My daughter, Lily, is a lively little girl. She tends to be quite clumsy and often lacks spatial awareness, which means she frequently tumbles. Most of the time, she picks herself up and continues as if nothing happened—after all, she has toys to play with and rooms to explore. Yet, there are moments when she genuinely hurts herself and seeks comfort.
Today, Lily fell off the sofa. It all happened so fast that I couldn’t catch her in time, and she bumped her head, bursting into tears. As the tears streamed down her face and her voice trembled in panic, I could see she was trying to express how scared she felt. Instinctively, I scooped her up into my arms for a comforting hug.
I allowed her to cry and express her feelings while I sang “You Are My Sunshine.” Slowly, she started to smile as I wiped away her tears. We spent some time watching Teletubbies together, cuddled close, until she felt better and hopped off my lap to play with her toys.
It was a lovely moment, but as I cherished it, I was also reminded of my own childhood. Memories flooded back of similar situations I faced. Like Lily, I was a clumsy kid and would often cry out or weep when I fell. However, I didn’t receive the nurturing response I needed.
- “Get up!”
- “Don’t cry, or I’ll give you something to cry about.”
- “You didn’t hurt yourself.”
Often, when I cried, I was called a “wimp,” a term commonly used in my upbringing to describe someone perceived as weak. I can’t recall ever being hugged or comforted after getting hurt. I would try to suppress my tears, but sometimes the pain was too overwhelming. Instead of comfort, I received insults or disbelief.
I distinctly remember a day when my sister fell off a swing. My dad rushed over and scooped her into his arms, always comforting her and never belittling her pain. At just five years old, I couldn’t understand why she was treated differently. Tears filled my eyes as I realized I was not receiving the same love.
I questioned my dad about his lack of affection toward me. He seemed at a loss for words and snapped at me to stop being silly. In tears, I turned to my mom, seeking reassurance about my dad’s love. Instead of comfort, she laughed it off, making me feel foolish and as if I were overreacting. She suggested my dad should just say he loved me to stop my crying, but I can’t recall if he did. All I remember is feeling the need to apologize for having feelings.
This memory intruded on the beautiful moment I shared with Lily. Other memories crept in as well, including the time I sprained my wrist at seven. In excruciating pain and unsure of what a sprain was, I thought my wrist was broken. My mother mocked me for my fears and didn’t seek medical attention. Instead, she cut the toes out of an old sock and made me wear it on my wrist—that was her solution.
As my wrist healed, I forgot it wasn’t fully better. I played a game where I would jump from the stairs, landing like a frog. One day, I jumped and re-injured my wrist. Crying in pain, I ran to my parents, only to find them laughing, even as I lay on the floor hurt. They mocked me for how I looked, making jokes that stung deeply.
I shared these reflections with my husband, who validated my feelings. He recognized the cruelty of my parents and assured me he could never treat our daughter that way.
Looking at Lily, engrossed in her books, I realized something important: these painful memories, while intrusive, signify that I am breaking the cycle. They surface during moments when I am doing well as a parent, showing love and support to Lily that I never received.
These are just memories, not my present reality. Now, I can give all the love I stored up during my childhood, which I had no one to share it with. I am nurturing a little girl who deserves all the affection and support I longed for. I am determined that when she has children of her own, she will not face the same trauma; she will simply live the loving example I set for her.
I will make mistakes; every parent does. However, Lily will never have to question my love for her. The way she gazes at me with her trusting brown eyes fills my heart with love. She knows she can depend on me and that I am always in her corner. That bond is stronger than the painful memories I carry.
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Summary:
In the journey of parenting, I strive to provide my daughter, Lily, with the love and comfort I lacked during my own tumultuous childhood. My reflections on past experiences, filled with neglect and ridicule, serve as painful reminders of what I want to avoid for her. Through nurturing moments, I aim to break the cycle of emotional detachment, ensuring Lily grows up surrounded by unconditional love. While I recognize the memories of my past may resurface, they also affirm that I am fostering a nurturing environment for my daughter, allowing her to thrive without the burden of past trauma.