Lately, my children prefer to spend more time with their father—and honestly, I expected it. As my boys get older, I figured they’d naturally gravitate toward their dad for guidance, play, and the kind of connection only a male role model can offer. It’s a beautiful shift to witness. Sometimes, though, it has lead to some unexpected disagreements between us.
The other day, something small turned into something much bigger—at least emotionally for me.
My husband, like many of us Millennial parents, is a little addicted to his phone. He plays an online multiplayer game at the same time every day. It’s competitive, timed, and something he looks forward to. Just before his game started, he was playing with our boys—laughing, wrestling, being their superhero. When the game time hit, he asked them for a minute so he could play. Naturally, they didn’t want to stop and continued crawling all over him. And then, in a whisper—so soft the kids probably didn’t hear it, but I did—he said, “Please, just leave me alone.”
That tiny moment hit me like a wave.
You may know from previous posts that my husband and I have been working on communicating better, especially around parenting. But this moment sent me spiraling. I could feel my chest tighten and my face grow hot. Even though the words were quiet, they echoed something loud from my past.
It wasn’t just about that moment. It was about what those words represented to me.
When I was a child, my father often told my siblings and me that we had ruined his chances at success. He said he missed out on financial opportunities because of us, and at times, he even questioned if my twin and I were really his. I carried those words—those wounds—into adulthood. They shaped how I viewed my worth and how I interpreted other people’s frustrations, especially within a family.
So when I heard my husband whisper that he wanted to be left alone, it triggered something deep. It wasn’t just him needing a break (which I understand—we all need that). It was the fear that our children would ever feel like a burden, the way I once did. That they might internalize rejection in those quiet moments, even if it wasn’t meant that way.
We talked later that evening. I explained why I had such a strong reaction—how it brought up old feelings I’m still working through. He listened, really listened, and apologized. He said it was wrong of him to say that, and that he never wants me or the kids to feel unwanted. He reminded me that he’s grateful for our family and loves us deeply.
And that helped…A lot.
But what helped even more was realizing how powerful these moments of awareness are. Healing isn’t always about big breakthroughs. Sometimes it’s about catching ourselves in the moment, pausing, and reflecting. It’s about recognizing that we carry the past with us—but we don’t have to let it dictate our present.
I’ve also been working on reconnecting with my husband, not just emotionally but physically—intentionally nurturing our bond beyond the day-to-day responsibilities of parenting. Because relationships, especially in parenthood, require effort, presence, and repair.
Here’s what I’m learning:
-
Our triggers are our teachers. They point to places that still need healing.
-
Communication isn’t just about solving problems—it’s about being seen and heard.
-
The way we respond to hard moments can shape the emotional safety our children feel.
To anyone else navigating the complexities of parenting while healing from their own childhood: you are not alone. You are doing the hard work of breaking generational cycles of pain and that matters. Even when it feels messy. Especially when it feels messy.
You are allowed to be a work in progress and a good parent at the same time.
