The Year We Stopped Performing

Evan Swensen
January 7, 2026

The Year We Stopped Performing
By: Chloe Papadakis
From the fictional town of Cedar Valley, where characters from Quiet Echo continue to respond to real-world events.

Something is shifting in the way we raise our children, and it might be the most hopeful thing I’ve read all year.

Parenting articles across the country are declaring the same quiet revolution: overscheduled kids are out. Instagram-perfect everything is out. Sharenting every tantrum and milestone is out. And in their place? Boredom. Backyard play. Board games. Hand-me-downs. The permission to say no—to one more activity, one more volunteer role, one more “just a quick thing”—so families can actually breathe.

I read that list and felt something loosen in my chest. Because if you’re a young mother in 2026, you know exactly what we’ve been swimming against.

The pressure to curate. The themed snack boards nobody asked for. The “inchstone parties” celebrating every minor developmental moment with balloon arches and coordinated outfits. The constant low hum of comparison that lives in your pocket, ready to tell you someone else’s four-year-old is reading chapter books while yours is still mixing up her letters.

Elena is four. She doesn’t know she’s supposed to be performing. She doesn’t know that somewhere, another mother is filming her child’s perfectly staged art project while I’m wiping crayon off the wall. She just knows that yesterday we made cookies and they were lopsided and delicious, and that was enough.

It’s taken me a long time to believe that’s enough.

What strikes me about this year’s parenting conversation is how honest it’s become. Parents are admitting that “gentle parenting”—at least the Instagram version—sometimes became “no boundaries parenting.” That saying “I understand how you feel” doesn’t mean you can’t also say “here’s the limit.” That children actually need limits, and setting them isn’t cruelty. It’s love with structure.

There’s a phrase showing up in these articles that I keep coming back to: “real-life village energy.”

Carpool crews. Kid swaps with friends. Grandparents on deck. Group texts that actually help. Parenting as a team sport instead of a solo performance.

We used to know this. Our grandmothers knew it instinctively. Children were raised by neighborhoods, by churches, by the web of adults who showed up with casseroles and correction and didn’t ask permission to care. Somewhere along the way, we decided we had to do it alone—and then we wondered why we were so exhausted.

I think about the mothers I know here in Cedar Valley. The ones who bring meals when someone’s sick. The ones who watch each other’s kids without keeping score. The ones who admit, quietly over coffee, that they don’t have it figured out either.

That’s the village. Not a hashtag. Not a brand. Just people who show up.

What I find most striking is the shift toward what the articles call “slow, analog childhood.” Fewer pricey classes. More unstructured time. The radical idea that boredom isn’t a problem to solve—it’s space for imagination to grow.

Elena spent an hour last week with a cardboard box and some markers. She made it into a “restaurant” and served me pretend soup. No subscription box. No screen. Just a child with time and nothing scheduled.

I didn’t photograph it for anyone. I just sat there and ate my pretend soup.

Maybe that’s what 2026 is asking of us. Not to perform parenthood, but to live it. Not to document every moment, but to be in them. Not to give our children the best of everything, but to give them the best of us—which often looks like presence, patience, and the willingness to say no to the noise.

There’s a line from a parenting expert that’s been circulating: “Your kids will remember what you do much more than what you say.”

I think about that when I’m tempted to reach for my phone during dinner. When I’m half-listening because I’m mentally composing a post. When I’m more focused on capturing the moment than living it.

Elena is watching. She always is.

The story I want to write with my life—the one I talked about in my New Year’s column—isn’t going to be built on aesthetics. It’s going to be built on mornings like this one: quiet, imperfect, unhurried. Her hand in mine on the walk to the mailbox. The way she stops to examine every single rock.

We don’t need to perform childhood. We just need to protect it.

And maybe, if enough of us step back from the noise together, we’ll remember what we already knew: that the village was never a trend. It was just people choosing each other over the feed.

This editorial is part of the fictional Cedar Valley News series. While the people and town are fictional, the national events they reflect on are real.

Want to know the full story behind Cedar Valley? Teresa, Caleb, Dan, and the community you’ve come to know in these editorials first came together in Quiet Echo: When Loud Voices Divide, Quiet Ones Bring Together. Discover how a small town found its way from fear to fellowship—one quiet act of courage at a time. Available on Amazon: https://bit.ly/3ME4nSs

It’s free, live, and fresh! Quiet Echo—A Cedar Valley News Podcast is live on Apple Podcasts: https://bit.ly/4nV8XsE, Spotify: https://bit.ly/4hdNHfX, YouTube: https://bit.ly/48Zfu1g , and Podcastle: https://bit.ly/4pYRstE. Every day, you can hear Cedar Valley’s editorials read aloud by the voices you’ve come to know—warm, steady, and rooted in the values we share. Step into the rhythm of our town, one short reflection at a time. Wherever you listen, you’ll feel right at home. Presented by the Publication Consultants: https://publicationconsultants.com/