11/26/2025
Hey everyone— it’s been a beat since I’ve done a full blog post. In all transparency it’s because I’ve existed in this state of not feeling much pride in where I am in life— not something particularly new, I’ve always had my struggles physically, emotionally, spiritually. But I’ve had a new struggle regarding my parenting and it’s reminded me of why I originally wanted to start this page, so here it goes:
Can you recall the first time in your life you felt bad about yourself? Like there was something wrong with you? Not the first time you’d gotten in trouble or were corrected etc. I’m talking about their first time your inner monologue turned on, and for the first time it spelt out something like, “I think I’m bad”. Or “Is there something wrong with me?” I remember… Every detail.
I was three, attending a Montessori preschool called Peppermint Tree. I had gotten in trouble for not napping that day and instead strategically placing myself behind a bookshelf so I could swipe a good story and read while the class slept. Nothing personal— naps just weren’t my forte and I preferred to get lost in a book (truly regret my stance on naps as an adult). I was caught and told I’d get a consequence after naptime. That was fine, I knew I broke a rule and even though I didn’t agree with it, I was overall unfazed.
My consequence ended up being this giant 1-100 puzzle. This thing had tiles of every number the size of a typical Scrabble letter piece. You had to fit these little numbers in correct order in this blue tray, each row of the tray holding ten numbers with ten rows total. My teacher told me to complete it and call her when I was done. I don’t believe I’ve ever been one for numbers, and this experience truly proved it. After I completed fitting all the pieces in what I believed to be the correct order, I called Miss Danielle over to review my work, hoping I could make it out of miniature tile purgatory and reunite with my friend Sara who was coloring two tables over to my left.
Miss Danielle approached and took quick assessment of my work, picked up the tray frame, and flipped it over… dumping the pieces of my heart.. ehem 🤧 I mean numbers, out along the table once more. “Try again” she said. The look of annoyance on her face. That was the first moment my brain said, “There’s something wrong with me”. I felt like a burden of a life-form. I wanted to cry. I was embarrassed. My hands were shaking and I felt bad. Not like bad as in mean or naughty, but bad as in defective. Like my wiring must be amiss.
I reflected on that memory randomly today and realized that I felt that way a good chunk of my life. It’s been the thought that likes to pop up when I fail, make mistakes, disappoint someone I love, experience heartbreak, watch people go, or experience moments where I feel genuinely misunderstood. **that happened because there’s something wrong inside, a fried circuit, a missing piece, misaligned wiring** It was my, “you deserve this” mantra that brought me right back to that damn table with the puzzle. There she was, three year old me— with shaking hands, welling eyes, and heat flushing my cheeks. In a word, shame.
As an only child who’s a single, divorced mom, who’s not exactly making waves in the world— I often feel shame like a backpack 🎒 I don’t always see her right in front of my face, but I feel her weight on my shoulders and I’m often convinced others can spot it hanging off of me right away. In moments of strength she can feel light, always present, but out of mind. In times of hardship it almost feels like she could break me where I stand.
Currently my backpack feels heavy.
It’s the holidays. A time for some that brings lots of joy; but for others can highlight our own inadequacies. “The holiday blues” I once read somewhere. A perfect time to reflect and feel the emotions the sunshine of summer tends to blind.
Lately my trigger has been the quality of my parenting, hence the unintentional childhood memory reboot— kindly playing my greatest hits. 💁🏽♀️
I had my son’s parent teacher conference on Monday. My child struggles in areas of academics that I did not at his age. Its moreso performance anxiety than a blanketed lack of knowledge mix with a tendency to check out of the academic conversation when he’s not particularly captivated. I feel onlookers likely believe it’s because I don’t put forth the necessary effort as a parent— but it’s worse. I do try, hard; yet I still struggle to connect my child with the material in a way that’s helpful for him to feel engaged and confident. Coming from an education background and growing up in a household full of educators??? Ha. Shame.
