There’s a saying I once wrote in my journal—words that poured out of me one night after a hard parenting day: “The greatest gift I can give my son is both roots and wings.”

It wasn’t until much later I learned that Johann Wolfgang von Goethe had written something nearly identical centuries before:

“There are only two things children should get from their parents: roots and wings.”

And later, Hodding Carter echoed it:

“There are but two lasting bequests we can hope to give our children. One of these is roots, the other, wings.”

I didn’t know that when I wrote it. I had just lived it. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe we all arrive at this truth when we love deeply enough.

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Roots

Roots are the foundation. They’re the morning routines, the tucked-in blankets, the bedtime stories we’ve told a hundred times—the castle we storm together, even if I run the wrong way to battle the orcs. They’re the quiet presence we offer when our kids are overwhelmed, or the moments when we choose to be with them fully, no distractions and no excuses. Those moments give them a sense of safety and allow space for big feelings they can’t yet name.

Roots are made of consistency and quiet courage. They are the traditions we build, the values we live, and the love we offer even when our kids push us away. They tell our sons:

“You belong somewhere.”
“You are grounded in something strong.”

For me, roots mean teaching my son how to calm down, how to brush his teeth, how to be kind even when he’s frustrated. It means showing up when it’s hard. It means listening, even when I’d rather walk away.
It means creating a safe place to return to, even after he’s yelled, melted down, or lost control.

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Wings

Wings are the courage to let go. They’re the freedom we allow our sons to discover who they are, without shaping them into who we hoped they’d become.

Wings are in every “You’ve got this.”
Every “Go try.”
Every moment when we step back and let them rise or fall on their own.

Giving my son wings means not rescuing him from every hard moment. It means trusting that he’ll grow through the discomfort. That he doesn’t need me to be perfect, he needs me to believe in him.

Wings whisper:

“I trust you.”
“You are allowed to become.”

“You can Trust Yourself.”

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The Balance

This is the hard part.
Too many roots, and we raise a child afraid to move.
Too many wings, and they might never know how to land.

But when we give both, real roots and strong wings, we raise boys who are grounded and free. Boys who become men with a deep sense of self—rooted in love, truth, and purpose—and a brave heart ready to face the world with kindness, curiosity, and strength.

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For my son

If I can give you anything, my son, it will be this:
A sense that you are loved and safe, even when the world is not.
And the freedom to discover your voice, your values, and your wild, wonderful path.

These are your roots. These are your wings.
And I will be here, on the ground, cheering as you rise.