There's a backpack dumped in my hallway. Straps everywhere, half unpacked, right where my son always leaves his stuff.

A few weeks ago I wasn't sure he'd make it to the end of the trip.

My 18-year-old went backpacking solo through South-East Asia. And somewhere in the middle of it, when things fell apart, he could have talked to anyone.

I was first on his list.

When they're babies, we compare everything. Sleep, first words, first steps. We swap stories at playgroup and laugh about the hard nights.

Then they become teenagers, and something shifts. The backchat. The slammed doors. The things they do that you'd rather nobody knew about. It's not the kind of thing you share at the school gate.

So we retreat. Not from our kids, but from everyone else. We stop talking about it, and we carry it on our own.

I know I did. I was working full time, juggling kids and family, and plenty of nights I thought, "I have no idea if I'm doing this right."

My son has always been the kid with loads of friends and confidence to burn. So when he booked a solo trip through South-East Asia, none of us were worried about him fitting in.

Then he landed, and it hit him hard. He was lonely. He couldn't find his people. Then his phone broke, and everything that was already hard got harder.

He was ready to throw in the towel and come home.

And the person he kept talking to was me. Not the group chat. Not his mates. Me.

Every part of me wanted to fix it. Book him a flight. Tell him exactly what to do. Make the hurt stop.

I didn't. I didn't make a single decision for him.

Instead, I listened. I knew what to say, and just as importantly, what not to say. I asked questions that helped him think it through for himself, so the answers were his, not mine.

He stayed. He found his feet, and he had the time of his life. He came home proud of how far he'd pushed himself outside his comfort zone, and he's already planning the next trip.

This is the same kid who, a few years ago, had me on speed dial from the principal's office.

You don't need a crisis overseas to use these. They work just as well at the kitchen bench.

1. Listen before you solve. When your teen brings you a problem, let them finish. Resist the urge to jump in with the answer. The first thing they need is to feel heard.

2. Ask, don't tell. Swap your advice for a question. "What do you think you'll do?" or "What's one thing that would make tomorrow a bit easier?" When the answer is theirs, they own it.

3. Stay beside them, not in front of them. Your job isn't to walk the path for them. It's to be the steady voice they come back to while they work it out.

These tools won't give you a perfect kid. That was never the point.

The point is what happens when they start making their own calls. When they fail, and get back up, and work out who they are. You get to be beside them, feeling steady, instead of at home a nervous wreck wondering what's coming next.

Hand on heart, these tools shaped how I raised my boys more than anything else. I use them at work, with my partner and with my friends. They gave me something I didn't have in those early teen years: confidence in myself. And a calm, confident parent is a pretty good role model to grow up with.

Maryanne and I are running a 6-week live masterclass to share the tools that got me through the teen years.

• Starts Thursday 8 October, 7:30pm (Sydney time)

• Six live 1-hour sessions with Maryanne and me

• Every session recorded, so you never fall behind

• 30-day money-back guarantee

Early bird is $197 until Sunday 4 October, 11:30pm (then $497).

Save your spot in the masterclass

And if you're in the thick of it right now and feel like you're the only one, you're not. Reply to any of my emails or message me. I'd love to hear what's going on at home.

Selena