Next up: My child struggles to manage his emotions. He had a random emotion bomb at the end of jui jitsu class that im still rather confused about. Well, as a parent who developed severe anxiety and depression approximately 6 years ago, no wonder I’m no help in the self-regulation department 🤪 I’m still at the drawing board myself! No matter the advice I seek and research I do— All the songs, books, code words, talks, compassion, and therapy doesn’t seem to be what my child will respond to, noted. Ha. Shame.
Here’s a big one: My child struggles to switch homes every other weekend. More therapy. More talks. More compassion. But there’s no fix, no switch to flip, and no easy answers. It’s just raw and unfiltered and painful. “You picked him!” If I never hear that phrase again.. it would still be too soon. My fault, noted. Ha. Shame.
My home is as cluttered and messy as my brain. My ex husband hated that about me. I move a million miles an hour in different directions. “How chaotic and unhealthy for a child to bear witness! Yikes!” Shame.
I hate cooking. “That’s so undesirable. You need to be a better role model for your child!” Shame.
“It’s been almost 7 years since you had your baby! You didn’t snap back yet? What kind of example are you setting?” Shame.
It’s funny that when one piece of your shame rises to the surface, the others follow. All the sudden your on a shotty raft made of every inadequacy you’ve ever felt. Every mean word ever said, even if it was you who said them to yourself. I’ve certainly faced some epic bullies in my day; but none meaner than my own brain. But, no crime in that though…until…
You can imagine what it felt like when my son’s teacher said, “Ricky says the worst things to himself when he makes a mistake, like he hates himself or he’s bad.” (Oh s**t that sounds familiar, but I don’t do that to him, only myself!) Ha. Shame.
“I’m worried, sometimes your son will hit himself really hard when he’s upset with someone or is being corrected.” (Why on earth would he do this! I’ve talked to him a hundred times about it! It’s ok to make mistakes and it’s ok to feel hurt.) **oh like you did when you’d used the rubber bands your grandfather gave you as “bracelets” and and snap them as hard as you could when you felt overwhelmed at school? I still remember using google to research ways to stop myself from crying in front of kids that made my life hell. Snapping a rubber band on your wrist was at the top of the list.**
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I think not enough is spoken about or really even known about what it’s like to parent your own brokenness. Your own insecurities, your own fears, and your own shames. There are so many times where I see my son’s behavior and will see my child self reflected in it. I’m transported right back and it often makes me approach him the way in which I felt I wanted to be approached: with leniency, affection, understanding and reassurance. Because I remember the feeling. Hands shaking, vision blurring from welled up tears, heat on my cheeks. And in that moment all I want to do is take it away!
Now I’m confronted with not knowing if that parenting style— me placing Ricky in a position of viewing him in the likeness of child-self— has caused him harm. Is this wrong? Has my self-projection deterred me from how I should be approaching each hurdle thrown our way? Has it made me permissive? Have I ruined him? Am I unfit and ill-equipped to teach these important lessons?
I know the kind answers people would say. I can oftentimes even articulate a friend or even my therapist’s answer before they can get the words out themselves. A talent often viewed with a mixture of annoyance and amusement. However, “knowing” something does not cure a feeling, or a fear. It doesn’t silence shame, nor does it remedy regret or remorse. They’re just words. And what are words in a fight of feeling? A knife brought to a gunfight perhaps.
So today, I send the little love of my life off to his last day of school before Thanksgiving break, than off to his dad for the holidays— his longest stay with his father yet, three nights. And I’ll return to my messy house, with my messy mind, and sit with this… that’s what I do when the feelings are too strong and the mess is too great. I’ll try to do the impossible and make the knife of words stronger than the gun of emotions. Unpack the backpack of shame and evaluate it contents. How long have I ignored you this time? What’s in there? What can be addressed, discarded, reimagined—
There are no perfect parents— but, I do believe in perfect love. Ive dedicated myself to providing it for my boy. So, now I’m going to try to show three year old Kayleigh some of that over the next couple of days during Thanksgiving… because the truth is, I can’t do this parenting thing without her; and I sure as hell don’t want to keep letting her down.
