The Mother Tucker Method Advice Column
The ride home after a rough game, the coach's text you keep re-reading, the silence at dinner. Write in. Paula reads and answers every letter.
You do not need a crisis to write in. Sometimes the moments that shape a young athlete are the small ones — the after-game car ride, the tryout week, the sibling comparison, the practice you shouldn’t have driven to angry.
Send the situation you keep replaying. Paula will answer with steadiness, not shame — and often with which coin may be running the show underneath.

Paula "Mother Tucker" Roemer
Dr. Paula Roemer is a practicing dentist with a thriving practice, an educator, a coach, and the creator of The Mother Tucker Method.
Paula's advice column is a natural extension of what she does organically, supporting sports parents separate love from fear, name the pattern underneath the reaction, and get back to steadiness faster—especially in the moments that matter most: after games, during coach feedback, and inside the ride home
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From the most primal wound at the core to the most abstract wound at the edge, this framework shows why the outer layers depend on what is happening deeper underneath.
Dear Mother Tucker,
My 15-year-old plays club soccer. Last weekend the coach benched him for the second half of a tournament final without a word of explanation. My son shrugged it off. I did not. I’ve drafted three emails to the coach and haven’t sent any. My husband says let it go. I feel like I’d be failing him if I did. — Losing sleep in Ohio
Dear Losing Sleep,
Here’s the tell: your son shrugged and you didn’t. When our kid has already moved on and we haven’t, we’re usually not fighting for them — we’re fighting for the version of us that couldn’t protect ourselves once.
Fairness feels like love from the inside, and it lands like static from the outside. If the email gets sent, your son doesn’t learn to advocate for himself, he learns his mother will do it before he even knows he needs to.
Try this: don’t send the email. The next time you have a quiet moment with him (in the car, before bedtime, washing dishes together), ask him one question — “What did you make it mean when you got pulled from the game?” Then just listen. If he wants to talk to the coach, you can help him prep. If he doesn’t, the fight was never his.
My own son was pulled from a tournament game in the final minutes. I was upset. When I asked him after the game how it felt he said, "I didn't really care. I just wanted the team to win."
Sometimes the battle we are fighting is not the one that our children are. Once we see what truly matters to our children, we can guide, support, and help them in the ways which suit them best.
Dear Mother Tucker,
My daughter is 11. She’s been in competitive gymnastics for four years and until this season she lit up walking into the gym. Now she stalls, cries, invents stomachaches. Her coach says she has real potential and just needs to “push through.” I don’t know if I’m rescuing her or abandoning her by pulling back. — Second-guessing in Denver
Dear Second Guessing,
You are not the villain here, and neither is she. Somewhere along the way her body started keeping the score of something — a comparison, a comment, a routine that broke her — and the stomachache is her nervous system’s letter to you.
You might feel that if your daughter quits now, you're both losing something. But an 11-year-old crying before practice is not typically learning grit. I worry that your daughter is learning to override what her body is telling her and that her body’s signals don’t matter.
You don’t have to pull her out to hear her. Try: “I believe you when you say your stomach hurts. You don’t have to earn a day off from me.” See how she responds to you when you talk to her without judgement or expectation. Then decide together — not from fear, and not from sunk cost, what to do next. Your daughter might open up and tell you what's really going on with her, be there to listen and hear what she needs.
Dear Mother Tucker,
I promised myself I’d never be a post-game-autopsy parent. Then somewhere around his second year of hockey I became one. My 13-year-old now puts his headphones in the second he opens the car door. I tell myself I’m being supportive. He’s telling me — without words — that I’m not. — Trying in Toronto
Dear Trying,
Read what you just wrote back to yourself. He’s already telling you, you’re already hearing it, and that’s why you wrote in. Give yourself credit for the noticing because most parents don’t.
The headphones are a boundary a 13-year-old built because he didn’t have another word for “please let me have this game be mine.” The part of you that fears disconnection is going to want to fill that silence. Don’t.
Next ride, put on his music and don’t say anything about the game unless he does. He will see that your focus after the game has shifted off of him. It might take a few car rides home from the game before a new routine is established and you are able to build a new post-game safe space.
Proof & Perspective
Parents and coaches do not need more shame. They need language for what is happening, and a way to get steady fast enough to help before another game, conversation, or car ride gets harder than it needs to be.
— Melissa T., mom of a 14-year-old elite soccer player
— Erin R., parent of a varsity gymnast
— James K., varsity football coach
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