Raising a sensitive, deeply intuitive child is both the greatest privilege and the greatest responsibility of my life. My son isn’t just intelligent, he’s beyond emotionally intelligent. He can walk into a room and immediately sense people’s needs, wants, and unspoken emotions. That’s a rare gift, one that requires care and protection, especially when you’re a single, full-time dad navigating life after an abusive relationship.
My job is to normalize everything, the good, the uncomfortable, the confusing, so he’s always comfortable talking about anything on his mind. In my home, no topic is off-limits. We’ve built that trust so deeply that even his friends feel they can come to me. One of them did recently… to talk about suicide. That’s another story for another day, but it’s also exactly why open communication isn’t just important, it’s life-saving.
And this is where the transition from elementary school to middle school occurs. It’s a big leap. After his first day, I saw instantly that spark, that magic kids carry after elementary school, had dimmed. In elementary school, they’re treated like they’re special. They’re known by name. They walk out with smiles. But middle school? It’s a whole new ecosystem. It’s louder, busier, and more chaotic. Teachers seemed ruder, almost like it was some twisted initiation. I watched some of them walk in without a smile, without a “hello,” without even acknowledging the kids around them. There was this sense of superiority, and no real attempt to connect.
When my son walked out that first day, I could see it in his eyes, the disappointment. It was crowded, overwhelming, and a shock to his system. He’s suddenly in the deep end, surrounded by older kids, trying to keep up in a new current.
That night, we sat down to talk. It started with something small, his hat and his long hair. He’s dramatic (in the best way) and swears he’s going to go blind because his hair falls into his face. But it led to something bigger: the lesson that life isn’t going to adapt to him. He’s going to have to adapt to it.
Here’s the most important part: he can’t let anyone or anything kill his internal magic. Not rules, not rude people, not even the chaos of middle school. Your heart, your soul, that’s your world. No one has the right or the power to take that from you.
I told him that staying positive when everyone else is negative is a superpower. History and life are full of stories of people who survived the harshest environments not because they were the strongest, but because they refused to give up their light.
So, this morning, when we stood outside waiting for school, he asked me to stay with him. He couldn’t find his friends. But when it was time to walk in, he did it like a champion. Head high. Shoulders back. Ready to adapt, ready to hold onto his magic.
I was proud, so proud, because that’s what life is about: adapting without losing yourself, and keeping your heart unshaken, no matter how loud the world gets.
www.TerryLoerch.com
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