My daughter, Mia, is a lively little girl full of energy. She’s not the most coordinated, often tripping or tumbling as she explores her surroundings. Most of the time, she picks herself up and continues her adventures, eager to play with her toys or race around the room. However, there are moments when she genuinely hurts herself and needs some comfort.
Today, she fell off the couch. It was such a sudden incident that I couldn’t reach her in time. She bumped her head and burst into tears, her tiny face filled with panic. Although she can’t articulate much yet, it was clear that the fall scared her. I instinctively gathered her into my arms, holding her close.
I allowed her to cry and express her feelings. I then sang “You Are My Sunshine” while she gazed into my eyes, and gradually, a smile crept across her face. As I wiped away her tears, we enjoyed some time watching Teletubbies together, and once she calmed down, she hopped off my lap to play with her toys.
It was a precious moment, but it also brought back memories of my own childhood. Like Mia, I was a clumsy child prone to falling. I expressed my emotions openly, often crying out or sobbing when I was hurt. Unlike Mia, though, I didn’t receive the nurturing care I needed.
“Get up!”
“Don’t cry or I’ll give you something to cry about!”
“You didn’t hurt yourself.”
Most of the time, I was labeled as a “weed,” a term used in my upbringing to describe someone perceived as weak or fragile. I can’t recall a single moment when I was comforted after a fall. I tried to hold back my tears, but sometimes the pain was overwhelming and I was met with ridicule or disbelief.
I remember one day when my sister fell off a swing. My father rushed to her side, scooping her up with affection, always comforting her and never belittling her like he did with me. At five years old, I couldn’t comprehend why she received such tenderness. I began to cry, convinced that my father didn’t love me.
When I asked him why he didn’t call her a “weed,” he was taken aback and didn’t have an answer. I then asked him if he loved me, and he snapped at me, telling me not to be foolish. I ran to my mother, seeking reassurance, but she laughed it off, making me feel like my feelings were insignificant. She suggested that my father simply tell me he loved me so I would stop crying. I don’t remember if he did, but I do remember feeling the need to apologize for upsetting him.
That memory intruded on the joyful moment with Mia. Other painful memories surfaced too. Once, when I was seven, I sprained my wrist. I was in excruciating pain and thought it was broken, but instead of seeking help, my mother mocked my concerns. She fashioned a makeshift splint out of an old sock, and that was the end of it.
As I healed, I forgot that my wrist was still tender. I would play a jumping game on the stairs, leaping down from halfway. One day, I landed awkwardly and hurt my wrist again. I ran to my parents, crying on the floor in agony, but they laughed and mocked me instead of offering consolation.
My husband listened as I shared these painful memories, and he validated my feelings. He agreed that my parents’ behavior was cruel and reassured me that normal parents instinctively protect and comfort their children.
Looking at Mia, who was now engrossed in her books, I realized that these memories, while painful, could also serve a purpose. They remind me that I am breaking the cycle of emotional neglect. They arise during moments of genuine parenting when I give Mia the love and support I was denied.
These are just memories—they are not my current reality. Right now, I have the chance to shower my daughter with all the love I longed for during my own childhood. Mia deserves all the affection, support, and hugs I have to offer. I hope that when she has children of her own, she will not have to confront the same painful memories I did; instead, she will simply experience the loving environment I strive to create for her.
I know I will make mistakes, as all parents do, but Mia will never doubt my love for her. The way she gazes at me with her trusting brown eyes fills my heart with love. She knows she can depend on me and that I am always in her corner. That bond is more powerful than any intrusive thoughts from my past.
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Summary
In this reflective piece, a mother shares her experiences of nurturing her daughter while grappling with the painful memories of her own toxic childhood. She contrasts the loving response she provides to her daughter, Mia, with the harsh reactions she received as a child, emphasizing her desire to break the cycle of emotional neglect. Despite the painful memories that surface during joyful moments, she realizes they signify her growth as a parent and her commitment to providing a nurturing environment for Mia.