Parenting is damage control

Embracing imperfection as an intentional parent

My friends think I’m weird, my family thinks I’m stubborn, but I like to think I’m just very intentional.

I have a knack for making choices that the people around me don’t understand.

I mean, I’ve never owned a smartphone, I usually go to sleep before 9pm, and I’ve brought my own meal to a wedding.

When it comes to parenting my 2-year-old daughter, I’m no different. Every decision I make is grounded in my values, even if it goes against the grain.

That’s why, when an old friend recommended a documentary about radical parenting choices, it felt like it was made for me. I made time to go see it alone at the cinema, something I rarely ever do. I went in looking for validation.

What I got instead was… something else.

This essay contains spoilers for the film: ‘A New Kind of Wilderness’

A familiar story

Sitting in the dark, medium-sized theater with only six or seven others, it felt like we were all holding our breath. This wasn’t a blockbuster pulling in the crowds—just a handful of like-minded visionaries (read: weirdos) who, I assumed, were there for reasons similar to mine.

The documentary followed a Norwegian family who chose to homeschool their children and live on a farm outside the city. I immediately felt a sense of camaraderie—not necessarily in their exact choices, but in their radical approach.

Homeschooling for example, or my own version of it, has been on my mind for a while. Even though my daughter is only two, I’m already seriously considering it as a path for her.

But homeschooling is just one expression of the many intentional choices I make as a parent.

My entire approach to parenting is built on the same intentionality that guides everything else in my life. I try to give her as much independence as possible, and that will only increase as she gets older.

At two, she’s already making plenty of choices: which books to read, what toys to play with, and whether or not she wants to eat. I try not to step in unless it’s absolutely necessary.

It’s been eye-opening to watch how capable she is when given the chance. She’s currently learning to use a knife and fork at the dinner table, helps empty the dishwasher, and even enjoys cleaning up after herself.

I’ve realized that she thrives when she’s involved in these everyday tasks, even if it means things take longer or get a bit messy. It’s how I help her find her own way and learn at her own pace.

I also try to pick my battles carefully. If it’s not too dangerous, I let her figure it out. It’s part of my ‘let her scrape her knees, but not run under a car’ philosophy—giving her room to make mistakes and stepping in only when her safety is at risk.

Much of this parenting approach was mirrored in the documentary. I sat there, feeling all affirmed, nodding my head in approval. These people get it, I thought.

But then, as the film unfolded, something shifted.

Unintended consequences

Early in the film, the mother of the family passed away. It hit hard, but the way the family handled it was inspiring—with an authenticity that matched their way of living.

The mother’s death left an undeniable void in the family. But beyond the immediate grief, there was something else that lingered in her absence.

From the start, it was clear that the mom was the driving force behind everything—the homeschooling, the move to the farm, their entire lifestyle. But as the family tried to rebuild their lives, it was obvious that they were still carrying the weight of her strong vision with them.

Even (or especially) in her absence, her lasting influence seemed to shape most of their decisions. The father and children weren’t just trying to find their own way, they were trying to live up to ‘what she would have wanted’.

A troubling awareness began to settle in me as the film continued.

I had walked into the theater quite confident, anticipating the confirmation that my own strong opinions and intentional choices would ensure that my daughter would grow up exactly as I hoped. ‘Intentionality’ had worked so well for my own life, after all.

But as I watched this family struggle under the well-meaning yet relentless echo of the mother’s deeply-held vision, I felt a rush of uncertainty and fear.

Could I be setting up the same kind of trap for my daughter? Could my well-intentioned ideals for her future become a weight dragging her down?

It reminded me of another story I’d seen up close years ago while working as a video editor on a documentary about people in their 20s. One of the interviewees was a young man whose mother had passed away when he was a teenager. Before her death, she had written to him a series of letters—one for each birthday—intended to guide and support him through the various stages of his life as he grew into a man.

But instead of feeling encouraged by her letters, he seemed weighed down by them. He was visibly torn between honoring his mother’s advice and becoming his own man. As if being compelled by invisible forces, her well-intentioned words had become a prison he was struggling to escape.

My eyes were still on the screen, but my thoughts had started to wander. I slowly felt my confidence slip away. Could my well-thought out, intentional plan to raise an independent thinker have the exact opposite effect? Could something go wrong in my 'perfect' plan?

I’d been holding onto the belief that if I just did everything right, my daughter could grow up both independent and perfectly unburdened by my influence. But it started to dawn on me that this was an impossibility—that this type of perfection in parenting doesn’t exist.

It was something I should have seen all along but somehow managed to ignore.

And I didn’t know if I was ready to handle that reality.

What if, despite my best intentions, I was actually creating a set of ideals she’d feel compelled to live up to—or struggle to escape from?

Reality check

Sitting there in the theater, I felt like I was staring straight into the hardest truth about parenting: The inevitability of imperfection.

For some reason I had told myself that my intentional approach could prevent the usual pitfalls all parents face. But now, I found myself facing the reality that even the best intentions can create problems of their own.

The idea that my daughter might one day feel trapped by my ideals was difficult to swallow. I could imagine her feeling guilty for choosing a conventional path, for example, simply because I’ve so highly valued living against the grain.

For a tiny moment, I was tempted to distance myself from the mothers in those stories, telling myself, ‘I can do better.’ But the more it sunk in, the clearer it became: I’m a lot like them, and I’m actually okay with that.

With intentional actions will come mistakes, and yes, my influence will shape her, sometimes in ways I can’t predict. But accepting this does mean that at least I get to choose my mistakes, even if I can’t prevent them.

Parenting, I now realize, isn’t about getting everything right. It’s damage control.

My daughter needs my intentionality, commitment, and values, even if they come with risks. Trying to shield her from my influence would mean sacrificing what makes me, and ultimately her, strong.

For someone who prides himself on well-considered choices, seeing that even my best intentions might come with their own cost was a necessary reality check.

Accepting that imperfection is part of the plan felt unexpectedly affirming: I can only be this parent—not a perfect one.

Intentionally imperfect

As I left the theater, I didn’t necessarily feel validated. But I did feel something else—a clarity and peace of mind I hadn’t expected.

I knew I’d never be a perfect parent, and my daughter will probably have her own issues with me one day. Maybe she’ll resent my strong opinions, or maybe she’ll question the choices I made. I’m actually excited to see.

I’m going to keep making strong, intentional (and possibly weird) choices, not because I think they’ll guarantee her success, but because I believe they’re the best I can offer.