I didn’t say it, but I sure was feeling it
“Just. Shut. UP!”
Have these words ever automatically entered your mind as a response to someone's behavior?
Or even come out of your mouth with someone you love?
Even though it was a few years ago, the memory is still fresh of the time these words almost spewed out of my mouth and at my daughter.
She was just learning to ride her brand new pink skateboard. And she fell off. On concrete. 😖
I was just a few feet away, and immediately moved in to help her. I knew she hadn’t injured her body seriously. But I could see that the scare, as well as the painful scrape on her knee, were very upsetting.
She needed me.
So I kneeled down next to her and let her cry. I felt as loving, present and available as she needed me to be. I quietly waited as she cried, making my arms and warm eye contact available to her, so that she could fall apart, rest in our relationship, and get back up whenever and however she needed to.
Eventually, she stopped crying and we moved to a bench.
But it was about 20 minutes later, when we were standing up to leave the plaza we were in, that she said “Ooooow, my knee!” and started walking with a limp.
And that’s when it happened.
My body immediately filled with extreme irritation, and the words “shut up” wanted to escape mouth.
So while I didn’t actually let those words out, they were still taking up space inside of me. A lot of space.
I couldn’t make them go away.
You see, while I wasn’t telling her off or saying any “wrong” things; I wasn’t able to be present for her in the way I knew she needed. And I was hurting too. Anger is a hard one to feel for me.
My mind knew that her pain was real. Regardless of how much her knee was actually hurting–she was still crying out for help after the fall. I knew that the best thing for our children in moments like these, is to choose what's best for the relationship. And in this moment, that best thing was to stop and listen to whatever it was that she needed me to hear.
But I couldn’t quite do that. My body was hosting an internal battle between irritation, surprise (at my “non-gentle” reaction), and every parent’s classic favorite–guilt. My daughter just needed a pause, some warm eye contact and my full presence. And all I could do was barely hold back the words, “shut up.”
And so the thoughts in my head began to multiply and intensify. Thoughts that sounded like “You are exactly like your mom. Your natural reaction to your daughter’s pain is to reject it. You are naturally cold.”
I had enough awareness in me to know that later I would need to share these feelings with a safe adult, in order to move through them.
And I used that awareness breathing. You know, the slow inhales, and long exhales. Which helped. A little.
But if I could go back to that version of myself, I would have brought her the help that she really needed in that moment.
I would have helped her to pause, and bring herself the care that both she and her daughter needed her to get.
Here is how I would have helped that version of myself with the pause…
I would invite her to notice her body, and allow herself to breathe as a way to be with the sensations and thoughts, instead of trying to exhale them away.
I would then encourage her to turn towards, instead of away from, all of those voices in her head.
Perhaps starting with the loudest voice. The one with the oh-so-compelling argument that she is “naturally” like her mother. I would say, let’s listen to what that part of you is afraid of…
Oh, it’s afraid that I am naturally “bad” and my daughter will experience the same things I did when I was little.
I would encourage her to consider thanking that part of herself, and gently say to it, “This isn’t who you naturally are, this is what you learned.”
I would tell her it's okay to let some tears shed if she needs to. And that it's also okay if she doesn't.
And then I would tell her she can turn towards her daughter at any point, and say, “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help you with your feelings just then. One of my feelings got really big inside of me, and I had to give myself a little bit of help. But I’m right here with you now.”
I would help her to notice that she now has more access to her clear thinking, and remind her that she was born good and has always been good–no matter how “bad” she feels, thinks or behaves at times.
I would also point out how, after this pause she took, she now has more access to her inherent compassion; and that her daughter can now feel that her mom is right there with her for as long as she needs.
I would remind her that repair is as powerful as any other form of attunement.
This is just one example of how the pause that I have been writing about can bring healing and resilience to both present moment hurts (falling off a skateboard), and some of our oldest wounds (a long history of pain being shunned), in one event.
In pausing to turn towards the voices of harshness and judgment in our heads–instead of trying to make them go away–we build more accepting and trusting relationships with ourselves.
Because, the thing is, a lot of our automatic programming–our behaviors, thoughts and responses that feel “natural”–are not actually our natural responses.
They have been programmed.
And the pause is how we examine and change this programming in ways that bring more trust, depth and closeness to our relationship with our loved ones.
It is how, no matter what our histories or automatic thoughts and actions look like, we all have countless opportunities to give our children the most important part of their relational and wellbeing formula: connected relationship with their parents.
When we move through challenging parenting moments in this way, it's like there is a healing bubble around both parent and child. Healing a piece of each individual's story, reminding each of them that moments of pain are for coming together, and strengthening the trust and connection of their bond.