When I was a child, I’d retreat from being yelled at — curling up on the bed, tears heaving, whispering vows into my pillow: “I’ll never do this to my child.”

Fast forward: I become a mother, and I find myself yelling at my little boy, again, and again. Each time, a thought would creep in: “I cannot believe you are yelling at your child when you swore you never would”. I’d feel helpless — not knowing how to stop myself … you know, when that wounded inner child takes over and bleeds onto the child in front of you.

One day, in the middle of another yelling spell, he cries out: “Mommy, it scares me when you yell at me!”

The impulse to shut him down — like what had been done to me — consumes me… a child is to be seen and not heard.

Instead, I freeze. His words pierce me. The thought of being scary to my precious boy, when I should be a safe place for him, stops me cold.

In desperation, I hold out my hands: “Hold mommy’s hands.” He grabs them.

“Pray for mommy.” His prayer is simple, innocent:

“Lord, please help mommy to stop yelling at me.”

I follow with my own:

“Lord, you know I don’t want to yell at my baby. Please help me stop.”

Months later, I catch myself — calm in anger — and the thought washes over me: “Look at you, you are not yelling.” That’s when I realize it’s been a long while since I last yelled. Turns out that moment of prayer was the pause — the powerful pause, I call it — my frayed nervous system needed.

We parent how we were parented.

And when we repeat what harmed us, it’s not because we want to — it’s because we don’t yet know another way.

That moment with my son, pushing back as only he knew how, became the transformation I needed.

It began a journey of seeing him as a gift.

A journey of understanding that children are not proof of fertility or accessories; they are gifts.

And when we see them as gifts, it changes how we interact with them.

We become open to the treasures they bring — lessons that transform us into better human beings.

Which is why I always say: I may have raised him, but he grew me.

That pause in my kitchen was pivotal — a hinge, a turning point.
It made me realize I shouldn’t parent like I was parented. I should parent like I was once a child.

We know how it felt when things were done to us.
We know the tools we wish our parents had.
We know the good things that should have happened but didn’t — validation, presence, acknowledgement.

We know this.

And that, friends, is the manual for parenting. Our childhood — packed with experiences we know all too well. 

A child is to be seen and heard. Because a child’s behaviour is a message.

It calls us to be attuned to their emotional needs so we can show up in the way they need us to — not as a problem to pounce on.

In a world full of advice, the parenting manual is already inside us.
It’s in the child we once were.
It’s in the pauses that change us.
It’s in the love we dare to give differently.

You don’t need to fix anything now.
Just notice what stirred.

From my stoop,
mamaB 🐝