My daughter, Lily, is an energetic little girl with a knack for getting into mischief. She often trips and falls, her lack of spatial awareness making her quite the clumsy toddler. Most of the time, she brushes herself off and continues playing, but there are moments when she genuinely gets hurt and needs comforting.
Today, she took a tumble off the sofa. It happened so fast that I couldn’t catch her. She bumped her head and immediately started to cry, tears streaming down her face as she babbled in distress. Although her vocabulary is still limited, it was clear she was expressing how scared she felt. Without thinking, I scooped her into my arms, holding her close.
I let her cry and express her feelings, then sang “You Are My Sunshine” while she looked into my eyes, slowly starting to smile. I wiped her tears away, and we spent time watching her favorite show, getting her to cuddle with me. Once she felt better, she jumped off my lap to play with her toys again.
That was a heartwarming moment. But while I was giving Lily the love and care I lacked in my own childhood, I was also reminded of my past. I recalled similar incidents from my own youth. Like Lily, I was a clumsy child who often fell down and expressed my emotions openly. However, I didn’t receive the nurturing responses I needed.
“Get up!” “Don’t cry or I’ll give you something to cry about.” “You didn’t hurt yourself.”
When I cried, I was often called names. I can’t remember ever being hugged or comforted when I got hurt. I learned to suppress my tears, even when the pain was overwhelming, only to face disbelief and ridicule.
I remember one day when my sister fell off a swing. My dad rushed to her side, lifting her into his arms and comforting her without hesitation. I was just five at the time, struggling to understand why I didn’t receive the same treatment. When I asked my dad why he didn’t call her names, he seemed at a loss for words. I ended up crying and seeking reassurance from my mom, who dismissed my feelings and made me feel foolish for expressing them.
That memory invaded my thoughts, ruining the lovely moment I had with Lily. Other memories rushed in, too. I once sprained my wrist at seven and was mocked by my mother for thinking it was broken. Instead of seeking medical help, she simply cut the toes out of an old sock for me to wear on my wrist.
As I played a strange game of jumping down the stairs, I re-injured my wrist and rushed to my parents, crying in pain. Instead of comfort, I faced ridicule. They laughed and made jokes about my distress, showing no empathy.
I shared these feelings with my husband, who validated my experiences and agreed that my parents were cruel. He couldn’t imagine treating Lily the way my parents treated me.
Watching Lily read her books, seemingly unbothered by the fall, made me reflect on how these painful memories aren’t entirely negative. They arise in moments of joy, reminding me that I am breaking the cycle of neglect. They surface when I am actively loving and supporting Lily in ways I never received.
These are just memories; they aren’t my current reality. What matters now is that I can provide the love I longed for as a child to my daughter. She deserves all the affection and support I can give, ensuring that when she has children, she won’t have to deal with past traumas.
I know I’ll make mistakes, like all parents do, but Lily will never have to doubt my love for her. The way she looks at me with her trusting brown eyes fills my heart with love. She knows I will always be there for her, which is more powerful than any intrusive memories.
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In summary, while I strive to provide my daughter with the love I missed as a child, I can’t help but reflect on my own painful memories. However, these thoughts serve as a reminder that I am breaking the cycle and offering her the nurturing environment she deserves.
Keyphrase: Breaking the Cycle of Childhood Trauma
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