Fiddling while Rome burns

 Most Thursdays at 6 p.m. Eastern, I host a free drop-in group for parents. I'll be holding one THIS THURSDAY, and if you are interested, you can sign up here.

It is a space where parents raising teens and young adults struggling with depression, anxiety, addiction, self-harm, suicidality, and other high-risk behaviors can share what is on their minds and in their hearts. They can ask questions, gain new perspectives, and find solidarity with kindred spirits walking a similar path.

During a recent session, a mother joined the call and shared, with deep sadness, what was happening with her 20-year-old daughter. Her daughter was struggling with addiction and high-risk behavior. She was involved in problematic relationships and was often exposed to violence.

The mother spoke about the sporadic opportunities she had to connect with her daughter—and how often it seemed that just one "wrong word" could lead her daughter to cut her off for weeks.

I had met with this mother before, and I knew how heavily the situation with her daughter weighed on her shoulders. Fear and sadness permeated her days.

When engaging with us hurts

I often talk about how our children can sense our pain—not necessarily through our words, but through our energy. Without meaning to, we can add the weight of our fear to their already heavy backpacks.

Contrary to what their behavior might sometimes suggest, and despite how complicated our relationships can become, our children often still love us deeply. When they see us moving through our days consumed by the need to save them—trapped on a roller coaster of desperation that we can never seem to get off—they may distance themselves. Engaging with us simply hurts.

Fiddling while Rome burns

I knew this mother was on that roller coaster. She was seeing life through a lens darkened by her daughter's struggles.

So I asked her what she was creating. What was giving her joy?

She spoke about her music and about visiting places she loved.

"What is stopping you?" I asked.

"It feels a bit like I'm fiddling while Rome burns," she said.

There was so much contained in that one phrase: the belief that we have an obligation to save our children—and that until we do, we do not have the right to fully live.

This is especially true for mothers. When our children are in a dark place, don't we have to be there in the darkness with them? When we allow ourselves to experience joy while they are suffering, guilt rushes in: What kind of mother does that make me?

I think nearly every parent whose child is struggling has felt this. I know I have.

Mystery beyond our control

Life is made up of a chaos and an order that we cannot fully comprehend. We cannot know exactly how another person's path will unfold. The pain and the wonder that will shape their life remain a mystery.

And when we act from the desperate need to save someone, fear constricts the mind and sorrow tightens the heart. From that place, we lose access to the creativity, spaciousness, and deeper wisdom that might actually show us the way forward.

This does not mean that we stop loving our children, turn away from their suffering, or pretend that Rome is not burning. It means recognizing that joining them in the fire will not save them. When we develop a deeper connection with life — with creativity, lightness, meaning, and joy — we can meet them with greater clarity, openness, and wisdom.

Finding our way back to wisdom

So I asked this mother to consider how she might begin, through small steps, to find her way back—to her music, to the places she loved, and to joy.

Not because her daughter's suffering did not matter. But because her own life mattered, too.

And because finding time to fiddle might help her find her way back to wisdom.

With Love,

Catherine