Strong Kids Don’t Grow in Safe Bubbles: Why Resilience Dies in Overprotected Childhoods

Let’s also share the gift of resilience. The quiet kind that grows when we let go just a little and let children find their own way through the snow.

Gowhar Bhat
It starts with love. Most things do. A parent watches their child fall and rushes to pick them up before they hit the ground. They step in when a toy is taken, when someone speaks harshly, when the world feels too sharp. They smooth out the edges. They mean well. Of course they do.

But somewhere along the line the child learns something else such as discomfort is dangerous. I must be protected from it and I cannot handle hard things.

No one says it out loud. That’s not how this works.

We’ve all seen it. A boy cries because he lost at a game and his mother rushes in and scolds the coach, demanding the rules be changed. A girl refuses to speak up in class and her father tells the teacher she’s “just shy” and not to push her. Another child says he feels bored or lonely and a screen is handed over in silence.

And it looks like care. Sometimes it is. But often it’s fear dressed as love.

Modern parenting, especially among middle-class families in India and beyond has tilted toward constant intervention. Children aren’t allowed to feel bored, scared, sad, left out. Parents hover, micromanage, preempt every discomfort. And while the intent is noble, the outcome is not.

Because when you take away a child’s chance to struggle, you take away their chance to grow.

Emotionally fragile children aren’t born. They’re raised in padded rooms where the floors are too soft and the lessons come secondhand. They are protected from hurt but also from resilience. They grow up with brittle self-esteem, unable to handle rejection, disagreement or failure. The first time life hits hard and it always does and they don’t know what to do.

In Srinagar, I met a young man named Tahir Nineteen, college-going, quiet. Brilliant on paper. But when he failed his first university exam, he broke down. Not crying but a full collapse. Couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. His father had always fixed things such as teachers, tutors, notes, schedules. This time, he couldn’t.

“I’ve never failed at anything before,” Tahir whispered. “It feels like I’ve lost who I am.”

That’s the thing. If your self-worth is built on never falling, the first fall feels like death.

Clinical research backs this up. A 2015 study from the University of Minnesota found that overprotected children were more likely to develop anxiety disorders by adolescence. Another report published in the Journal of Child Psychology and Psychiatry in 2021 showed that helicopter parenting correlated with low distress tolerance and poor problem-solving skills in teens. In India, a 2023 mental health survey conducted across urban schools found that students who reported “very involved” parenting also showed higher levels of emotional instability.

Why? Because discomfort is the training ground of emotional strength.

Children who are allowed to feel sad learn that sadness passes. Children who are allowed to fail learn how to stand up again. Children who sit with boredom often discover creativity. And those who face minor fears such as public speaking, unfamiliar places, difficult conversations build inner scaffolding for the bigger challenges ahead.

You don’t build resilience by shielding. You build it by witnessing.

Let the child struggle with their shoelaces. Let them solve that puzzle without hints. Let them talk to the shopkeeper instead of speaking for them. Let them fight their own little battles on the playground. Be nearby, yes. Be loving, always. But don’t steal the moment of growth just because it looks like pain.

In many Kashmiri homes, this kind of overprotection is layered with cultural nuance. There’s a softness in the way we raise our children. We tie their scarves, carry their school bags well into their teens, make excuses for their behavior, and sometimes even do their homework. It feels warm. And it is. But warmth can become smothering when it takes away responsibility.

I once spoke with a mother in Anantnag whose daughter, age ten, had never slept alone. “She’s scared of the dark,” the mother said. “I can’t bear to see her cry.” I asked if they’d ever tried. She looked away and said, “Why should she cry if I can stop it?”

I wanted to say because every time she doesn’t cry, she misses a chance to learn she can survive her own fear.

We confuse love with rescue. But love is also in letting go.

It’s not about neglect. It’s about trust. Trusting that your child can fall and rise. That they can fail and learn. That their heart can break and still beat stronger.

Emotional strength doesn’t come from never being hurt. It comes from knowing you can handle being hurt.

In his book Raising Resilient Children, psychologist Robert Brooks writes: “The goal isn’t to protect our children from all pain but to prepare them for it and to stand beside them, not in front of them when it comes.”

Closer to home, one of the therapists in South Kashmir shares, “We’re seeing a pattern. Parents want to remove every discomfort. But then they bring teenagers to us who can’t make decisions, tolerate failure or express emotions. The system backfires.”

So what’s the alternative?

Let your children feel small failures. Let them try and not win. Let them get bored, be lonely, feel sad, and be there when they do. Help them name the feeling, not escape it. Create space, not solutions.

When your child forgets their lunch, don’t rush to school. Let them feel the natural consequence at least just once. When they say, “I’m bored,” don’t fill the silence. Wait. See what they create. When they feel nervous before a test or stage performance. Don’t say, “Don’t worry, you’ll be great.” Say, “It’s okay to feel nervous. That means you care. You’ll do your best.”

It’s not easy. It takes patience. It takes strength to watch your child struggle. But that’s the strength they’ll learn by watching you.

In Kashmir, we know how to keep each other warm. We share noon chai, stories, shawls. Let’s also share the gift of resilience. The quiet kind that grows when we let go just a little and let children find their own way through the snow.

We cannot soften the world. But we can strengthen the hearts that enter it.

(Gowher Bhat is a published author, freelance journalist, book reviewer, and educator based in Kashmir.)