Finding the Way Out

On struggle, sparks, and the quiet moments that move us forward.

We all have seasons where it feels like we’ve hit a wall: when momentum stalls, motivation fades, and it’s easier to shut down than reach for the next step. This month, I want to talk about those stuck places. About how easy it is to internalize struggle as failure, and how powerful it can be when something (or someone!) reminds us that change is still possible.

Our home has been fuller lately—with my son returning home after his first year of university. At first, it took some time to adjust. The energy was louder, the rhythms were different, and the quiet I’d grown used to was gone. And slowly, the house began to feel more alive again—filled with laughter, shared meals, and around-the-table dinner conversations. The kind of youthful chaos that, unexpectedly, has been a gift.

Still, it hadn’t been easy. When he first came home, he was weighed down by academic exhaustion, self-doubt, and the lingering stress of trying to keep up. The leap from high school to the heavy demands of university had knocked him sideways. Now, he’s spending the summer catching up on missed credits—a quiet effort to find his footing again. But truthfully, there were days that tested us both. I found myself getting frustrated by his late mornings, the scattered focus, the unfinished to-do lists. We had what you might call an argument—or maybe, if I’m honest, it was a surge of motherly fire, part worry, part push. A need to see him thrive, and perhaps a fear that he might not. My care for him didn’t sound gentle—it arrived loudly, insistent, imperfect. But even in those messy moments, what I wanted most was for him to believe in himself and in the possibility of positive change.

All of that tension—the push and pull, the storming, the uncomfortable but necessary conversations—led to somewhere. I choose to speak firmly, clearly, and with conviction. Not to criticize, but to light a fire. I wanted him to understand the stakes, to believe that change was possible, and to feel supported even when the message was hard to hear. And somehow something in that landed.

Because not long after, he made a connection that surprised us both.

He was listening to a psychology lecture about the well-known “learned helplessness” experiment—the one where a dog, trapped in an electrified cage with no escape, eventually stops trying to free itself, even when the door is opened. The dog had internalized helplessness. It believed escape was no longer possible, even when it was.

As the professor explained this concept, my son had a quiet, personal epiphany. He told me, “Mom… I was that helpless dog. First year of university felt like that cage.”

He described how the stress, the pressure to perform, the disconnection, and the overwhelming expectations had left him feeling stuck. Like there was no point in trying—no escape, no motivation, no belief that things could be different. He had stopped reaching for the door.

Then he said something I won’t forget: “I don’t want to stay helpless anymore. I want to be the one that finds the way out.”

Something shifted in that moment—not just for him, but for me too. A glimpse of clarity. A sense that he was stepping into a new awareness, and perhaps beginning to reclaim his own power.

But I also know that a spark alone isn’t enough. Insight is powerful, yes—but sustaining change takes more than recognition. It takes support. It takes environment. It takes relationship.

And that’s what I’m seeing now. He’s not just hoping things will be different—he’s taking real steps to make it so. He’s surrounding himself with friends who uplift him, building better habits, and showing a renewed sense of drive—not just to succeed in school, but to shape a life that feels meaningful and aligned. He’s starting to believe in himself again.

He’s learning that he can rewrite his story—not by pretending the struggle wasn’t real, but by stepping into it with awareness, with courage, and with choice.

We can’t always walk out of the cage alone. When we start to sense the way forward, and have others around us who hold space, encourage effort, and reflect back our potential—it becomes possible.

A Reflection of My Own

When he shared his realization, it stirred something unexpected in me.

I began to reflect on the areas in my own life where I’ve felt that same sense of learned helplessness—not with school or grades, but with technology, artificial intelligence, and the fast-moving digital world that sometimes feels too big to catch up with.

I noticed how I often tell myself, “I’m just not good at this,” or “It’s too late to learn.” I avoid. I freeze. I quietly accept limitation.

And in that moment, listening to my son reclaim his power, I saw the quiet parallel between us. Different cages, same feeling of stuckness. And just like him, I, too, have a choice.

Maybe the door has been there all along.
Maybe the first step is to stop telling myself I can’t.

What I’m learning, too, is that care doesn’t always have to be soft to be supportive. This way of showing care—through what I now recognize as fierce compassion—is still new to me. It’s the kind of care that doesn’t just comfort, but also challenges. It says, “I care too much to stay silent,” and offers truth with courage, even when the words are hard to say. Speaking from a place of clarity and conviction - while staying grounded in care - felt like a leap of faith.

I worried it might push him away, or shut something down. But instead, it kept the door between us open. It invited connection, even in discomfort. It made space for honesty and helped us find our way forward—together.

And for that, I’m deeply grateful.

Final Thoughts

This experience reminded me how often we underestimate the quiet power of relational healing—how growth is rarely a solo act. It happens in connection. It happens when we are seen, challenged, and still held.

Our children’s insights—unfiltered, brave, and raw—can reflect our own truths back to us in surprising ways. And sometimes, witnessing them grow helps us remember we’re still growing too.

So if any part of this feels familiar to you—if you’ve been stuck in your own version of the cage—I hope this story lands like a gentle nudge, not a prescription.

Not because there’s a perfect answer, but because the possibility of change is real.

You don’t have to stay where you are.
The door might not swing wide, and it’s likely there—quiet, waiting.
And sometimes all it takes is noticing that moment when something inside you says, “Maybe I’m not stuck after all.”