I sat down across from my son at lunch, mulling over something that I had been working through in my mind.
He's a college senior now and just got back from a year in Japan, still not sure what he'll do after he graduates. He had thought about graduate school but wasn't really sure. So now he is considering taking a sabbatical year after graduation to give himself some time. Meanwhile, I have been thinking about how best to support him after he graduates.
While I was growing up, my parents had always told me that they would financially support me for as long as I was in school. They believed education was important and didn't want me distracted by worrying about money. While I don't agree with many things about how my parents handled and talked about money, this was something that stuck with me. It felt natural for me to commit to the same for my own children. However, as my son starts his last year in school, this commitment is coming to an end.
After weeks of thinking about it, I decided on something simple: once you graduate, I will no longer financially support you. You need to get a job, manage your expenses, and support yourself. It helped that we had invested money for you since you were born, so you are not starting from zero.
This felt like the right thing to say and should be straightforward. It is the kind of thing I discussed with clients; all my clients with children want their kids to be self-sufficient and productive, and I am no different.
So, while waiting for food, I started to tell him my decision, and I got about halfway through before my body turned on me.
What my body did instead
It is difficult to describe precisely what happened. In the middle of saying that I would not financially support him anymore, my chest tightened, and my stomach turned. It's like something inside me had decided differently. I had a flash of him needing my help in this economy, where many entry-level jobs are disappearing, and I couldn't finish the sentence I had started.
So, I didn't. What came out instead was something I hadn't planned. I told him I wasn't going to go from a hundred percent to zero. That he'd ultimately need to be financially independent, but I'd take his situation into account. I will not cover fun and leisure, but may cover rent for a while if there is need.
I had intended to provide clear, concrete expectations for my son. Instead, I was stumbling over my words as my brain tried to catch up with my body. I hadn't thought through an amount, a timeline, or what "taking his situation into account" would actually mean. In that moment, I was trying to make peace with myself out loud, because the words I'd prepared had just gotten overruled.
The thing is, I do this for a living. I help clients think through how they want to support their children financially so the money has a positive impact. I've learned frameworks and discussed best practices. None of that stopped my body from overriding me. But those learnings and experiences are exactly why I could recognize what was happening, instead of just plowing through the sentences I'd rehearsed.
Where that came from
I've written before about my father's business collapsing when I was twenty-nine, and what that decade of scarcity thinking did to how I made decisions. What I didn't acknowledge was the anger.
While I was growing up, my father told me the company would be my backup, that if everything else failed, I'd always have that. He worked constantly and made many sacrifices to build that business. At the same time, he didn't plan around risks and had no contingency. He didn't save money outside the business; he reinvested everything back into it, expecting the company to always be there. When it wasn't, the backup he'd promised me disappeared as well.
It was his business and his life's work. For years, I kept telling myself that I had no right to expect anything and that he was in much more pain than I was. I wouldn't let myself feel the anger and the sense of abandonment because that wouldn't be fair to him. But the feelings were still there; I felt the rug pulled out from under me. One minute, I felt safe and didn't have to think about money. The next minute, the safety net was gone, and there was nothing underneath.
I didn't know that was still sitting in me until my body spoke up during that lunch. My son hadn't even said anything to me yet. Still, a part of me had decided I wasn't going to be the reason he ever felt what I felt - even though we grew up very differently and this was a completely different situation.
What I actually meant, I think
I truly believe that he needs to be responsible for his own financial life now. I've experienced what happens when someone reaches 30 years old without ever having to think about what comes in and what goes out, without worrying when accounts get uncomfortably close to zero, without considering future financial implications of what happens today. I didn't learn that until the company was gone and I had no choice; I don't want the same for him.
At the same time, I know myself. If he genuinely needed help, I would help him. Saying otherwise would have been a lie, and apparently some part of me wasn't willing to say it, even in service of a lesson I believe in.
So instead of a clean boundary, he got a hedge. Not going from 100% to 0. Maybe rent for a while, but he needs to own everything else. I came up with "rent" on the spot so there is at least one boundary instead of more uncertainty.
What he said
He said okay, that he knows, and didn't ask for more details. The food came; we started eating and moved on to other topics.
I don't know what he meant. Maybe he trusts me and doesn't need it spelled out, like when I didn't ask my father for details when he made statements about the family finances. Maybe he didn't know what to say and needed time to take it all in.
Where this leaves me
I am still working out what I will actually do and what he can expect from me. I do know that, if he were to come to me for help, I would feel some version of what I felt at that lunch - wanting him to stand on his own and wanting him to know that I've got his back.
I also know I owe him more than a hedge. A real answer needs an amount, a timeframe, and some sense of what counts as real need versus convenience. I don't have those numbers yet, but I know that's the work ahead of me. It isn't so different from what I'd ask a client in my position: name the vague fear first, then build the structure around it. I'm just doing that work from the other side of the table this time.
What's different now is my awareness. Somewhere in me is a story about a twenty-nine-year-old who lost something he'd been promised, and a father who did not plan sufficiently to keep that promise. I can't hide or change this. I can only notice when it shows up and try to make sure I am making decisions with my son, not reliving my past.
I used to think that knowing something was enough; that, if I planned ahead, I could sidestep whatever might get in the way. What happened at that lunch showed me the gap between knowing and being in alignment - between what my brain had decided and what my body was willing to go along with. I've heard mentors talk for years about making whole-body decisions, and I thought I understood. Now I know what it feels like when I'm not in agreement with myself. I can't know the future or how exactly this conversation will help shape my son. All I can do is pay attention when my head and my body aren't saying the same thing, tell the truth about it, and trust that if I'm acting in alignment, I've done what I could.
