Shifting Seats, Shifting Roles: Parenting Through Recovery
"I get the window this time!" For years, those words launched every family flight, cutting through the terminal chaos long before we reached the gate. My kids had mastered the art of turning any moment into a negotiation, and this one always felt particularly high-stakes. We had elaborate systems for taking turns, but my daughter, somehow, always emerged victorious, settling by the window with a mix of triumph and inevitability.
And there I was, stuck in the middle seat. The default. The negotiator. The buffer. One arm braced against my daughter’s enthusiasm and the other trying to soften my son’s protests as he leaned into me, folding himself into reluctant acceptance. Through years of turbulence, both literal and figurative, I held that middle space. Arms stretched across small shoulders, settling squabbles and snack disputes.
But things shift, as they always do. My son grew taller and more self-assured, and the rituals we’d performed by muscle memory started to evolve. One flight, while making our way down the narrow aisle, he walked right past the window seat. "I’ll take the aisle," he said casually, settling in with an ease that felt new but not unwelcome.
My daughter blinked, momentarily startled, as though she’d prepared for a battle that no longer existed. I sat down, realizing that my role in the middle seat had changed, too. I wasn’t just a buffer anymore—I was a bridge, connecting who they used to be with who they were becoming.
In every family, the unspoken rituals tell the real story of who we are. The way we sit in the same seats at the kitchen table. The unclaimed side of the couch that somehow always stays empty. The habits we fall into on planes, in cars, or even in quiet conversations. Outsiders might see randomness, but we know better. These rituals, tiny and ordinary as they seem, carry the weight of years, silently tracking our roles, our relationships, and how they shift over time.
Parenting is full of these shifts, especially when you add in recovery. It’s not just the child in recovery who changes; it’s the entire family dynamic. We had to learn new rhythms—different ways of being together, of offering love, of giving space. For a long time, our son’s chair at the table was empty while he was in treatment and extended care. In those first few months, I kept a 3D photo cutout he’d made in kindergarten at his seat. My husband and daughter thought it was creepy. To me, it was a comfort—a little surreal, yes, but a way to hold his place. Eventually, as we settled into this new normal, the cutout moved to the windowsill. It wasn’t about filling his chair anymore. It was about holding space for him, even as he rebuilt his own life.
Parenting a teen in recovery also meant rewriting our entire playbook. We were no longer responsible for setting his curfew, chore reminders, and the little, everyday rules that once structured our lives. Instead, our role shifted to something deeper and, in many ways, harder. Letting go of control, trusting the accountability he was building elsewhere, and focusing on rebuilding connection. When he was home, dinner table conversations became less about logistics and more about the big stuff—dreams, fears, and the messy, beautiful process of healing and growing up.
Even now, those shifts echo in unexpected places—like airplane seats. My daughter still claims her window seat, though she barely looks outside. It’s a statement, not an interest. My son’s preference for the aisle feels like a quiet declaration of independence. And me? I’m still in the middle. Always the bridge. My husband sits across the row, absorbed in work, steady as ever.
On our last flight, the ritual evolved again. We were assigned three seats together and one in a separate section. My son took the solo seat without hesitation, welcoming some independent time away from our chatter. No explanation was needed. We all knew he needed that time, and we were okay with it. It was a small moment, but it felt like a marker of how far we’ve come—learning to honor each other’s needs, even when they aren’t the same.
That’s what family is. A constant, sometimes chaotic, dance of shifting roles and growing into the space we need. For us, the greatest lesson has been knowing when to step back and when to lean in—when to let professionals take the lead and when to simply be the steady presence our kids can always come back to.
The middle seat isn’t just a place to sit. It’s where I’ve learned to live as the arbitrator, bridge, and connector. As my children continue to develop their relationship, I see glimmers that they will no longer need me in this metaphorical seat. It’s where I’ve witnessed the messy, beautiful evolution of our family. And it’s where I’ve learned that the love that holds us together isn’t fixed—it’s flexible, resilient, and always growing.
