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I struck my child today. The reason is irrelevant. It doesn’t matter. There’s no justification for my actions. I reacted thoughtlessly, without pause. The consequences were immediate. I broke down in tears, and so did he. Tears streamed down his tiny face, leaving trails on his cheeks. I sobbed uncontrollably, collapsing to the floor, overwhelmed by regret and self-hatred.
Hours have passed, and I still can’t shake this feeling. I doubt I ever will. I know the hurt he felt—the betrayal, the sadness, the fear—because I felt it too. I grew up in a home filled with abuse. I ended up marrying someone abusive. My son deserves so much more. I know I should be better, but today, I failed. Today, I struck my child.
Ironically, after I lost control, he cried out for me. “Mommy!” he called, because I’m usually the one who comforts him. I scoop him up, wipe away his tears, and hold him close until he calms down. But today? Why does he still want me? I can’t stand myself. Today feels so far removed from the mom I strive to be.
I typically pride myself on being a patient parent. I don’t yell. I believe in addressing issues firmly yet compassionately. I explain feelings and consequences, teaching him the right path. In our home, we have a strict “hands to ourselves” rule. I have zero tolerance for any form of violence, yet I handle conflicts with understanding. I want my children to feel safe and loved. But today, everything shifted.
Today, I became a reflection of my past. I see my mother in his eyes. I am a broken woman shaped by years of torment—both physical and emotional. I feel sad, lacking self-esteem and self-worth. I’m angry, lashing out at my own children for simply being… children. I remember being punished for minor mistakes, and I see that scared child in my son’s gaze. Her frail form trembling, just like him.
Despite my disappointment, I gather him in my arms as he wishes. I notice the mark on his hand and shudder. You’re just like her, I think. But then I remind myself that we can break this cycle—together. For him. For me. For us.
“Sweetie?” I whisper. “I’m sorry I hit you. Mommy was wrong.” He looks up at me with those wide, innocent eyes and then snuggles into my chest. We sit in silence, the world fading away for a while. Eventually, he breaks free and runs to play with his trucks. “Mommy, play?” he asks. And we do. For nearly an hour, we immerse ourselves in play. Today, I’m committed to changing my narrative.
Does this make today any better? Is the lesson worth the pain? No. I’ve apologized multiple times and explained how wrong I was. There’s no excuse for my anger. Yet, it brings me comfort to know that my son still loves me. I am not the monster I fear. My mother and I are not the same. I can change, but it requires effort.
It’s reassuring to know that our bond remains intact. I have not ruined my son. However, I have damaged my self-image. Although the red mark on his hand will fade into a distant memory, I will never forget his face. I will remember because it keeps me honest and accountable. Today was a turning point. Today, I struck my child. But today, I also chose to change. I vow, with every fiber of my being, that it will never happen again.
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Summary:
An anonymous mother reflects on a painful moment when she lashed out and hit her toddler. She grapples with her feelings of regret and self-hatred and recalls her own traumatic childhood. Despite her disappointment in herself, she recognizes the importance of breaking the cycle of abuse and committing to a more positive path for her son and herself moving forward.