Ever find yourself mid-parenting moment, suddenly transported back to your own childhood? It happened to me last week.
My five-year-old came to me crying after accidentally breaking her favorite ceramic butterfly.
As I pulled her onto my lap and whispered “accidents happen, sweetie,” I felt this unexpected wave of grief for the little girl I once was who got sent to her room for breaking a plate, told she was careless and needed to “think about being more responsible.”
That moment crystallized something I’ve been wrestling with since becoming a mother: the gap between what I needed as a child and what I received.
Don’t get me wrong, my parents loved us and provided everything we needed materially.
We ate dinner together every night, had a stable home, and never wanted for anything.
As I navigate raising my own two little ones with gentleness and understanding, I can’t help but feel a growing resentment about how differently certain moments were handled when I was small.
1) When I made mistakes and needed reassurance
Remember that broken plate? I was seven, helping clear the table like the good middle child I was, always trying to earn my place between my older brother and younger sister.
When it slipped and shattered, my father’s immediate response was a stern lecture about carelessness and consequences.
No one asked if I was okay, if I’d cut myself, or acknowledged that I was trying to help.
Now when my toddler spills juice or my daughter drops something, my first instinct is to check if they’re hurt and remind them mistakes are how we learn.
The difference feels monumental.
Kids already feel bad when they mess up.
They need us to be their safe harbor, not another voice adding to their internal criticism.
2) When I was scared at night and needed presence
How many nights did I lie awake, terrified of shadows or bad dreams, knowing that going to my parents’ room would result in being marched straight back to bed?
“You’re too old for this,” they’d say, “there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
These days, when little feet pad into our bedroom at 2 AM, we make space.
Sometimes that means a cuddle and walking them back, sometimes it means they stay.
Fear doesn’t follow logic, especially for children.
What they need is to feel safe and protected until their nervous system calms down.
3) When I was overwhelmed and needed understanding
Picture this: Eight-year-old me, melting down after school because I’d forgotten my library book and would lose recess the next day.
Instead of empathy for my perfectionist panic, I got sent to my room to “calm down and stop being dramatic.”
The message was clear: Big feelings are unacceptable.
When my daughter spirals about something that seems small to adult eyes, I remember that feeling of the world ending over a library book.
I sit with her, validate that this feels really big right now, and help her breathe through it.
Only after the storm passes do we problem-solve together.
4) When I struggled with homework and needed patience
Math homework at our kitchen table felt like walking through a minefield.
One wrong answer would trigger my father’s exasperated sighs and comments about “not trying hard enough.”
The anxiety made thinking clearly impossible, creating a vicious cycle where I’d freeze up more with each mistake.
Watching my daughter learn to read, I bite my tongue when she struggles with the same word five times.
Instead of frustration, I offer encouragement: “This is a tricky one, isn’t it? Let’s sound it out together.”
Learning should feel safe, not like a test of your worth.
5) When I cried and needed validation
“Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.”
Did anyone else hear this growing up? Tears were seen as manipulation or weakness in our house, especially as I got older.
The message internalized deeply: Your feelings are too much, dial them down, make yourself smaller.
Now, I hold space for all the tears in our home.
Sad tears, frustrated tears, even the crocodile tears that sometimes appear when someone doesn’t want to brush their teeth.
We name the feelings, we sit with them, and we let them move through because emotions are experiences to feel.
6) When I felt left out and needed connection, not minimization
Being the middle child meant constantly feeling overlooked.
When I’d express feeling forgotten or less important, the response was always practical: “Don’t be silly, we treat you all the same.”
However, equal doesn’t always mean equitable, and dismissing my experience didn’t make it disappear.
I watch my two kids carefully now, making sure each gets what they uniquely need.
When one expresses feeling left out or jealous, we talk about it.
We acknowledge those feelings are real and valid, even if the situation looks fair from the outside.
7) When I failed and needed encouragement, not criticism
The B+ on my report card might as well have been an F for the disappointment it caused.
“Why not an A?” was the standard response.
Nothing was ever quite good enough; there was always room for improvement.
That constant reaching for an impossible standard left me exhausted and anxious, a pattern I’m still unlearning.
When my kids bring home their artwork or share their accomplishments, I focus on effort and growth.
Did you try something new? Did you persist when it was hard? Those are the wins we celebrate, not arbitrary markers of perfection.
8) When I disagreed and needed respect, not silence
“Because I said so” was the final word in our house.
Questioning decisions or expressing different opinions was seen as disrespect.
We learned quickly that compliance was valued over critical thinking, that keeping peace mattered more than speaking truth.
My kids question everything, and while it’s exhausting some days, I’m grateful.
They feel safe enough to push back, to wonder why, to offer their own ideas.
We don’t always agree, but their voices matter.
They’re learning to advocate for themselves in ways I’m only now figuring out in my thirties.
Finding peace while breaking cycles
Writing this stirs up complicated feelings.
There’s grief for the comfort I didn’t receive, anger that still surprises me with its intensity, and guilt for feeling resentful toward parents who were doing their best with the tools they had.
They gave us stability, education, and family dinners every night but just couldn’t give what they’d never received themselves.
Here’s what I’m learning: I can hold gratitude for what they provided while still acknowledging what was missing.
I can appreciate their sacrifice while choosing differently for my own children.
Breaking cycles means consciously creating something new.
Some days I nail it, offering the patience and presence I wished for as a child.
Other days I hear my father’s frustrated tone slip out of my mouth and have to pause, apologize, and try again.
The difference is that repair is possible now, that mistakes are acknowledged, that trying again is always an option.
Watching my children feel safe in their emotions, confident in their worth even when they mess up, and secure in our connection even through conflict, I feel both proud and wistful.
This is what I’m giving them, and in some way, I’m giving it to that little girl inside me too.
She deserved this gentleness all along.
