Reflecting on my childhood, certain labels stand out starkly—words that stung like a dentist’s drill: “too sensitive,” “overdramatic,” “manipulative,” and “domineering.” My family had good intentions; they aimed to highlight what they believed were flaws in my character, hoping to shape me into a more socially acceptable version of myself.
Maybe it helped; maybe it didn’t. What I’m certain of, however, is the pain that came from hearing those I adored most, those I loved more than anything, suggest I needed to change. The feeling of being told I was “too much” of one thing and “not enough” of another left me feeling isolated—unloved, or loved only on conditional terms.
Fast forward three decades, and I now comprehend the urge to correct. Recently, my six-year-old daughter, Mia, was sitting on a family friend’s lap as he read her a story. While he read, she absentmindedly tugged at his shirt and playfully pulled at his chest hair. “Ouch!” he exclaimed, adding, “Please don’t pull my hair.”
Mia looked at me, her face a mixture of surprise and embarrassment. I instinctively shot her a disapproving look and echoed, “If you can’t be gentle, keep your hands to yourself.” Her eyes squeezed shut, and she hung her head in defeat. In hindsight, I realize I didn’t need to react that way.
In college, a friend I thought would always be in my life started referring to me as “the pathological liar.” I was taken aback; it felt like betrayal, but the pain was more of a superficial cut than a deep wound. I had a tendency to exaggerate, and her words forced me to reevaluate my behavior.
Years later, I learned another valuable lesson when I pushed my friends to agree to plans that they weren’t into. One evening, I suggested going to a party, and my roommate explained she had studying to do. I thought I was offering a solution when I volunteered to help our friend Katie instead. My roommate saw it differently—she felt manipulated and bossed around. This taught me a crucial lesson: persuasion often doesn’t work on a soft “no.”
A similar lesson came from a work experience when a superior pointed out that my eagerness to help was undermining a colleague’s confidence. My intention to be helpful had backfired, prompting me to reevaluate my approach. I learned to step back and let others handle their business, which ultimately prepared me to be a supportive parent who fosters independence.
The emotional scars from my childhood, however, were different. I didn’t need my family’s criticism; I needed a safe space where I could be cherished unconditionally. For a time, I had that in my preschool teacher, Mrs. Adams, who became like a second mother to me. She openly celebrated my existence and reassured me even when I faltered.
Now, I watch Mia burst through the front door, her excitement palpable as she races to greet her friend, Emma. Their exuberance is infectious, but soon after, a loud disagreement erupts from the other room. Mia storms out, her cheeks flushed, while Emma follows quietly. “She just wants to read! She won’t play post office!” Mia cries. Emma, on the verge of tears, insists she will draw later.
My first instinct is to step in and remind Mia of the importance of being flexible as a host. However, I hold my tongue. I know that the consequences of her rigidity will teach her far more than my intervention would.
While I still believe I should guide Mia on the basics of kindness and respect, my role is shifting toward modeling good behavior and offering unwavering love. By refraining from interference, I’m providing her with the emotional foundation she needs to navigate criticism and build resilience.
One day, I hope Mia will roll her eyes and say, “Oh, Mom, of course you’d see it that way—you’re biased!”
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In summary, I’ve learned that allowing my daughter to navigate her social experiences without unnecessary interference equips her with essential life skills while maintaining a strong emotional bond.