I could count on my mom for a lot when I was younger. To always say yes to making cookies, to take me to the library whenever I wanted, to pull out the craft supplies ever Saturday afternoon. But above all, I could trust my mom, and it’s the one thing I hope I can impart to my girls. Right now, my two younger daughters, ages 5 and 2, trust me because they just do. But as my oldest, now 10, grows, I know I have to show her more actionable trust — and for us, that means being her “fall guy” whenever she needs. If my daughter wants to blame me for a decision she’s unsure of, or make me the “bad guy” to her friends instead of explaining how she really feels, well, here I am, ready to fall on her sword.

Let me be clear: we value honesty. Our girl is sensitive and beautifully self-aware, and never in her life has she lied to me about anything. (I know someone is rolling their eyes, but it’s the truth.) From a very young age, we’ve pushed open dialogue with her, encouraged her to speak up, to say how she feels, no matter how it makes anyone else feel.

But that’s… easier said than done. Because I also know that sometimes she is a people pleaser, and she worries about other people and how they feel. She’s an empath, a highly sensitive girl who tells me that in her version of Inside Out, Anxiety is definitely running the show in her brain. I’ve seen her cry at sleepovers when we show up to pick her up, but her friend asks her to stay longer — she doesn’t want to disappoint either of us.

And in those instances, a little white lie is fine. If the choice is between hurting a friend’s feelings or blaming me, well, here’s the bus, throw me under it. “My mom said I can’t go” is a firm response she can always use when she’s feeling less than confident in her own version of no.

At 10, the things she’s blaming me for aren’t all that big. I want her to use her voice and I want her to be proud of her truth, of who she is as a person. When she tells me about a sleepover coming up where her friends are talking about pulling out a Ouija board, I can tell she’s nervous. “I’m so not playing with that thing,” she tells me and I, a true ghost believer, agree with her. (Dude, who still plays with Ouija boards?) But I know she’s worried they’ll try and talk her into it, that they’ll tell her not to be a chicken and to just give it a try.

“So blame me,” I tell her. “Tell them I said you can’t play with it.” Her face lights up. This is the perfect solution. It’s not about lying to her friends or not telling them how she really feels. It’s a firm response. No should be enough, but if she’s in a situation where people might pester her to change her mind, where she feels torn between wanting to please her friends and her own fears, she can use me. “My mom said I can’t,” and that’s that. Because even at 10, when you’re growing and changing and feeling so independent, hearing that a mom said no still means a lot.

Sometimes I offer blaming me as an out and she turns it down. When she expresses concerns about two of her friends hosting a sleepover, inviting her, and intentionally leaving another friend out, I tell her she can use me as the catalyst to start the conversation. “You can tell them I said it’s hurtful to leave her out,” I offer. She shakes her head no. She feels confident in this decision, she trusts her friendships, and above all, she trusts herself. She knows what she tells her friends is important, and she’s willing to take whatever heat there may be for it.

My girl says anxiety rules her thoughts and emotions. She’s self-aware to know that she often creates bigger problems than there actually are, that she gets so wound up in her own head she can’t make it back down. In those moments, she is trying her hardest, doing all of her coping strategies, focusing on her five senses to get her feet back under her.

One day her problems will be bigger. I hope all of her years of learning how to speak up and how to trust herself will carry her through. But if it doesn’t, I’ll be ready. It took me a long time to learn how to say no with conviction, and I’ll always be willing to say it for her.

Samantha Darby is a Senior Lifestyle Editor at Romper and Scary Mommy and a PTA soccer mom raising three little women in the suburbs of Georgia with her husband. Her minivan is always trashed.