My daughter, Lily, is full of energy and quite clumsy. She often tumbles and falls, but most of the time, she brushes it off, eager to return to her toys or race around the room. However, there are moments when she genuinely hurts herself and needs comfort.
Today, she fell off the couch. It all happened so fast that I couldn’t reach her in time. She bumped her head and started to cry, tears streaming down her face as she babbled in distress. While her vocabulary is still limited, I could tell she was expressing how scared the fall had made her. Instinctively, I scooped her up and held her close, allowing her to cry and express her feelings. I then sang “You Are My Sunshine” as she looked into my eyes, eventually smiling through her tears. We spent some time cuddled up watching Teletubbies until she felt ready to jump back into playtime.
It was a precious moment, but it also reminded me of what I lacked as a child. I was clumsy, too—often falling and crying out in pain. Unfortunately, I didn’t receive the nurturing response I needed back then. Instead, I was often told to “Get up!” or “Don’t cry, or I’ll give you something to cry about.” Being called a “weed,” a term indicating weakness, was common when I expressed pain. I can’t recall ever receiving comfort or reassurance after a fall.
I remember a specific incident when my sister fell off a swing. My father rushed to her side, comforting her without hesitation, while I sat feeling invisible. At just five years old, I couldn’t understand why I was treated differently. When I asked him why he didn’t comfort me the same way, he didn’t have an answer and brushed me off, leaving me feeling unloved. My mother laughed it off, making me feel even more foolish for expressing my feelings.
These memories intruded upon the sweetness of my time with Lily, reminding me of the emotional neglect I faced. Another vivid memory is from when I sprained my wrist at seven years old. My mother didn’t seek medical help; instead, she ridiculed my fears and fashioned a makeshift cast from an old sock. When the injury flared up again during play, I ran to my parents in tears, only to be met with laughter and mockery instead of compassion.
I shared these painful recollections with my partner, who validated my feelings. He acknowledged that my parents’ behavior was cruel and that he couldn’t imagine treating Lily the same way. As I observed Lily reading her books, seemingly unaffected by her earlier fall, I realized that these intrusive memories, while painful, signify my progress in breaking the cycle of neglect. They surface during moments of positive parenting, reminding me that I’m providing Lily with the love and support I never received.
These memories are just that—memories. They do not define my present. What matters is that I can now shower my daughter with the affection I had been longing to give. I hope that when she has children of her own, she won’t carry the weight of past trauma but will instead embody the loving example I strive to set for her.
While I know I will make mistakes, Lily will never have to question my love for her. The trust in her big brown eyes reassures me that she knows I will always be there for her. That love is stronger than any painful memories that may surface.
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Summary
The author reflects on the nurturing moments shared with her daughter, Lily, while confronting painful memories of her own childhood neglect. Through love and support, she aims to break the cycle of emotional trauma and create a safe space for her child. Though memories of her past linger, they serve as a reminder of the love she now provides, ensuring that Lily knows she is cherished.
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