My daughter, Lily, is an energetic little girl, often lacking in spatial awareness and a bit clumsy. As you can imagine, she frequently tumbles over. Most of the time, she gets back up and continues playing as if nothing happened. After all, she’s a busy toddler who needs to engage with her toys or dash around the room. However, there are moments when she genuinely hurts herself and seeks comfort.
Today, she fell off the couch. It happened so fast that I couldn’t catch her in time. She bumped her head and instantly began to cry. Tears streamed down her face, and in a panicked tone, she babbled. Although her vocabulary is still limited, I could sense she was trying to express how frightened she was. Instinctively, I scooped her into my arms and embraced her.
I allowed her to cry and express her feelings in her own way. To soothe her, I sang “You Are My Sunshine” while looking into her eyes, and soon she began to smile. I wiped her tears away while we enjoyed some time watching Teletubbies together. Once she felt more settled, she jumped off my lap to play with her toys.
It was a precious moment, but as I gave Lily what I lacked in my own childhood, I was reminded of my past. Memories rushed back of similar experiences from my own youth. Like Lily, I was a clumsy child and often fell. I was also very expressive, often crying out when I was hurt. Unfortunately, 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.”
When I cried, I was often called a “weed,” a term used in my hometown to describe someone perceived as weak or fragile. I can’t recall ever being hugged or reassured when I was hurt. I would try to hold back tears, but sometimes the pain was just too much. Instead, I faced ridicule or disbelief regarding my pain.
I vividly recall a day when my sister fell off a swing. My dad rushed to her side, scooping her up into his arms. He comforted her without hesitation, never calling her names. At just five years old, I couldn’t understand why she received such different treatment. Tears filled my eyes as I concluded that my dad didn’t love me.
Curious and hurt, I asked my dad why he didn’t call her a weed. He seemed at a loss for words. When I asked him if he loved me, he snapped at me not to be silly. I ran to my mom, crying, seeking affirmation that my dad cared about me. I explained how this pattern persisted; he always comforted my sister and never doubted her pain.
My mom laughed, making me feel foolish for my feelings. She told my dad to just say he loved me to stop my tears, but I don’t recall if he did. What I do remember is feeling the need to apologize for upsetting him.
This intrusive memory spoiled the beautiful moment I had with Lily. Other painful memories crept in, like the time I sprained my wrist at seven. I was in excruciating pain, believing my wrist was broken. Instead of seeking medical help, my mom mocked me and fashioned a makeshift support from an old sock.
As I healed, I forgot that my wrist wasn’t fully recovered. I played a game where I jumped down the stairs, but when I landed awkwardly, I hurt my wrist again. Crying in pain, I ran to my parents, who only laughed and mocked me, asking what was wrong. There was no comfort, only ridicule for the rest of the day as they joked about my pain.
I shared these memories with my partner, explaining how they often invade my thoughts during tender moments with Lily. His validation helped ease my distress. He recognized the cruelty of my parents and expressed how he couldn’t imagine treating Lily that way. It’s a natural instinct for parents to want to protect and nurture their children.
Watching Lily read her books, seemingly unfazed by her earlier fall, brought a smile to my face. As she excitedly handed me a book, I realized that these intrusive thoughts, while painful, signify that I’m breaking the cycle of my past. They arise during moments of good parenting, highlighting the love and support I’m offering Lily—something I desperately needed as a child.
These memories are from the past, not the present. What matters now is that I can shower my little girl with the love I longed for during my own childhood. When she becomes a parent, I hope she’ll create beautiful moments without the shadows of trauma lingering over her. I’ll make mistakes; like all parents, I’ll fall short at times. But Lily will never doubt my love for her. The way she looks at me with trust and affection fills my heart with love. She knows she can depend on me, and that connection is more powerful than any intrusive memory I may have.
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Summary: In reflecting on my experiences as a parent, I strive to give my daughter the nurturing and love I lacked during my childhood, despite the painful memories that sometimes resurface. While these memories can be intrusive, they also signal my commitment to breaking the cycle of emotional neglect. My daughter, Lily, is a source of joy, and I am determined to provide her with the love and support she deserves.
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