“If we can look at our parents as if they are our siblings, the healing and understanding of their actions growing up would make a lot more sense. The forgiveness process just becomes quicker.”

-Kute Blackson

Did you grow up thinking your parents were the ones who had all the right answers? That they were the ones to teach us and guide us to being a whole human and most importantly, here to protect us? I knew I thought that as a kid. Until I learned one thing that changed my life, and put a chain around my heart for another 30 years. At 42 years old, I healed a big wound as I recently navigated a new experience in my life. I share this in hopes to spread the seed of how to change perspective of a childhood pain and maybe open the door to a new “aha” moment, too, as we navigate this wild life together on the same planet.

Recently, I’ve experienced the deep difference between telling the truth, brushing the truth with a white lie, and the ugly reality of just lying to keep my son quiet, saying what he wants to hear so I don’t have to deal with the meltdown. I don’t recommend that route. Ever. To anyone.

My son is nearly 12, and for most of his life, I didn’t date. I had one long-distance relationship that lasted three months, and aside from that, I swore I’d stay single until he was out of the house. Nothing mattered more to me than being fully present and emotionally available for my son. Just to keep life as simple as possible.

Or so I thought.

Earlier this year, I met someone. The kind of person who needed zero overthinking. I finally understood what people meant by “when you know, you know.” The way he fit into our life—me, my son, him—it was natural, almost effortless. As cliché as it sounds, it just made sense. And yes… that stupid phrase is turning out to be true.

But I’d made a mistake the year before. I went on a random date, a “test run” to see if I was ready to put myself out there. I didn’t think it mattered. I didn’t think it was worth telling my son. That lie caught up with me fast. At the end of the date, my son called me, almost like he intuitively knew something was off. He panicked. I raced home.

“Mom, why did you lie to me? Why couldn’t you just tell me? You don’t love me.”

Holding him while he cried uncontrollably, shaking, completely heartbroken, I felt like I had failed him. And the truth was, I had. I lied. And that lie cost him trust and emotional safety.

Fast forward a year. I meet the love of my life. And this time, I immediately tell Kyson.

And guess what?

Same reaction. Full-blown panic attacks, day and night, for two weeks straight. “You don’t love me! Why do you need a boyfriend when you have me? I don’t need another dad! I don’t need a man around! I’m going to kill myself.”

If you’re reading this and you’re a single parent trying to date, I see you. That first month, it was the hardest parenting experience I’ve ever went through. No. Joke.

Our kids trust us. They think we have all the answers. That we’re superheroes in disguise. I thought the same about my parents—until they hurt me. And when I lost trust in them, I learned a painful belief: love is not safe.

After my mistake last year, I knew the truth needed to come first, even when it was hard. Lies, even white ones, don’t protect children. These kids today, they’re born with hightened intuition and a fierce sense of independence. They just know when something’s off. They’re not necessarily smarter than we were, they’re more aware. More evolved. And you can’t fool awareness.

What I’ve come to realize is that my son just needs to know one thing above all else: that I love him the same as I did before meeting my now boyfriend. That he’ll never be replaced or left behind. That he will always be loved deeply and prioritized. Because love should be safe. We should be able to trust our parents to handle our hearts with care, consistency, and unconditional love.

But the truth? We’re all just figuring it out. Parenting doesn’t come with a manual. What does guide me, though, is how I was raised, and how it impacted me. That’s my baseline. I don’t want Kyson growing up believing love isn’t safe. I want him to grow into a man who knows how to love well and be loved in return, who understands honesty, integrity, and connection—because those are the values I instill in him, especially during the hard moments.

When you’re blending families, it can feel like walking a tightrope, balancing your emotions, a new relationship, and your child’s needs. It’s tempting to smooth things over, to shield them from discomfort. But kids are perceptive. They can tell when something’s off, even if they don’t have the words for it.

That’s why I believe in telling the truth, age-appropriate, thoughtful truth. When I told Kyson about this relationship, I didn’t pretend it would be perfect. I told him it would be different, but that my love for him would never change. And even though I had to repeat it like a broken record, morning, noon, and night for weeks, I knew that’s what his heart needed. At first, it was exhausting. But eventually, I realized: this is what love looks like. It looks like showing up with patience, again and again.

Putting your child first doesn’t mean neglecting your own happiness. It means weaving them into your life with care and compassion. It means making sure they feel safe when the ground beneath them is shifting. It’s showing them that love can expand and grow, and that their voice still matters in this new dynamic and that it wants to be heard.

If you, too, are or have or will one day blend your family, we now have an incredible opportunity: to teach our kids how to navigate deeply emotional, complicated situations with grace and honesty. That my mistakes don’t have to damage him, but can instead equip him. I’m helping build new emotional patterns in his brain, ones grounded in communication, love, and trust. We’re not doing this separately. This isn’t his experience and my experience. This is ours, together.

Handling his heart through this transition has taken time, patience, and a whole lot of grace. But in that space, we’ve discovered new levels of connection. It’s teaching him resilience, empathy, and the powerful truth that love, when it’s rooted in honesty, can stretch and hold everyone. Truth builds trust, and trust is the bridge that carries us forward, together.

Lying to your kids, even when it’s to protect them, can have lasting consequences. Even small lies can chip away at their sense of emotional safety. And when the truth comes out, it can leave them confused, hurt, or even doubting their own intuition. But when we choose honesty, even when it’s hard, we model strength and respect. We give them the tools to face life with open eyes, and an open heart.

I want my son to see me as his superhero, the one who raises him with selflessness and self-care in perfect balance. I want him to witness what it looks like to meet both our needs, and to learn the art of compromise, communication, and mutual love. Parenting is a dance, a flow. Sometimes the hardest path, the honest one, is also the one that gets us through the storm quicker and stronger.

I’ve made mistakes. Plenty. Things I would absolutely do differently if I had the chance. But I know this much: as I step into the teenage years with my son, I’m growing too. I’m evolving. Because he is my priority. And by loving him through this with truth, I become a better version of myself, not perfect, just better.

After a month of raw, honest, and often difficult conversations with my son, something incredible began to shift. His resistance started to soften, and what once felt impossible became a path to deeper connection. This has been one of the most beautifully difficult experiences of my life as a mother, but the reward has been beyond anything I could have imagined.

Not only does my son now enjoy the company of the man he once feared in our life, he even jokes that I’m the weird one in the relationship. He likes my boyfriend much better than me, he says. I’ll take it. That small moment of laughter meant everything.

I’m proud of my son for being brave enough to voice every emotion, even the messy, painful ones. And I’m proud of myself for listening, really listening, instead of shutting him down just because it was hard to hear. I held him through the anger, through the tears, even when he said he hated me for putting him through this. And somewhere in that storm, our love expanded. Our bond deepened.

What was once a family of two has now gently become a family of three. No, we don’t have all the answers. But what I know for sure is this: honesty, compassion, and the freedom to be fully heard, seen, and loved—that was our secret sauce. That’s what carried us through our biggest life change yet. And it’s what continues to guide us, one truth at a time.