged, of not being enough.
Overprotection doesn’t always stem from generosity. Sometimes, it’s our own discomfort with witnessing another’s pain, struggle, or solitude. And so we step in—not always for them, but to soothe something in us. Yet in doing so, we deny them the alchemy of self-experience: the quiet grit forged through frustration, the confidence built through trial, the grace shaped by setbacks.
Children raised in bubbles grow up disoriented by the sharp edges of the real world. Elderly parents, over-pampered, begin to forget the dignity of small independence. Relationships begin to suffocate under the weight of too much help. And those on the receiving end—ironically—don’t always feel grateful. They feel trapped, judged, misunderstood.
Because too much care often sounds like too little trust.
And no one, young or old, wants to feel incapable.
If we are to truly love the people in our lives, perhaps we must practice a quieter form of support. One that watches without controlling. That offers, but doesn’t impose. That encourages effort more than it enforces ease. That says, “I trust your journey,” not “I’ll take over your path.”
Let us not mistake love for control. And let us not forget: a bit of wind is necessary for roots to deepen.
Letters for the Inner Journey by Pushkar
Whisper back, if the letter spoke to you.