They say we learn how to parent from our own parents, but in my case, I think I learned more from what not to do. I often tell people that my mom taught me, unintentionally, the kind of parent I didn’t want to be. She was neglectful, narcissistic, and an alcoholic. And while I love her, and I can empathize with some of the hardships she faced, I’ve worked hard to break the patterns I grew up with.
Even though I’ve done a lot of work to understand her, what she went through and shaped her, it doesn’t excuse the things she did. I’ve kept my promise to myself to do better, and I think I’ve stayed true to that for the most part.
My mom had a tragic beginning. She spent part of her childhood in an orphanage in the 1940s and '50s, and was adopted around age 12. Her biological mother died of tuberculosis, and her father, unable to care for all the children, gave them up for adoption. From what I’ve been told, her early years were full of trauma, including witnessing the abuse of her younger brother who was adopted alongside her.
I’ve also wondered if she struggled with an undiagnosed mental health condition. Back then, people didn’t talk about those things. Seeking help wasn’t normalized. That’s one of the biggest differences between her generation and mine: today, we can ask for help and name what we’re struggling with.
There’s a complicated divide between the stories I’ve been told about my mom before I was born, and the version of her I knew. In some ways, she seemed to mother my older siblings more than she mothered me. Our experiences were so different that sometimes it feels like we were raised by two different women.
How I Parent Differently
Breaking cycles isn’t just about knowing what you don’t want to repeat; it’s about choosing what you do want to create. For me, that means showing up in ways I didn’t always receive growing up. I try to:
Communicate openly: My kids know they can ask me anything, and I’ll answer honestly (in an age-appropriate way). Silence created confusion in my childhood, so I want clarity and trust for them.
Validate emotions: Instead of dismissing their feelings, I try to help them name and process what they’re going through. I want them to feel heard, even when I don’t agree with their choices.
Model accountability: I apologize when I get it wrong. I didn’t grow up with adults who admitted mistakes, and I want my kids to know that growth never stops.
Seek help when needed: Therapy, resources, community support. I’ve made it a point to show them that strength includes asking for help.
Provide security: I’ve managed to stay out of poverty and ensure my kids’ basic needs are always met. I promised myself they would never go without food on the table, a roof over their heads, or enough clothes to feel comfortable and cared for. These essentials were scarce in my own childhood, and I was determined to change that for them.
The Fear That Remains
Even with all the effort my husband and I put into parenting differently, I carry a constant fear: that our children will repeat the patterns of abuse they’ve had to deal with from our exes, their other parents. I see the signs from all of them, and it breaks my heart.
This week, we’re seeing it most clearly with my step-daughter. Even though she and my husband have been keeping up with weekly calls and regular communication, since going back to 50/50 with her mom, her anxiety is climbing again. It’s hard to know how bad it truly is because she sometimes exaggerates or twists details. She’s even learning how to gaslight—not that she realizes what she’s doing. Lately, she’s been saying that she’s always felt anxious and never happy, even back when she was four and five years old. The timing of that claim is suspicious, as it lines up with when my husband returned home from military training. She now paints that time as the beginning of her unhappiness.
But I know that’s not true. I’ve heard the stories from his family and friends, and I met her when she was six. She was a happy little girl back then—a true daddy’s girl, always wanting to be near him, learning from him, and sharing countless little moments of love. That’s why it hurts so much to hear her say now that she was never happy. He was, and is, the best father I’ve ever known. For her to erase those years is devastating.
And I can’t help but wonder where that narrative is coming from. How would she even know the exact timing of when her dad came home from training? She was too young to remember details like that. It has to come from her mom. And that realization is what terrifies me most—that despite everything we’re doing differently, the influence of the other parent can still twist the story, planting seeds of confusion and pain.
I see concerning things with my girls too. Sometimes I notice traits that remind me of their dad. My oldest can seem emotionless and distant, keeping everything inside. I worry she might end up like him, to the point where she won’t care about anyone outside herself. She’s intelligent, and while I admire that, I don’t want her to grow arrogant or use her smarts to hold herself above others.
My youngest also shows traits that make me pause. She can be sharp with her words, saying things that are meant to hurt. I know she doesn’t fully realize the impact, but it still scares me.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I love my girls, and they are mostly wonderful, good-hearted kids. But I can’t help but question how much influence he has on them, even with his limited parenting time. That question lingers in the back of my mind more often than I’d like.
Reflection
I don’t claim to be a perfect parent. I still catch myself slipping into old patterns sometimes, like raising my voice, even if it’s not to the level of my mother. I know I have a short temper, so it takes a lot of self‑control. Sometimes, I feel a flash of frustration with my kids’ attitudes, but I’ve never acted on it physically—and never will. My mom wouldn’t have hesitated, and that’s the difference I hold onto. But I know awareness is part of the change. The difference between my mom’s generation and mine is that I don’t have to pretend. I can break the silence, I can seek support, and I can choose to parent in a way that heals rather than harms.
And maybe that’s the greatest way of honoring both my past and my children’s future: acknowledging where I came from while making sure the cycle doesn’t continue. It means being vigilant, speaking up when I see concerning patterns, and guiding my children back toward empathy and truth when outside influences try to rewrite their stories. It means holding fast to the lessons I’ve learned, even when it’s exhausting, and trusting that every intentional choice to love, nurture, and protect them creates a foundation stronger than the pain of the past.
As my girls near the end of their childhood, all I can do now is keep doing my best—guiding them with love, consistency, and honesty. To trust that it will be enough to help them break their own family cycles too.