When G was about two and a half, we were up at our building site playing while X was working. She lifted up a large rock and got the shock of her life. Thousands of ants. It looked like the earth was moving.

Poor kid, it took her many moons to process the experience. She had nightmares, convinced the bed was riddled with ants, and at any time of day feared one was on her skin. “Mommy’s awms!” she would yell and run like a torpedo to me, saving herself from the imaginary onslaught.

If I had known the impact of such a sighting, I would have taken more care in the moment to show her the ants’ industry and complexity. In the end that is what helped her the most, observing them at work from a safe distance.

As a parent, I always have operated with the Sufi sentiment, “Trust but tie your camel.” Above all, trust. Kids who do not have trust at home don’t stop what they are doing. Instead they hide, sneak, act out, fear or suppress their essential selves; I know this from personal experience. As the parent of a teen, I have a few short years left living our Venn diagram of sharedness before the overlap disappears and my child’s autonomy is complete. I believe now is the time to allow G to make mistakes, learn, fall down, pick herself back up again. I’m not always good at this; it’s still my instinct to rush in and help. But for much of her life right now—academics, relationship, chores/responsibilities—I am keeping a careful distance, listening if she seeks me out with questions or concerns. She rarely does. At times I wonder why and am disappointed because I might have something valuable to contribute. But only if she wants to hear.

Her relationship, especially, is her domain, and my opinion may feel like a threat to it; I can only guess at her perspective. However I recently felt compelled to say, “In the course of your day, try to listen for your own voice, your own interests and joys. Keep in touch with them.” I tried to explain how I sometimes have lost sight of that in my life.

Immediately I realized that my words were not heard the way I intended. She cried. She asked me to leave her alone. I felt horrible. In bits she responded and clammed up, mentioning how she was being seen as dependent. I remarked that both parties in a relationship are dependent to a degree on one another; that’s the nature of relationship. Keeping enough space to have the “breath of heaven”* between you is the art.

A few Fridays ago I went to an “Arts Night Out” and returned to find G and her boyfriend on the couch at my house. On the table in front of them was a “baby book”—one of the many scrapbooks from which the memoir is written.

After they left to go to his house, and I did my standard cleanup before going to my room. I picked up the baby book to put it back on the shelf and got a shock that reminded me of many years ago, moving the giant rock and seeing the communion of ants. A whole hidden life was beneath the book.

Two small pieces of paper were intact and one was ripped into pieces. I felt drawn in and repelled, like I walked in on something private and wanted either to stare or slam the door fast. It wasn’t my business, but I wanted to know. I wanted to leave it there but take a photo of it. Was that still stealing? Robbing them of their privacy? I absorbed only what my eyes would allow and replaced the binder as I found it. Exactly the same way G and I treated those ants. Quick! Put it back! Let them be…

What did I see? It appeared that they had written down their individual interests and where they could improve themselves. What they want to work on, and what they enjoy doing. I felt like an archaeologist excavating a site and finding a clue. I wanted to know more. What was the environment at the time? What did they do with those thoughts? How did their dialogue progress? Was the exercise helpful?

But more importantly, it touched me to the core. It whispered to me of the need to trust my child more. She is listening and trying to grow within her self and her relationship. My trust in both of them is not foolhardy.

I am working hard to hold non-verbal space for her. If she wants to be alone to cook or create or just be, I encourage her to say so. She is on a journey toward a bright line of adult expectations. Between now and then she has a lot of work to do. I’m trying not to get in the way. I’m trying to accept that “good morning” and “good night” might be all I get in one day.

Uncovering a snapshot of her inner life gave me a teaspoon more confidence that there is industry and complexity going on beneath the surface of silence that is so often my companion. As much as I feel guilty to have lifted up the scrapbook and uncovered their hidden world, I feel strangely lucky for the insights my actions wrought.

*Ralph Blum, Book of Runes