There are moments when my daughter wears a familiar expression that I’ve come to know well. It’s difficult to articulate, but it manifests as a blank, meticulously controlled mask that hints at turmoil just beneath the surface. This is her way of suppressing emotions she deems “bad,” while trying to maintain a facade of normalcy—whatever that may mean. It’s a struggle to be in a place that feels safe and acceptable, especially when her internal world feels dark, frightening, and sorrowful.
There was a time when I might have overlooked this expression, too caught up in my own efforts to pretend that everything was fine. Even worse, I may have seen it and turned away, relieved that she was at least pretending. I was grappling with my own emotions, barely able to breathe through my fears, let alone support hers.
My upbringing involved a family that expressed emotions but rarely discussed them. We bottled up feelings until they erupted tragically, scattering hurt and anger in every direction. After these emotional explosions, there was no conversation to process what happened—no acknowledgment of how we harmed each other or any apologies. We learned to patch our wounds in silence and return to pretending that all was well.
This lack of open dialogue left no room for healing or growth, and the same patterns kept repeating. We tiptoed around each other, our smiles strained, until we inevitably returned to “normal,” until the next emotional outburst occurred.
I didn’t grasp the concept of expressing emotions in a healthy way until graduate school. I learned to genuinely ask someone how they were feeling and listen without trying to fix the situation; to create a safe space for sadness, anger, and grief; and to understand that my emotional reactions were mine to process—not to project onto others. These ideas took hold of me, and I began applying them in my professional life.
However, when it came to parenting, I never considered using these skills. If my daughter was upset, I would rush to soothe her, try to fix the problem, or become frustrated and withdraw. If she expressed anger, I’d respond with my own irritation. I often jumped to conclusions instead of patiently listening. Though I did apologize—one lesson I learned from my past—this approach fell short. I failed to recognize the importance of simply allowing my daughter to feel sad, angry, or scared without trying to change those feelings.
We often feel compelled to comfort our children. We bandage their wounds, soothe their fears, and distract them from their pain through fun activities and treats. While these actions are often necessary, it’s equally vital for children to experience and express their emotions. They need to cry, yell, and feel their feelings fully, just as much as they need to eat vegetables, brush their teeth, and get a good night’s sleep. This emotional expression is essential.
I didn’t understand this when I first became a parent. It was never modeled for me, and I suspect I’m not alone in this. A life where it’s acceptable to be sad, angry, or scared, without shame or apology, was absent from my childhood, my friendships, and even my college experiences. Society, too, seems uncomfortable with sadness and fearful of anger. We mask our fears with bravado, and then wonder why we experience anxiety and depression—ultimately passing these learned behaviors onto our children.
Now, when I see that familiar look on my daughter’s face, I stop everything. No matter how pressed for time I am, I prioritize checking in with her. At eleven, she may not always share her feelings right away. Sometimes she needs time to process; other times, she’s simply reluctant to open up. She might worry that it’s not safe to express herself.
I remind myself to stay patient. I assure her that it’s safe to express anything she feels. I emphasize that talking through emotions is vital for healing. I gently encourage her to reflect on times when bottling her feelings led to outbursts that hurt us both.
I let her express her emotions, no matter how uncomfortable it may be. I hold her as she cries or pound a pillow if she’s angry. I ask probing questions, even when I’m uncertain of the answers. I inquire if she feels mad at me or if she’s grappling with embarrassment or shame. I want her to know that she can express herself without fear of judgment.
Sometimes the truths she shares are difficult to hear; she may express loneliness or fear about how others treat her. I let her cry. I let her be sad, angry, or scared. I hold space for her feelings first before we move on to solutions. After we’ve navigated through her emotions, we can discuss commitments I can make to support her.
This process may seem lengthy but often takes only about 15 minutes before we find ourselves laughing and reconnecting in a more positive space. It’s a revelation that embracing sadness, anger, or fear can lead to connection. These feelings can feel overwhelming, yet they often pass quickly when fully felt, especially in the company of someone who cares.
Feeling our emotions in the presence of others is the true balm for our wounds. It’s a lesson I’m grateful to learn alongside my daughter.
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Summary
The author reflects on how she learned to recognize and accept her tween daughter’s emotions, contrasting her upbringing with a family that expressed feelings but never discussed them. She emphasizes the importance of allowing children to feel and express their emotions, rather than trying to fix or suppress them. The journey toward emotional openness not only benefits her daughter but strengthens their bond.
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