I wasn't meeting my children…

I always thought healing would make me a better mother.

I never imagined it would first show me the ways my wounds were still parenting my son.

A few months ago, he came home upset.

A friend hadn’t chosen him.

It wasn’t bullying.

It wasn’t cruel.

It was one ordinary childhood moment.

But my body didn’t know that.

Before he had even finished speaking, my mind had already started searching for a solution.

Should I speak to the teacher?

Should I call the parent?

Should I explain that they’re not real friends anyway?

I wanted the pain gone.

Immediately.

Then something stopped me.

My son was living one afternoon.

I was reliving an entire childhood.

As a therapist, I know children don’t grow because they’re protected from every difficult emotion.

As a mother…

watching my child feel those emotions can feel unbearable.

And that’s the conflict no one prepares us for.

We tell ourselves,

“I don’t want my child to go through what I went through.”

It sounds like love.

Sometimes…

it’s fear.

Because when my son isn’t chosen…

the little girl inside me remembers every time she wasn’t.

When he feels left out…

she remembers believing she wasn’t enough.

When he cries…

she remembers having no one to help her make sense of those tears.

His pain belongs to today.

Mine belongs to years ago.

And without even realising it, I begin responding to my memories instead of his reality.

That day, I saw something I couldn’t unsee.

I wasn’t trying to protect my son from pain.

I was trying to protect myself from watching someone I love survive the very feelings I once believed would break me.

That realisation stayed with me.

Because love can so easily become rescue.

And rescue can quietly steal the very experiences that help a child discover,

“This hurts… but I can get through it.”

I’m still learning.

Some days I still step in too quickly.

Some days I still mistake my memories for my son’s reality.

Healing didn’t make me a perfect mother.

It made me a more aware one.

It helped me notice which child was asking for help —the one standing in front of me, or the one still living inside me.

And I’ve realised…

this isn’t just my story.

It’s the story of so many parents I sit with.

Parents who love their children deeply.

Parents who would do anything for them.

And yet, every tantrum, every rejection, every disappointment quietly awakens the child inside them who never felt seen, chosen, or safe.

We think we’re responding to our children.

Often, we’re responding to the wounds our children unknowingly awaken.

Because when you understand why your child’s disappointment feels unbearable… or why their tears leave you more shaken than they are… something shifts.

You stop reacting from yesterday. And you start responding to today.

So before you ask yourself,

“How do I become a better parent?”

I want to leave you with a different question.

What part of your own childhood still walks into the room every time your child is hurting?

Because sometimes, the greatest gift we can give our children… is not a childhood without pain.

It’s a parent whose own pain no longer has to lead the way.