Last week, my daughter asked me why I was crying in the kitchen, and I heard myself saying “Oh, it’s nothing sweetie, Mommy’s just tired.”
The words came out automatically, like a reflex I didn’t even know I had.
And then it hit me: I was doing exactly what my parents did.
Teaching her that some feelings are meant to be hidden, that certain struggles should stay private, that we handle our hard stuff alone.
Growing up, our family ate dinner together every single night.
We’d pass the potatoes, share about our days, laugh at dad’s jokes.
But looking back, those conversations never went below the surface.
We talked about grades and weather and what happened at school, but never about the anxiety that kept me up at night or why mom seemed sad some mornings.
“We don’t air our dirty laundry” was the unspoken rule that governed what could and couldn’t be shared.
The weight of carrying everyone else’s emotions
Here’s something strange I’ve noticed about myself and others who grew up this way: I can spot someone else’s pain from across a room.
I know when my friend is struggling with her marriage before she says a word.
I can sense when the mom at playgroup is overwhelmed, when the cashier at the grocery store is having a rough day.
I’ve become an emotional detective, constantly scanning for other people’s feelings, ready to offer support and understanding.
But ask me how I’m doing when I’m struggling? Real crickets, my throat closes up, and my mind goes blank.
“I’m fine” becomes my automatic response, even when I’m clearly not.
Why is this? When you grow up in a household where your own struggles are meant to stay hidden, you become hyperaware of everyone else’s.
Maybe it’s because focusing on others feels safer than examining your own pain, or maybe it’s because helping others was the only acceptable way to engage with difficult emotions in your family.
I see this pattern playing out in my own parenting sometimes.
My instinct is to rush in when my kids are upset, to fix and soothe and make everything better immediately.
But, I’m learning that sometimes they just need space to feel their feelings, and more importantly, they need to see me feel mine too.
Breaking the silence starts with small moments
The other day, I was in the garden with my kids when I got a text that upset me.
My five-year-old noticed right away.
“Mama, you look sad,” she said.
My first instinct was to brush it off, but I caught myself, “You know what? I am feeling sad. A friend said something that hurt my feelings, and I need a minute to think about it.”
Her response surprised me: “Do you want a hug? That helps me when I’m sad.”
That tiny moment of honesty opened a door I didn’t even realize had been closed.
We talked about how everyone feels sad sometimes, how it’s okay to need help, how feelings don’t last forever.
It was exactly the kind of conversation that never happened in my childhood home.
Creating this different family culture isn’t easy.
My parents are slowly coming around to what they call my “hippie parenting,” but they still get uncomfortable when I let my kids see me cry or admit when I’m struggling.
“You don’t want to burden them,” my mom says, but I’m starting to realize that pretending everything is always fine is its own kind of burden.
The perfectionism trap that keeps us quiet
There’s another piece to this puzzle that took me years to understand.
When you’re taught to keep your struggles private, you often develop this need to appear perfect on the outside.
After all, if no one can know about your problems, you better make sure everything looks good from the outside.
I still catch myself in these patterns:
- The anxiety that has me double-checking the locks three times before bed, replaying conversations in my head, wondering if I said the wrong thing.
- The people-pleasing that has me saying yes to things I don’t have energy for.
- The perfectionism that makes me clean the entire house before anyone comes over, even close friends who wouldn’t care if there were toys everywhere.
These behaviors all stem from the same place: The belief that showing any crack in the facade means failure, that asking for help means weakness, and that admitting you’re struggling means you can’t handle life.
However, the people who really love us need us to be real.
Teaching emotional honesty without oversharing
Now, I’m not saying we should dump all our problems on our kids or share every adult worry with them.
There’s a balance here, and finding it takes practice.
When my two-year-old sees me frustrated because dinner is burning and nothing is going right, I try to name it simply: “Mommy is feeling frustrated right now. I’m going to take three deep breaths.”
I show him that feelings happen, they have names, and there are ways to work through them.
When anxiety gets the better of me and I’m overthinking something that happened at the park, I might tell my daughter, “My brain is being a worry brain today. Sometimes that happens, and I’m working on calming it down.”
The goal is to normalize the fact that everyone struggles sometimes, and that’s completely okay.
Finding your voice after years of silence
If you recognize yourself in this pattern, know that changing it takes time.
Start small: The next time someone asks how you are and you’re not actually fine, try saying “It’s been a tough day” instead of “I’m good.”
Practice sharing one real thing about your day with someone you trust.
Maybe you felt overwhelmed at work, you’re worried about a decision you need to make, or you’re just tired and need someone to know that.
Notice when you jump into fixing mode with other people’s problems: Are you using their struggles as a way to avoid your own?
There’s nothing wrong with being supportive, but make sure you’re not pouring from an empty cup while pretending it’s full.
Moving forward with grace
Some days I nail this whole emotional honesty thing, other days I catch myself mid-sentence, realizing I’m doing exactly what my parents did.
That’s okay, because we’re all carrying patterns from our childhoods, trying to sort out what to keep and what to leave behind.
What matters is that we’re aware of these patterns and that we’re trying to do differently while we’re creating space for our kids to bring their whole selves to the table, dirty laundry and all.
Maybe, just maybe, if we can teach them that their struggles don’t need to stay hidden, they won’t grow up to be adults who can fix everyone else while staying broken in silence themselves.
Moreover, maybe they’ll know that asking for help is brave, that sharing struggles builds connection, and that we’re all just doing our best with what we have.
On the days when I forget all of this and revert back to old patterns? Well, that’s okay too.
Tomorrow is another chance to practice being human, messy feelings and all.
