The moment my daughter told me a classmate called her a “quarter pounder,” something hot and electric surged through me. It was equal parts heartbreak and rage. I wanted to march into that school and deliver a TED Talk on respect—or maybe just a well-aimed stare that could level walls. But instead, I took a breath, because parenting is full of moments where we have to be the calm when all we want to be is the storm. But, this was NOT the first time it happened!
The first time a classmate called my daughter a name, I did what you’re supposed to do. I told her to be strong. We talked to the school. We reached out to the girl’s parents. We followed the “correct” steps—emails, meetings, deep breaths. We did everything that a parent is advised to do when their child is being picked on. But here we are. Almost two years later. And it’s still happening.
Girl #1: Who has the biggest back in the school?
Girl #2: Paige. She’s a quarter pounder.
This time, it was a comment that seemed stupid and immature on the surface—someone called my daughter a “quarter pounder.” But if you’ve been in these trenches, you know that these insults are never just about the words. They’re about power, humiliation, and control. And when it happens over and over, it digs deep.
So, when my daughter told me about it, I tried again to be calm. To talk through options. Should we tell the school again? Should we go back to the parents? Should we loop in the teacher?
But this time, my daughter said no.
She didn’t want to make it worse.
She didn’t want to confront anyone.
She didn’t even want to be the center of attention.
And my wife agreed. That’s when something in me snapped. I didn’t yell at my daughter. But I started swearing. Loudly. Not at her—but at the situation, the kid, the school, the system. I said things I meant and things I didn’t. I told my daughter maybe she should threaten the girl.
Maybe she should hit her. Maybe that’s the only thing bullies understand. (Not my finest parenting moment.)
My daughter just looked at me. Calm. Disappointed. And honestly, stronger than I was in that moment. See, I was bullied too. Badly. I lost a whole year of high school to it. And I think part of me was reliving that trauma right there in the kitchen, watching history try to repeat itself—this time through my child. I couldn’t bear the thought of her carrying the same weight I carried. And I hated how powerless I felt watching her try to carry it with more grace than I ever did.
So here’s the truth: I tried to do the right things. I wanted to do the right things. But I’m a parent, and I’m human. And eventually, when the “right things” don’t work, rage creeps in. The truth is, we don’t always need more advice or a new school policy. Sometimes, we just need someone to say:
I see you. I know how much it hurts to watch your kid get hurt. I know how helpless it feels. And you’re not a bad parent for feeling angry. You’re just a parent.
I still don’t have the perfect solution. But I do know that loving my daughter fiercely—sometimes imperfectly—is still the one thing I won’t apologize for. And if you’re in the same place: frustrated, heartbroken, and doing your best not to explode—just know you’re not alone. Sometimes doing the right thing is exhausting. Sometimes doing the wrong thing feels like the only thing left.
And sometimes, you just need to sit in the mess of it all, swear a little, cry a little, and try again tomorrow. Because no matter what happens, our kids are watching—and the best thing we can do is show them what it looks like to care so much it hurts, and still choose love over fear.
And your ears shall hear... 
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