(as if love had an acceptable limit and an expiration date)
Lately, I’ve been hearing this a lot. That I’m too attached to my children. That they’re too attached to me. Some people say it gently. Others say it with judgment. And some say it without thinking. Without realizing what they’re actually saying.
“You’re obsessed with your kids.”
“They need to become more independent.”
“They can’t be so attached to their mother.”
I’ve heard all of those too. And I find myself wondering… who exactly are they supposed to be attached to, then? They’re one and four years old. They’re still little. They’re still learning about the world. Still learning who they are.
I’m the one they look for when they get hurt. I’m the one they call for when they wake up in the middle of the night. It’s in my arms that they calm down when they’re sick. It’s my hand they want to hold while they fall asleep…
Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?
Since when did offering security become a problem? Since when did being responsive become “spoiling”? Since when did comfort become “too much”?
People call it overattachment. But this isn’t “too much.” This is presence. Connection. Care. Love. It’s the foundation everything else is built on.
Because one day they will let go of my hand. One day they’ll want to do things on their own. One day they won’t need me to help them fall asleep, to comfort them, or to do any of these things. But before that can happen, they need to know that I’m here. Always.
And maybe that’s what troubles me most about these comments: they come with a sense of urgency that isn’t theirs. An idea of independence that ignores the natural timing of things.
Yes, we raise children to become independent. But independence doesn’t grow out of emptiness. In my view, it grows from a safe embrace. From a strong bond. From knowing they can go… because they always have somewhere to come back to.
And then there’s another part of this. A quieter part. A harder one to explain. The separation. Accepting that I won’t be there for half of their days. Half of their routines. Half of their stories. Half of their lives.
No one prepares us for that, especially when they’re still so little. When they still fit in our arms. When they still call for us in the middle of the night. When we’re still their safe place.
No one teaches us how to trust that they’ll be okay… away from us. Or how to cope with the silence in the house when they’re gone. Or with that strange emptiness that lingers on the days when we’re not the one they need.
And in the middle of all that, I still hear that I’m “too attached”…
No. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
I’m their mother. And if they’re “too attached” to me, it’s because I was – and still am – the place where they learned what safety feels like. And that isn’t a problem. It’s a privilege.
Perhaps the real issue is the discomfort some people feel when they witness that kind of bond, not the bond itself.
Because loving this way – fully, wholeheartedly, available without reservation – shouldn’t be seen as a weakness. It should be the starting point.
And if this is what being “too attached” means, if this is loving too much, feeling too much, being there too much…
Then yes.
I am.
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