Somatic therapy completely changed how I parent–and how I see my childhood
I grew up knowing I was loved. But it wasn’t until I became a mother that I realized love and emotional safety aren’t always the same thing.
Table of Contents
Welcome to Motherly’s new series, Can I Be Honest?, where moms share the fears, fails and triumphs we’re afraid to post in the group chat. Because being a mom is hard work, but it’s a lot easier when we can talk about it.
Growing up, I felt abundantly loved. My dad, ever exuberant, would drop me off at school, wait until I’d walked 25 feet from the car, then roll down his window and yell out that he loved me, for everyone to hear.
When I became a mom, I felt that same effusive love the moment I held my daughter to my chest. I couldn’t stop kissing her, snuggling her, telling her I loved her. She was an easy baby. She didn’t fuss for long, and we had a strong connection from the start. I could look into her eyes and know exactly what she was thinking.
When she became a toddler, things got harder.
The behaviors were nothing out of the ordinary—just a toddler throwing a tantrum or clinging to me. Except I didn’t know this was normal, so I became hypercritical and controlling, which dysregulated her even more.
When my daughter was three, my dad came to visit while she was sick. She was tender and mommy-centric. He made comments about how she was rejecting him, criticized how emotional she was being, and expressed disappointment she was still acting like she was in her terrible twos.
At first, I felt shame and embarrassment. I wanted to mold her into the grandchild who’d make my dad happy and proud, just like I had been. But as I wrote about it in my journal, something else surfaced. Something I’d buried and ignored for most of my life.
When I was younger, if I got mad or upset, my dad would roll his eyes and tell me he didn’t want to be near me if I was going to “act that way.” He’d threaten me for crying while shutting the door to my room.
As those memories came up, I let myself feel the discomfort instead of pushing it away. His criticism had made me feel invisible, worthless. Sitting with it now, I felt a loneliness that was old and heartbreaking.
What the body remembers
That was when I understood my dad’s love had always come with conditions. And I knew I didn’t want my daughter to feel that same disdain from me.
I got another peek back into my childhood a few weeks later. My daughter had a meltdown while we were packing for a move, and I exploded, angry that she was making things harder for me.
Struggling, I called my mom. She told me about the one tantrum I had as a kid, over a Barbie I couldn’t get dressed. Unable to reason with me, she’d closed my bedroom door and walked away.
I felt sucker punched, remembering how much her strategy had hurt. I’d never learned how to manage my big emotions, only to stuff them down until I exploded. My heart ached as sadness drained from my head and anger rose from my sternum.
I wasn’t going to shame my daughter’s emotions the way my parents had shamed mine. But knowing that didn’t make it easy to do what was right. Her outbursts continued, and I worried something was terribly wrong. I felt I had to win the fight instead of being present with her and co-regulating my own big feelings.
Then, I started working with a somatic therapist.
What is somatic therapy?
Somatic therapy goes beyond talk therapy by working with the body as a doorway to healing. It was developed by trauma researchers who found that experiences stay stored in the body, regardless of our conscious memory. Those experiences rewire our nervous systems so we find ourselves stuck in fight, flight, freeze, or fawn.
Somatic therapy offers parents a way to rewrite reactive patterns, enabling us to show up in alignment with our values instead of running an outdated operating system that relies on shame and fear as core motivators.
Sitting in her office, I picked at the stitching on the patchwork chair uncomfortably and slowly acknowledged the hurt I carried, followed quickly by shame, because I was supposed to be grateful for everything my parents had given me.
Over the years, she helped me stay present with the feelings I’d stuffed down, and to meet them with compassion instead of judgment. As I learned to be kind to myself in hard moments, I found more capacity to be present with my daughter in hers.
As I learned to be kind to myself in hard moments, I found more capacity to be present with my daughter in hers.
I couldn’t think my way out of my own pattern. Safety had to become something I felt, not just something I understood.
I recognize this same pattern now in the parents and professionals I work with as a somatic practitioner. Their minds understand exactly what needs to change. But their bodies are still running an old program.
To interrupt that, we might use a tool like the 3 Ns: notice, name, navigate. Notice what’s happening in your body right now: a clenched jaw, a racing heart, heat in your chest. Name it, even silently: “I’m activated.” Navigate it by inviting a pause: Take a breath, step outside, splash cool water on your face, or notice objects and sounds in the space you’re in. The 3 Ns help you interrupt the old pattern before it takes over by training your brain to see what used to be automatic and creating a choice point.
Becoming a calmer, steadier presence
Now, when my daughter climbs into the car after school and tells me about a hard moment or hurt feelings, I don’t rush to fix it or react. I stay present, curious, quiet. I feel her body soften toward mine as she talks, her nervous system settling because someone is simply witnessing, not controlling her.
She’s a tween now. I’ve accepted that healing is ongoing, and my goal as a mother isn’t to be perfect. It’s to stay in close relationship with my child.
A few weeks ago, there was a tense morning over chores. I got mad and said some harsh things. Afterward, I noticed the shame, and anger driving my actions. I took steps to manage the hurt I’d projected. Then, instead of blaming her, I apologized and took responsibility for my behavior.
That’s the part my parents never showed me. And it’s what I’m committed to giving my daughter.
Related articles
