Nothing cracks you open like parenting. Especially when you’re still figuring out who you are.
I had my oldest son, Joseph, when I was 23. I didn’t know myself yet, didn’t know what I needed, let alone how to give it to someone else. If you missed it, I kinda made a whole post about that. So I started parenting the way I had learned growing up: strict boundaries, little emotional space, and not much room for questions. Just get through the day and don’t fall apart.
It didn’t take long before I had a toddler who was terrified of doing something wrong. We called him perfect. And that really hurts my heart to think about.
When my second son, Bill, was born two years later, everything I thought I’d figured out about parenting went out the window. He was my firecracker. From the moment he found his voice, he tested every limit. He pushed every button. And I didn’t know what to do with that. We tried time-outs. We yelled. We punished. Nothing seemed to work, and I couldn’t understand why I was always so on edge.
So I told myself I needed to work on my patience. And I tried. I really did. I breathed through the chaos. I smiled through clenched teeth. But really, I was just shoving everything down and hoping it stayed buried. In a shocking turn of events, it didn’t.
There was one morning in the car that I still think about.
The kids were yelling in the backseat. We were running late, I didn’t have coffee, and I hadn’t had time to get ready the way I wanted to. I’d already dealt with meltdowns over breakfast and getting dressed. My head was pounding, and I just needed quiet, but there wasn’t any.
Joseph was crying, begging Bill to stop whatever he was doing. I told Bill to knock it off. He didn’t. I threatened a time-out. Still nothing. Now Joseph’s crying louder, Bill’s yelling back, and I’m in the front seat trying to talk them both into calming down, like that’s actually going to work.
And then I completely lost it. I screamed at them, full volume, out of nowhere. First, demanding they stop, then pleading with them through tears that poured down my face.
The car went silent. Not calm by any means, just tense and quiet. I could see the fear in their eyes, like they were frozen, unsure how to react.
I wiped my face, pulled into the parking lot, and before we got out of the car, I turned around and told them I was sorry. I said I shouldn’t have yelled like that, no matter how overwhelmed I was. That it wasn’t okay, and that it wasn’t their fault.
We went on with the day, but I carried the shame with me.
The shittest part is, it wasn’t a one-time thing. Moments like that kept happening. I’d swear it would be the last time, and then it wouldn’t be. Every time, I’d feel awful. That version of me, the yelling one, I hated being her. But she kept showing up, because I hadn’t actually dealt with what was underneath.
I kept telling myself I just needed to be more patient. But it wasn’t working. What I thought was patience was really just bottling things up until I exploded.
Eventually, I had to admit to myself that I wasn’t reacting this way because my kids were misbehaving. I was reacting this way because I was overwhelmed, exhausted, and full of stuff I’d never dealt with, things from my childhood, the way I’d been talked to, the way I’d learned to bottle up emotions and keep pushing through.
So I started doing the work. Slowly. I journaled. I did inner child meditations. I questioned my parenting style, and every time I felt a big reaction coming, I asked myself:
- Is this actually helpful?
- Am I reacting to what they are doing or how I am feeling?
- Would I want someone to talk to me this way?
It wasn’t easy. It still isn’t. But it has changed everything.
Just the other day, I had one of those “this would’ve gone way differently a few years ago” moments. And if I’m being realistic, it would’ve been different even just three months ago. Because I’m constantly growing.
The kids were doing their homeschool work, spelling (which they both hate with a passion usually reserved for cleaning their room), and needed help every few minutes. I was trying to make my protein shake and get myself ready for the day, but I kept stopping to help them.
Joseph called me over to the couch. I sat next to him with my shake in hand while he lay on his stomach. Then his leg kicked out, and knocked the shake right out of my hand.
It went everywhere. On my legs, the couch, the floor, his iPad, his breakfast. I felt that flash of anger immediately. I wanted to yell. It hit me fast and hard. And then I looked at him. He was frozen, eyes wide, already bracing himself. I had to pause.
I told him, “Give me just a second.” I closed my eyes. Took a few breaths. Reminded myself that he didn’t do it on purpose, and even if I was frustrated, yelling wouldn’t help either of us.
I opened my eyes, told him to go change his clothes, and started cleaning up the mess. That was it.
Looking back while writing this, it sounds small, like really small. But for me, it wasn’t. This wasn’t one of those rare “good days” where patience comes easily. It was just a regular day, with all the usual stress and distractions. And even then, I was able to stay with it.
If you’re anything like I was, constantly juggling stress and barely holding it together, you’ll get why this felt like a win.
It didn’t ruin the day. I didn’t have to shove the frustration down. I just worked through it in real time. And afterward, I felt proud. Not just for staying calm, but for actually feeling calm.
I’m still human. I still get overwhelmed. But now I know how to deal with my emotions without making them someone else’s problem.
I don’t expect my kids to calm down on their own anymore. I don’t send them away until they’re quiet. I sit with them. I hold them if they’ll let me. I help them move through the hard emotions instead of shutting them down.
And it works.
They talk to me now. They tell me what they’re feeling, sometimes even before I ask. I’ve heard things like, “I think I yelled because I felt ignored,” or “I was already mad about something else.”
And it’s not because I gave them some perfect script. It’s because they see it in me. They’re learning that emotions don’t have to be scary. That they don’t have to earn love with good behavior. That they can make mistakes and still be safe.
You can’t give your kids what you won’t give yourself.
If you never give yourself grace, you’ll struggle to offer it to them. If you don’t feel safe with your own emotions, you won’t know how to hold space for theirs. If you expect perfection from yourself, you’ll start expecting it from them, too.
Parenting didn’t just teach me how to be a mom. It showed me everything I still needed to heal. And as I’ve done that work, I’ve become a better version of myself, for them, and for me.
How to Start
If you’re not sure where to start, I’ve made a list of some journaling prompts for anyone, whether you’re experienced with journaling or not. You don’t need perfect answers. Just write down the first thing that pops into your head.
Extra tip: If you have more to say, just keep writing. Even if you go off topic, journaling is a way to let everything out. So if it wants to come out, let it.
- If your younger self could see how you’re parenting today, what would they say? What would they be proud of? What might surprise them?
- What’s one memory from your childhood that still sticks with you, even if it seems small?
- When your kid does something that makes your blood boil, what thought comes up first, before you have a chance to stop it?
- What’s something your parents or caregivers used to say to you that you’ve caught yourself repeating? How does it make you feel?
- What’s one thing you wish someone had done differently for you growing up?
- Have you ever felt like you were overreacting to your child’s behavior, and deep down, maybe it wasn’t even about them?
You don’t have to be a parent for this to matter. Reparenting your inner child helps you show up better as a partner, a friend, a sibling, even just to yourself. Because once you learn to hold space for your own emotions, it becomes so much easier to hold space for someone else’s.
This work is for anyone brave enough to look inward and patient enough to try again.
With love & light,
Jessica ♡
Unraveling the Self 
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