There are times when my daughter, Lily, wears a certain expression that I’ve come to recognize. It’s a hard-to-define look, a blank mask that hides a storm of emotions underneath. This expression signals that she is trying to suppress what she considers “bad” feelings while pretending everything is perfectly fine—whatever “normal” means in her world. It’s as though she’s trying to inhabit a place far removed from her current emotional state, which feels too dark, too frightening, and too sad.
In the past, I might have overlooked this look. I was often preoccupied with my own struggles, attempting to maintain the facade that everything was alright. Worse yet, there were moments I noticed her distress but chose to ignore it, feeling grateful that she was managing to pretend. My own emotional struggles made it difficult to engage with hers; I didn’t have the capacity to be present for her feelings.
Growing up, my family expressed emotions but rarely discussed them. We bottled them up until they erupted in a chaotic storm of anger and hurt, leaving us all injured in the aftermath. There was no conversation about what had happened, no accountability for how our feelings had been mismanaged, and certainly no apologies exchanged. We were expected to patch up our wounds and return to pretending everything was okay, leading to a cycle of emotional explosions that left us walking on eggshells.
The idea of expressing feelings without directing them at loved ones was something I didn’t encounter until my graduate studies. I learned to ask how someone was feeling and listen without rushing to fix their problems; to hold space for sadness, anger, and grief; and to recognize that my emotions were my own to process, not weapons to wield. These concepts I practiced with clients, yet they never occurred to me in my own parenting.
When Lily was upset, I instinctively tried to fix things. If she was angry, I often responded with my own frustration. I rushed in with judgments, assuming I understood her feelings without truly listening. While I occasionally apologized—drawing from my own childhood lessons—I never considered simply allowing her to experience her emotions without trying to change them.
We often feel compelled to soothe our children, to bandage their wounds and wipe away their tears. While this is necessary, they also need the freedom to cry, yell, and feel sad or scared. Just as they need to learn to eat their vegetables and brush their teeth, they require the space to process their emotions.
I didn’t know this at the onset of my parenting journey; it was never modeled for me, and it seems I’m not alone. A life where it’s acceptable to feel sadness, anger, or fear without shame is rarely seen in families, friendships, or even media representations. Society often avoids uncomfortable feelings, leading to widespread anxiety and depression, which we inadvertently pass on to our children.
Now, when I notice that look on Lily’s face, I pause. Regardless of our schedule or my to-do list, I ask her what’s going on. At eleven, she may not always respond immediately. Often, she needs time to process her emotions or may hesitate to trust that it’s safe to express them. I understand this hesitation; I unwittingly taught her that sharing her feelings could lead to judgment or frustration.
I work on remaining patient, reassuring her that it’s safe to express everything she feels. I remind her of past moments when suppressing emotions led to misunderstandings and hurt. I keep checking in until she opens up. When she does, I listen intently, ask questions, and offer comfort without trying to fix her feelings right away.
Sometimes, the truths she shares are difficult to hear. She may express feelings of loneliness or fear about how others treat her—issues beyond my control. I allow her to cry, to be angry, to feel what she needs to feel. I hold space for her emotions, guiding her toward understanding her feelings and communicating her needs.
After we work through the emotions, we can shift to solutions, but only after we’ve felt everything fully. I don’t promise that everything will be alright because sometimes it won’t be. Instead, I commit to supporting her in tangible ways.
This process may seem drawn out, but it often takes no more than fifteen minutes. Then we find ourselves laughing and connecting, fully present with each other again. Embracing emotions can feel overwhelming, but once we allow ourselves to feel them, they tend to pass quickly. Sharing these moments with someone else can deepen our connections, revealing that feeling our feelings is often the remedy we need.
In summary, I’ve learned to let my tween experience her emotions without rushing in to fix everything. This journey has taught us both the importance of feeling and expressing emotions in a safe environment, reinforcing our bond as a family.