There are moments in parenting that bring me a deep sense of grief, moments when I know I’m falling short. I think about my boys, the love I have for them, and the ways I wish I could be more present for them—whether it’s something as simple as going out to eat together, attending athletic events, or taking a family vacation. These little things, which many people take for granted, have felt out of reach.
It’s hard to admit, but there have been times I’ve told them, “The best I can do is not to harm you. I may not always be able to provide what you need, but I promise I won’t betray or abandon you. I’m here to tell the truth, to protect you, and to make the best choices for you, even when I don’t always have the answers.” That’s the best I can offer. I wish I could do more.
What really gets me, though, is that, in my heart, I know it’s a miracle that I’m even able to say this. When I think about the way I was raised—when I think about the abuse(harshness, lack of kindness, compassion, nurturing, and safety) I endured—it’s nothing short of a miracle that I have not passed that same pain and dysfunction onto my boys. I did not parent them the way I was parented. I did not abuse them the way I was abused. I did not make them feel the way I was made to feel, yes made. And sometimes, I want to shout it from the rooftops: I broke the cycle!
But then they’ll say something like, “You don’t get an award for not abusing us,” and they’re right. I understand that. Parenting is about so much more than just not being harmful. But to me, it is a miracle. It is a sign of strength and healing that I didn’t repeat the same mistakes, the same hurt.
And maybe, one day, they’ll understand that the love I give them, the way I show up, even in the smallest ways, is a testament to how hard I fought to be different, to give them a better life.
Maybe there is technically no award for it, but the miracle is there, quietly present in every choice I make which is rooted in my reovery. It’s in the love which doesn’t repeat old patterns. And to me, that could be worth celebrating, or at the very least acknowledging.
I am aware that the pain I carry which frequently gets on them in a moment of struggle has been hard on them. But that is not a choice I made. It is the result. The fallout. From decades of being degraded. Cast out. Persecuted. Misunderstood.
