Teacher or Tutor

As a parent, one of the hardest decisions you’ll ever make is knowing when to be the teacher and when to be the tutor.

And I don’t mean those roles in the classroom sense.

A teacher introduces the lesson. They lay the foundation. They explain the principle and try to prepare the child before the world tests them. A teacher says, “Here’s something I want you to understand before life puts you in this position.”

A tutor, on the other hand, steps in after the lesson has already begun. Life gives the test first. The tutor helps the child make sense of what just happened. A tutor says, “Now that you’re in it, let’s slow this down and understand what this means.”

That distinction shows up constantly in parenting.

Sometimes it’s small — like homework. Do I walk them through the lesson the same way their teacher did, helping clarify what they didn’t understand? Or do I approach it from a completely different angle and teach it in a way that finally clicks for them?

Other times, it’s much more complicated.

Human interaction is layered. Communication isn’t just words — it’s tone, body language, timing, environment, intent. Trying to teach a child all of those nuances before they experience them can feel overwhelming. You start wondering whether it’s better to get ahead of it… or to let life deliver the lesson and be ready to tutor the moment it shows up.

That’s where the real question lives:

When do you teach — and when do you tutor?

Some lessons feel safer when we teach them first.
Kindness. Responsibility. Boundaries. Self-control.
There are consequences in the world that are too harsh to let a child learn the hard way.

Other lessons don’t stick until they’re lived.

I’ve learned that when you teach too early, the lesson can float right past them. There’s nothing for it to attach to. No reference point. No emotional anchor. But when life teaches first — especially through failure — the lesson suddenly has weight. Now they’re open. Now they’re listening. Now the tutoring matters.

There are lessons I hope life teaches gently.
And there are lessons I work hard to teach early — because life teaches them brutally.

One example is how being rude or a bully can escalate into something dangerous. That’s not a lesson that needs pain to make its point. That’s one I’d rather teach clearly, early, and often.

But rejection?
That’s different.

Rejection is one of the hardest lessons to prepare a child for — because nothing truly prepares you for how it feels. It’s universal. Every human experiences it. And no explanation fully captures the emotions that come with it.

As much as I want to protect my children from that pain, I can’t. All I can do is be present when it happens — because rejection can leave confusion, self-doubt, and hurt in its wake. And if a child doesn’t have guidance in that moment, they may look for comfort in the wrong places.

That’s where tutoring matters most.

In our home, tutoring looks like asking questions instead of giving answers.
It looks like listening to how they interpreted the situation.
It’s offering clarity where things feel tangled — not by taking over, but by giving gentle nudges and letting them arrive at understanding on their own.

Age matters. Temperament matters. How a child receives information matters.

My job isn’t just to deliver a message — it’s to make sure it’s received.
If I speak and nothing sticks, I’ve missed the point.

Sometimes parents confuse teaching with control. They make decisions for their children in the name of protection, without allowing them to understand the options or the consequences. But in doing so, they remove some of the most important learning moments a child can have.

Growth requires space. Choice. Reflection.

Life taught me rejection in a way no one else could. And while I wish I’d had a tutor to help guide me through those emotions, I know now that some lessons can only come from experience — with guidance afterward, not insulation beforehand.

So, I try to hold the balance.

To prepare my children where I can.
To guide them when life leads.
To protect them without stunting them.

Because one day, I’m not going to be here, and I don’t want my children to say, “My daddy had all the answers, and he gave them to us.”

I want them to say:
“Thank you, Dad — because you taught us how to think, how to navigate, and how to handle what comes next.”

And maybe that balance — between teaching and tutoring — is one of the quiet, invisible decisions that shapes who our children become.