The Mother I Am Behind Closed Doors

I think people think I’m a terrible mother.

And I think people think I’m a wonderful mother.

Usually, it’s the kids who think I’m good at it and the other moms who judge from the sidelines, assuming I’m too soft, too forgiving, too whatever doesn’t match their version of “good parenting.”

But they don’t see what actually happens in my home.

They don’t see the years I failed, really failed, because I didn’t know how to control my own emotions. I yelled. I slammed doors. I said things I shouldn’t have. I overreacted. I took everything personally. I parented from my fear, my shame, and my anxiety, instead of from wisdom or presence or peace. And I hated myself for it.

What they don’t see is the long, painful process of learning how to be a different kind of mother.

I have two daughters. One of them is calm and steady and wants things to feel safe. The other came into the world demanding that the whole thing adjust to her, not the other way around. She was angry the day she was born, and it didn’t let up. She didn’t like hearing no. If she couldn’t control the outcome, she combusted. Loudly.

When she was a toddler, she’d bang her head on the floor in frustration. I didn’t give in, but I didn’t walk away either. I’d sit down next to her, hand under her skull to keep her safe, holding the line and holding her. That kind of parenting? It takes a toll.

This wasn’t just a difficult phase. This was every single day. Tantrums that didn’t end. Screaming that didn’t stop. And school didn’t help. The phone calls were endless about hitting, yelling, threatening teachers, melting down.

I begged her pediatrician to help us figure it out. We saw a neurologist. Tests were done. And eventually, we got an answer: she had ADD. Not the hyper kind, but the emotionally impulsive kind. The kind where big feelings come fast and hard, and self-regulation isn’t automatic.

So I dove into research. I read book after book. I asked questions. I paid attention. I did everything I could to try and understand her. And at the same time, I realized: I didn’t just need to learn her. I needed to unlearn myself.

Because motherhood isn’t just about raising kids. It’s about raising yourself, too.

Every child pulls something different out of you. My kids didn’t need a perfect mom. They needed me. But not the version of me that was constantly triggered and reactive. They needed the version of me that was willing to evolve. The one who could breathe before she spoke. The one who could sit in discomfort without demanding obedience. The one who could hear screaming without matching it. The one who could listen to them tell her hard things or bad decisions and not lose her god damn mind.

My daughter is 11 now. And yes, she still blows up sometimes. But not nearly as often. And the difference is I don’t blow up with her anymore. I’ve learned to stay calm even when I’m being screamed at. We’ve created a rhythm, a pattern. She knows she can say what she needs to say without shame as long as she can say it calmly. And I know I can listen without taking it as a reflection of my worth. This is what I promised her and what she promised me.

And that’s what people don’t see. That’s what some moms misunderstand.

They think I’ve gone soft. That I let my kids get away with too much. That I’ve abandoned rules or consequences.

But I haven’t gone soft. I’ve gone deep.

I choose which battles to fight. I ask better questions. I offer more space. I coach through emotions instead of punishing for them. I don't take their behavior as a measure of my identity. I don’t let their mistakes shame me.

I understand now that kids are learning. And growth is messy. And boundaries can exist with compassion. And honestly? I’ve failed more times than I can count. But if I believe that mistakes are part of their growth, then I have to believe the same for me.

Strictness might have made me look like a “good mom” on the outside. But it wouldn’t have raised emotionally healthy children. It would’ve raised kids who hid things from me.

And that’s not what I want.

I want connection. I want my kids to know they’re safe with me, no matter what, even when they screw up. I want to be the soft place to land. Not because I’m passive, but because I’m present. And if healing makes me look weak to the world? So be it.

Because I’m not raising trophies. I’m raising humans.

I don’t know how my kids will turn out. None of us do.

But I know that I’m turning out differently. I’m less reactive. I’m more thoughtful. I’m still learning. And I think that counts for something.