There was a moment when my chest tightened and something inside me went quiet—when I knew something important had been touched.
My oldest son, frustrated during an argument, said, “I get really upset when I tell you I’m hurt and you say I’m wrong.”
He was nine at the time. I don’t remember what we were arguing about. I only remember the clarity that followed: this wasn’t about the moment itself. It was about a pattern I could no longer ignore.
I responded quickly: “I didn’t say you’re wrong. I care about what you’re saying. I’m really listening. I’m sorry.” But my sharp tone and defensive snapping told a different story.
I wasn’t really listening.
A part of me—shaped by my background in psychology—knew I should hold space for his upset. At the same time, I believed he was overreacting. My words didn’t explicitly say he was wrong, but my energy spoke loudly. And that was what he felt.
I told myself it was best that he had some quiet time alone in his room to cool down.
What he was pointing to in that moment was too uncomfortable for me to fully face. And honestly, I wasn’t yet aware of the root of my own discomfort and disconnection.
Yes, I knew his “drama” triggered familiar beliefs in me—I am a bad mom, there is something really wrong with me. I cognitively reframed them in the moment, reminding myself that I was doing the best I could.
But something much deeper had been activated—something I didn’t yet know how to access or even name.
My son’s words stayed with me. They forced me to take a hard look at myself and dig deeper. It became painfully clear that reminding myself of the truth in that moment and reframing my thoughts wasn’t enough. There was still a disconnect.
Trying to Regulate What Was Never Resolved
I didn’t want to be this way.
It took me years to realize that what I thought was an emotional regulation issue was actually an emotional avoidance problem.
At night, I replayed everything I’d said. The sharp tone I wished had been softer. The impatient sighs. The emotional withdrawal.
I promised myself I’d be a better mom tomorrow.
And it did get better—temporarily. As long as I practiced mindfulness consistently, I stayed regulated. Therapy helped me set clearer boundaries, communicate expectations more skillfully, and feel calmer and more grounded. It helped me understand where this came from—my childhood. Growing up in a home where tension was the default.
When Your Nervous System Treats Your Child Like a Threat
I’m not talking about being a tired mom or simply having a bad day.
I watched, with quiet horror, some of the patterns I grew up with reappear in my own home. I saw my children learning to read my moods—the same way I learned to read my mother’s, and my father’s growing up.
Not because I was a bad mom.
But because my nervous system was stuck in a loop of hypervigilance—avoiding emotions that my mind and body had learned were too unbearable and too dangerous to feel or express when I was a child.
When Stress Is Actually Survival
What I discovered through Emotional Repression Inquiry wasn’t easy to admit.
The tight contractions I felt so often in my body weren’t just stress or overwhelm. They were reservoirs of buried emotions, held in place by unconscious programming that kept them repressed.
And every time I faced my children screaming, fighting, whining or melting down over a broken cookie, those repression mechanisms were triggered. Mostly hurt and fear. And yes, anger too.
This aligns with research showing that many children are sent to their rooms during their hardest moments—not because they need space to calm down, but because we parents were overtly and covertly taught to fear big emotions like anger, hurt, and sadness.
It’s Not Rebellion, It’s Dysregulation
They’re not being oversensitive.
Their rage is not disrespect.
They’re not manipulating.
They’re not giving you a hard time.
They’re having a hard time.
When a child is overwhelmed—yelling, crying, shaking, melting down—their brain isn’t choosing disobedience or defiance. It’s losing regulation.
Why Their Big Emotions Felt So Unbearable
Emotional Repression Inquiry showed me something confronting: I was uncomfortable with emotional intensity in others because I was unconsciously terrified of my own big emotions.
And my kids? They were masters of expression. Loudly.
I began to see that my default strategies—emotional withdrawal, intellectualizing, problem-solving, and finding silver linings—weren’t inherently “bad.” But because they unconsciously distracted me from my own big emotions, they also kept me from being fully present with my children in the moments they needed me most. Each time I withdrew or tried to reason through their upset—like a tantrum over a snack or extra screen time when we had to leave the house—I felt the disconnection, the tension, the missed opportunity to be there truly—and that’s what made me feel like a “bad mom.”
When Strengths May Also Be Survival Strategies
All my life, my ability to see the bigger picture, stay rational, find solutions, and extract lessons from every shitty situation had been applauded—in academics and later in my career in project management.
Emotional Repression Inquiry revealed something I hadn’t seen before.
Experiencing—through its laser-sharp tools—how intellect, logic, problem-solving, and even positive thinking could operate as strategic, compulsive bypasses was revolutionary for me. It showed me how much of my “competence” had been protecting me from feeling what I was avoiding—and how that same pattern was quietly shaping my parenting.
This wasn’t something I could have discovered by analyzing, processing emotions, reading books, listening to thousands of podcasts, or simply sitting with discomfort. My nervous system was treating my children’s meltdowns as threats—a pattern it had learned decades ago.
Beneath the armor of logic, composure, and invulnerability was something far more tender: deep inadequacy, vulnerability, and repressed hurt. Because I couldn’t allow myself to feel or show that hurt, I relied on intellect and rationality to manage my emotions—and in doing so, they became subtle tools of control. That need for control came at a cost: it damaged the very relationships I cared about most.
Seeing logic and intellect function this way didn’t come from reflection. It revealed itself experientially through Emotional Repression Inquiry, a practice designed to dissolve repression held in the body as contraction.
Why Awareness Wasn’t Enough
And here’s the part that matters most:
Awareness wasn’t enough to reverse these patterns.
They didn’t disappear overnight.
Only consistent, skillful emotional repression inquiry helped me unravel the unconscious programming that kept protecting me from feeling and expressing what I had buried. As the repression softened, the contractions began to melt. And as they did, my patterns began to shift.
This work requires consistency—an ongoing willingness to question what you believe, meet the vulnerable parts you buried, and dismantle the unconscious protections that once kept you safe.
This journey isn’t about perfection.
I’m still a work in progress.
But with each step, I show up with less control and more authenticity.
When we stop running from our buried emotions, we interrupt the cycle of dysregulation that leads to avoidance and withdrawal. And that opens the door to true connection—not from power, but from vulnerability.
What Actually Builds Emotional Resilience
According to Dr. Dan Siegel in No-Drama Discipline, isolating a child during dysregulation disrupts attachment and wires the brain for avoidance and anxiety—not emotional growth. When we send a child away during their biggest feelings, their brain doesn’t learn regulation. It learns shame.
Research on attachment and emotional processing consistently shows that steady presence during dysregulation builds emotional intelligence, distress tolerance, and long-term self-control.
If we are unconsciously afraid of our own emotions, our minds may quickly interpret a child’s dysregulation as disrespect, connection as “coddling,” or isolation as discipline—and that’s where wounds grow instead of wisdom.
Because emotional resilience doesn’t grow in solitude. It grows from being held in the storm. And you can only stay in the storm of others when you no longer fear your own. Dissolving the fear that keeps emotions buried in your body allows you to show up fully as yourself.
That may be the greatest gift you can give your child: the freedom to be themselves. You’re not raising a child who fears their feelings. You’re raising a child who can face them.
—
This post is republished on Medium.com.
—
Photo credit: iStock
