I was raised to be quiet and agreeable. I want the opposite for my kids.
Unsplash / Colin + Meg
On teaching your kids—and yourself—that it’s okay to be imperfect.
My kids are three and five, which means I spend a lot of time answering one question:
“Why?”
It usually happens in the car. I answer one, and another “why” comes from the back seat. Then another. Before long, they’re going back and forth, asking “why” over and over like it’s a game.
Sometimes I laugh.
Sometimes I want to snap, “I’m not an oracle! Stop asking so many questions.”
And honestly, sometimes I really don’t know. So I’ll say, “I’m not sure. That’s a good question. What do you think?”
They always have an answer.
Over time, I’ve realized it’s not always about giving them the perfect explanation. A lot of the time, they just want room to be curious. They want to know I’m listening.
It seems like such a small thing. For me, it isn’t.
I grew up in a home where asking questions didn’t always feel safe. When I asked why, I was usually reminded that the adult was in charge, knew better, and didn’t owe a child an explanation.
I grew up in a home where asking questions didn’t always feel safe. When I asked why, I was usually reminded that the adult was in charge, knew better, and didn’t owe a child an explanation.
My home could also be chaotic. I never really knew which version of my parents I was going to get. Sometimes my mom would come out after a fight with my dad with red eyes, trying to pull herself together before we saw how upset she was. Sometimes my dad’s anger made the whole house feel unsafe.
I learned to stay out of the way. I learned to track everyone else’s moods. Being quiet, agreeable, and easy felt like the safest option.
People-pleasing helped me avoid conflict. Perfectionism made me feel more in control. Achievement made me feel valuable. I got good at figuring out what other people needed from me. I overprepared, overperformed, and tried to get everything right.
Those habits followed me into adulthood. People-pleasing helped me avoid conflict. Perfectionism made me feel more in control. Achievement made me feel valuable. I got good at figuring out what other people needed from me. I overprepared, overperformed, and tried to get everything right. Being useful made me feel safe, and accomplishing something gave me a quick hit of approval.
The world rewarded me for it. Good grades, impressive jobs, and constant productivity didn’t look like coping mechanisms. They looked like success.
It took years of therapy and deep personal work to understand that I’d learned to disconnect from my emotions instead of feeling them. I pushed through stress, criticized myself for getting upset, and kept performing like everything was fine. Eventually, my body started carrying what I wouldn’t let myself acknowledge, and my health suffered.
Understanding where those patterns came from helped me have more compassion for myself. Motherhood has forced me to practice something harder.
My kids don’t meet me in the calm, reflective setting of a therapy session. They meet me when I’m driving, tired, overstimulated, and hearing “why?” for the fifth time. They meet me when I’ve asked them to put on their shoes 10 times, and no one seems remotely interested in moving.
Sometimes I lose my patience.
For a while, I thought being a good mom meant staying calm all the time. That was perfectionism showing up in a new outfit. I’d turned motherhood into another place where I had to get everything right.
For a while, I thought being a good mom meant staying calm all the time. That was perfectionism showing up in a new outfit. I’d turned motherhood into another place where I had to get everything right.
Now I’m trying to focus more on repair.
When I feel myself getting too angry, I try to step away and calm down. I don’t always catch myself before I yell. But, when that happens, I go back to my child. I get down on their level, look them in the eye, and apologize.
“I’m sorry I yelled. I was frustrated because I asked you several times to put on your shoes, but it was still my job to handle my feelings without yelling. Next time, I’m going to try to take a breath and speak calmly. We can also keep practicing listening.”
Through repair, I hope my kids learn that conflict doesn’t have to mean the end of connection. I want them to see that adults can take responsibility and that love doesn’t disappear because someone made a mistake.
I’m learning those things too.
As a child, I absorbed that love and safety were tied to obedience, achievement, and keeping my emotions under control. My kids are giving me a chance to practice a different kind of love—one with room for questions, mistakes, frustration, curiosity, and uncertainty.
I want to understand them as individuals and help them discover their own gifts and interests. I care less about raising the star student or the best athlete. I want them to be kind, curious, thoughtful people who trust their own voices.
That means making room for questions, even when I’m tired. It means admitting when I don’t know and letting them see that mistakes are part of being human.
I used to think reparenting was mostly about understanding what happened to me. Motherhood has taught me that understanding is only the beginning. The real work happens when I answer one more “why,” take a breath before reacting, or come back after losing my patience and try again.
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