Growing up I always thought I loved myself. Every time my therapist would ask me that question my answer was some form of “obviously, I love everything about me.”

Your teen shrugs and says, ‘I don’t know,’ again and again. You try to dig deeper, to get them to open up, but it feels like hitting a brick wall. All you want to do is understand them so you can help and yet all they do is shut you out.

You just finished a long day and want nothing more than to decompress. You come home, take off your shoes, throw your stuff in the corner, lie down on the couch, pop a 5mg edible to take the edge off and watch tv until you pass out.

There’s one thing I’ve heard more than anything else, from my own parents growing up and from the families I work with as a therapist: “There’s no manual for being a parent.”

How many times have you said—or heard—

“I’m doing this because I love you,”

“I’m trying to help you not fail,” or

“You’ll understand when you have kids. I’m doing this to protect you.”