You’re reading The Ten AM, a Tuesday check-in for the parents who chose the kitchen table over the classroom. Think of this as the group text you actually want to read—a quiet moment for us to connect from one living room to another about the beauty, the mess, and the hard truths of raising humans in the wild.
Welcome to The Slow Pour.
I’ll be back in your inbox on Friday with a NEW column — a curated hit of field notes and finds to help you close out the week feeling even more grounded in your decision to homeschool. For today, let's talk about the pressure to keep pace...
Ever wonder who decided that "behind" was a real place? We’re told that "on track" looks like a quiet child at a desk by 8:15, a finished worksheet by 9:30, and a steady, linear march through a curriculum that treats every child like a standardized part in a machine. It looks like checked boxes and the hushed, efficient hum of a room where nobody is asking for a snack for the fourteenth time this hour.
But you know how it is in the real world: you start the year with a heart full of intentional fire, but then the coffee gets cold, the sourdough needs feeding, and the wind finally stops blowing—so you scrap the lesson and go outside.
Then, 10:00 AM hits. In another life, this was the sound of a rigid bell and the squeak of sneakers on linoleum. But here, in the stillness of your own kitchen, it’s the moment you realize you haven’t checked a single box on your list. For a split second, that acidic, quiet panic creeps in. A phantom report card haunts your table, whispering that you’re failing because your kid is currently wearing a cape and eating a cold chicken nugget instead of identifying isosceles triangles.
The truth is, we sometimes let the ‘shoulds’ of a schedule drown out the ‘is’ of our actual lives. We get so busy preparing them for a test that we forget to let them prepare for life.
It’s easy to get caught in the trap of looking at a child who is thriving, curious, and kind, yet only seeing the missing grade at the top of a worksheet. We want to trust the process, but that systematized part of our brain—let’s call her Nancy—is a loud, nosy neighbor. Nancy lives for color-coded folders and thinks "recess" is a luxury for people who have finished their phonics.
Nancy cares about empty boxes. We care about full hearts and full bellies.
We’ve been conditioned to believe that if it isn't recorded in a spiral-bound planner, it isn't happening. But remember this when comparison syndrome starts creeping in: Nancy doesn't get a vote in your living room.
Your worth as a parent isn't tied to a curriculum’s pace, and your child’s brilliance isn't measured by how many gold stars they can collect from a ghost. You are the architect of a family culture, not a proctor for a test.
Success isn't a destination you reach at the end of a textbook; it’s the atmosphere you’re creating right now (even if that atmosphere currently smells like wet dog and stale coffee).
Last week, I sat at a plastic green picnic table with a few fellow homeschool moms. As we watched our kids, the conversation inevitably drifted toward where the "failure" was hiding. I found myself becoming a quiet explorer of my own anxiety, wondering why I felt a sharp pang of guilt that my kids were only on Chapter 4 of their math curriculum. Was I actually worried about their grasp of fractions, or was I just worried about what Nancy would think if we didn't hit an arbitrary milestone by June?
I had to go deep into the basement of my own mind to realize the truth: my planner guilt had nothing to do with my children’s education and everything to do with my own addiction to the tiny dopamine hit of a checked box.
The conflict isn't between the kid and the book; it’s between our desire for freedom and our fear of being seen as "unproductive." We’ve traded the institutional hum for a slower road, but we’re still carrying the system's yardstick in our back pockets like we’re waiting to get caught.
But looking back at that picnic table, the reality was impossible to ignore. Our kids weren't "behind." They were currently deep-diving into the physics of fort-building. One was sharing the plot of a book he’d read by flashlight until midnight (which, let's be honest, is way more impressive than any worksheet).
They were vibrant.
They were learning.
They were... more than fine.
We have to stop judging our progress by the mile markers on a paved highway. We chose the backroads for a reason. If we’re constantly looking back to see if we’re keeping pace with the traffic, we’ll miss the sunset happening right over the dashboard.
Who decided "behind" was a real place? We have to remember that if the system says you're "behind," it’s usually because you’ve had the courage to wander off the conveyor belt and into the woods.
Next time you feel that shift—when the "Chapter 4" anxiety starts to creep in or you feel the urge to check the map with Nancy—look at the life happening right in front of you. Look at the fort-building, the flashlight reading, and the sourdough chemistry.
Success in your home doesn't require a principal's signature. It’s measured by how much your child trusts their own ability to learn. If they are curious, kind, and capable of thinking for themselves, you aren't "behind” at all…
… You’re lightyears ahead. (And Nancy? She’s still stuck in traffic.)
XO,
P.S. Does your "Inner Nancy" have a specific specialty? Mine is currently whispering that my kids will never get into college because we spent all of yesterday morning racing rubber-band cars made out of coffee cans instead of doing worksheets. Hit reply and tell me one thing Nancy is nagging you about today and let’s laugh at her together.