There are moments when my daughter, Lily, wears a certain expression that’s difficult to articulate. It’s a blank, meticulously controlled mask that hints at the turmoil brewing beneath. This look signals her struggle to contain her feelings, an effort to suppress what she believes are “bad” emotions while attempting to maintain a facade of normalcy—whatever that may entail. She seems to be trying to escape from her current internal state, which feels too dark, too frightening, and too sorrowful.
There was a time when I might not have even recognized this expression. I was too preoccupied with my own attempts to keep everything together. Even worse, I might have seen it and turned my head away, relieved that she was managing to pretend. I found it challenging enough to confront my own emotions, navigate my fears, and endure the moments of my life. How could I be present for her feelings too? I simply didn’t have the emotional bandwidth.
I grew up in a household where emotions were expressed explosively but rarely discussed. We bottled our feelings until they erupted, leaving chaos in their wake—anger, tears, accusations—all flying around like shrapnel. Afterward, there was no conversation about the outbursts, no acknowledgment of how we had hurt one another, no apologies, and no healing. We learned to patch ourselves up and return to pretending everything was fine, but the cycle would repeat itself.
It wasn’t until graduate school that I encountered the idea of expressing emotions without unleashing them like weapons on those we love. I learned the significance of asking someone how they felt, listening without trying to “fix” things, and understanding that emotional responses were mine to manage, not to project onto others. These insights came through my work with clients, but I never thought to apply them to my own parenting.
In my earlier attempts to comfort Lily, I instinctively tried to fix her distress, soothe her pain, or, when those strategies failed, I would withdraw in frustration. If she expressed anger, I often responded with anger of my own. I rushed to conclusions, assuming I understood her feelings before truly listening. Although I made a point to apologize afterward—one lesson I took from my upbringing—I never considered simply allowing her to feel her emotions without trying to change them.
We are conditioned to comfort our children, to bandage their wounds and alleviate their fears. We distract them with fun and treats, assuring them everything will be okay while gently urging them not to cry. While this is essential to some degree, our children also need the freedom to cry, yell, and express sadness, anger, and fear. They must be given the space to feel these emotions fully before moving on, just as they need to eat their vegetables and brush their teeth.
I didn’t know this as I began my journey as a parent. It was never modeled for me, nor for my parents. From what I’ve seen, I’m not alone in this lack of understanding.
Growing up, I never experienced a home environment where it was acceptable to feel sad, angry, or afraid. That absence extended beyond my family to my friends, my college years, and even the media I consumed. As a society, we shy away from sadness, fear, and anger, often masking them with bravado. Consequently, we grapple with widespread feelings of anxiety and depression, which we inadvertently pass on to our children.
Now, when I notice that particular expression on Lily’s face, I pause. It doesn’t matter if we’re running late or if I have a packed agenda. I ask her what’s troubling her. At eleven, she doesn’t always share her feelings right away; sometimes, she needs time to process. Other times, she’s hesitant to open up, perhaps because I’ve inadvertently created an environment where expressing emotions feels unsafe.
I remind myself to be patient. I reassure her that it’s safe to express her feelings, and that talking about them is essential for healing. I reflect on times when she held her emotions in, leading to meltdowns that hurt both of us. I keep checking in with her until she’s ready to share.
When she finally does open up, I listen. I ask questions and provide comfort—holding her during tears, or encouraging her to let out her anger physically if needed. I might ask if she feels angry with me, or if she’s struggling with feelings of shame or embarrassment. Sometimes, her responses are difficult to hear; she might express loneliness or fear stemming from her interactions with peers. I let her cry, be sad, or feel angry and scared, creating a safe space for her emotions.
Together, we navigate these feelings, and I strive to communicate my own emotions when appropriate, showing her that it’s okay to be vulnerable. After we’ve processed these feelings, we can focus on solutions, but first and foremost, we allow ourselves to feel.
Reflecting on this process, it seems lengthy, yet it often takes only about 15 minutes. Afterward, we can find ourselves laughing and playing together, feeling more connected and open. It’s a powerful realization that while emotions like sadness and anger may seem overwhelming, they often pass quickly when we allow ourselves to experience them fully. Sharing those moments with someone else only strengthens our bond.
Ultimately, feeling our emotions in the presence of others is the true remedy for our wounds. It’s a lesson I’m grateful to share with my daughter as we navigate life together.
For those interested in exploring other parenting insights, I invite you to check out this resource and this one for more on home insemination. For further information on pregnancy, Healthline offers excellent resources.
Summary
Navigating the emotional landscape of parenting can be challenging, especially when it comes to allowing our children to feel their emotions fully. By recognizing and embracing these feelings, we can foster deeper connections and better equip our children to handle their emotional experiences.
Keyphrase: Allowing tweens to feel emotions
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