I REFUSED TO LET MY DAUGHTER TRAVEL TO INDIA AND NOW SHE’S CALLING ME RACIST
When my 17-year-old daughter, Emily, approached me about a school trip to India, I thought she was joking at first. It wasn’t that I had anything against India, but the thought of my teenage daughter traveling halfway across the world without me filled me with dread. My immediate instinct was to say no.
“Absolutely not,” I blurted before she could even finish explaining. “You’re not ready for something like this.”
Her face fell. “Dad, it’s an educational trip. We’ll be with teachers. We’ll visit Delhi, Agra, and Jaipur. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience!”
I still shook my head. I wasn’t comfortable. I had heard about safety concerns, chaotic traffic, food issues, even illnesses like Delhi belly. I was picturing worst-case scenarios. “It’s not safe,” I said firmly. “I can’t allow it.”
Emily’s eyes narrowed. “Not safe? Or do you just not like India? Do you realize how racist you sound right now?”
That accusation stung. Racist? I had never thought of myself that way. I tried to explain that my concerns were about her safety, not the country itself. But Emily wasn’t buying it. She stormed off, muttering about how I wanted to “shelter” her forever and how I clearly didn’t respect other cultures.
For days, the word “racist” echoed in my head. I felt awful. So I did something I probably should have done in the first place: I researched. I read about India, the beauty of the Taj Mahal, the warmth of the people, the richness of the culture. I even spoke to a colleague who had recently traveled there with her teenage daughter. She admitted there were challenges, but she also said it was life-changing.
Slowly, I realized my fear wasn’t about India. It was about letting go of my little girl. She was growing up, ready to see the world, while I was still clinging to the image of her needing my protection at all times.
One evening, I knocked on Emily’s door. “I owe you an apology,” I told her. “I wasn’t being racist. I was being scared. Scared of letting you go, scared of not being able to protect you. But I’ve realized this trip could be good for you—and I don’t want my fear to hold you back.”
Her eyes softened. “So… I can go?”
I sighed but smiled. “Yes. You can go.”
She squealed and hugged me tight. For the first time, I felt both terrified and proud. Terrified of her growing independence, but proud that she was brave enough to embrace the world.
And maybe, just maybe, it was time I started learning how to let her.
