I struck my child today. The reason doesn’t matter. There’s no justification for my actions; I reacted thoughtlessly. The consequences were immediate. I found myself in tears, as did he. Tears streamed down his little face, leaving damp trails on his cheeks. I sobbed uncontrollably. In that moment, I felt utterly defeated; I despised myself for what I had done.
Hours have passed, and I still haven’t come to terms with it. I doubt I ever will. I know the feelings he experienced—disgust, betrayal, sadness, and fear—because I felt them too. I grew up in a home filled with abuse. I married someone who was abusive. My child deserves so much more. I know I should be better. But today, I failed. Today, I struck my child.
Ironically, after I hurt him, my son called for me. “Mommy!” he cried out, because I am usually the one who comforts him. I would typically scoop him up, wipe away his tears, and hold him until he felt safe again. But today, I couldn’t understand why he still wanted me. I despise myself right now. Today is a far cry from the parent I aspire to be.
Normally, I pride myself on being a calm and patient parent. I don’t yell. I believe in handling situations with firmness and compassion, using my words to explain feelings and consequences. In our home, we practice a hands-off approach. I have zero tolerance for hitting or any form of aggression, and I address those issues gently yet firmly. I strive to nurture my children, ensuring they feel secure and cherished. But today, everything changed.
Today, I changed.
In my son’s eyes, I saw reflections of my own childhood. I am a broken person, shaped by years of torment. I’m filled with sadness and anger, leading me to strike out at my child for simply being a child. I remember the times I was beaten for small mistakes, and I see that frightened child in my son’s eyes—trembling, cowering, and crying just like he did.
Despite my disappointment, I gathered him into my arms at his request. I noticed a red mark on his hand and felt a wave of fear. You’re just like her, I thought. But I pushed that thought away. You don’t have to continue that cycle. We can do better—for him, for me, for us.
“Sweetie?” I whispered, “I’m sorry for hitting you. Mommy shouldn’t have done that.” He gazed up at me, his wide eyes full of innocence. Then, without a word, he nestled into my chest. We sat in silence for what felt like an eternity until, suddenly, he wriggled free to play with his trucks. “Mommy, play?” he asked. And we did, for almost an hour.
Today, I’m determined to change my story. Today, I’m saving both my son and myself. Does this make today better? Is the lesson worth the cost? No, I’ve apologized many times since. I’ve explained how wrong my behavior was. But it’s comforting to know that my son still loves me. It reassures me that I’m not the monster I fear I could be. I can break the cycle if I truly commit to it.
I know this moment is not the end. I haven’t ruined my son, but I’ve disappointed myself. The mark on his hand will fade; however, I will not forget his face or this moment of rage. Remembering keeps me accountable. It reminds me that today, I struck my child. But today, I also chose to change. I swear it will never happen again.
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