I parented the child I was, not the kids I had. Now I wonder if that was a mistake.

I graduated from high school in a class of 30 students in a town of fewer than 800 people.

I finished school with many of the same kids I started kindergarten with.

By graduation, I knew their parents’ names, their childhood nicknames, their pet peeves, and the fastest way to annoy them.

At that time, I was terrified of a big school experience.

I liked my tiny pond where I knew not only my school of fish but our teachers, too.

I imagined my tiny self in a huge school, getting shoved into lockers, being yelled at by intimidating teachers and upperclassmen, and failing at everything for the rest of my life.

I was glad I didn’t have to deal with any of the hassles I imagined other kids did.

So when my husband and two sons, middle schoolers at the time, moved from a small town to a larger city, my own childhood anxiety kicked in, resulting in a parenting mistake: I chose my sons’ middle and high school based on who I was as a student, rather than who they actually were.

Terrified that my kids would get swallowed up by a massive urban district, I intentionally enrolled them in a small, tight-knit public magnet program.

Looking back, I regret that choice.

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The school we selected was everything my middle school self would’ve loved: safe, inclusive, and small.

My sons had many of the same teachers from 6th grade until they graduated.

They had routines and traditions, like a strange, made-up sport played during lunch and yearly expeditions to the wilderness.

At their age, I would’ve loved these experiences, but I failed to notice they didn’t fit my sons’ personalities.

Instead of camping trips with classmates, my sons would’ve preferred access to a wider range of electives, varied class experiences, and more robust athletics.

They wanted the expansive options like woodshop, debate team, student government, and the National Honor Society that they could have experienced at a larger public high school.

But because of my fears of them getting lost in the shuffle, I fought against their hints that another school might be a better match.

Now they are young adults in college, staring down a high-stakes job market that demands early specialization and tricky corporate navigation.

Their small school came with plenty of benefits: a strong foundation, a safe landing space, and critical thinking skills.

But I wonder if they could have received the same benefits at a bigger school, along with the broader experiences that might have helped them tap into their unique interests.

My husband and I have done our best to help our sons figure out a career path, select a major, and navigate complex systems.

They’re doing the best they can, but the impersonal machinery intimidates all of us.

My sons will each face a seemingly impossible task after college graduation: find a job that won’t be replaced by AI, tap into your particular skills and passions, and make enough money to pay your bills and have some fun.

I question if another type of school would have better prepared them for this challenge.

I’ve frequently heard this advice: Parent the kids you have.

In this regard, I parented the child I was.

And because I can’t build a time machine to change those decisions, I’m living with the consequences now, crossing my fingers and hoping they are prepared for post-graduation realities.

I protected my sons from the “scary” big pond experience, but I worry my sheltering decision will leave them to drown in a job market where the water is much deeper.