“Mom… you don’t have to shout at us. We can just talk softly.”

Those words came from my then 4-year-old son — wide-eyed, soft-voiced, and full of truth I wasn’t ready to hear.

I froze.

Because in that moment, I wasn’t the strong, composed mother I wanted to be.
I was the version of me I swore I’d never become — overwhelmed, reactive, parenting from my pain instead of my peace.

I had raised my voice again. And yet it was his gentle voice that started the journey of breaking the cycle in me.

That moment pierced something deep. Not just because of what he said — but because of what it reflected:
My children were learning how to navigate my chaos before they ever got a chance to be children.

Well, I didn’t grow up with softness.
I grew up with survival, control, emotional shutdown, and silent wounds that echoed through generations.

So when motherhood met me coupled with a failed relationship, I brought everything with me — the strength, yes…
But also the fear, the triggers, the shame, the belief that being hard kept us safe.

I didn’t know softness.
I only knew survival.

I gave commands instead of comfort. I confused obedience with connection.
And in trying to protect myself, I unknowingly created an atmosphere where my children had to tiptoe around my pain. And though I loved them fiercely, I couldn’t always give them what I didn’t yet know how to give myself: Safety. Warmth. Presence. Emotional availability.

That one sentence though from my son “Mom, we can just talk softly…” It echoed for days.

And when I finally sat with it, I realized:

• I was teaching my children to brace for impact — not to rest in love.
• I was handing them the very patterns I was trying to escape.
• I was doing my best… but my best was rooted in brokenness.

So I made a choice.

I wasn’t just going to change the way I spoke.
I was going to change the woman I brought into the room.

I was going to break this cycle of dysfunctional parenting!

Let me be honest: Healing while parenting is hard.
You’re still unpacking your own childhood while shaping someone else’s.
But I knew I had to do it.

So I started therapy. Then hired coaches.
I journaled. I prayed. I forgave myself daily.
And slowly, I stopped shouting.
Not just with my voice, but with my energy.

I started pausing before I responded.
Started listening more than lecturing.
Started seeing my children as whole people, not projects I needed to fix.

I began to take responsibility for my emotions — even in the moments I was deeply triggered.
I stopped letting my past run the show.
And little by little, I began to undo the pain…
And rewrite a new parenting story.

A story rooted in presence.
In softness.
In healing.

And the more I softened… the more my children did too.

Today, my children know they can talk to me.
They know they can cry without being told to “toughen up.”
They know that softness is strength, not weakness.

I’m not perfect. But I’m present. Well, I try my best to be present.
And that shift alone has rewritten the atmosphere of our home.

Now, as I raise my daughter, I feel it in my bones:
My greatest contribution may not be the business I build or the work I do…
It may be the children I raise — with softness, with safety, and with intention.

To the mother, the woman, the nurturer whose heart feels heavy…
Who wonders if she’s getting any of this right…

Let me whisper this truth to you:

You’re not failing.
You’re becoming.
Becoming softer. Stronger. More self-aware.
Becoming the woman your younger self needed — and the mother your children will thank one day.

And yes, it’s messy. But it’s miraculous.

Because every time you choose to speak softly instead of shouting…
To pause instead of punish…
To grow instead of guilt-trip…

You’re breaking cycles.

And that kind of work? It doesn’t get applause…
But it changes everything.

Let the world celebrate titles, resumes, and accomplishments.

But today, I want to honor the invisible work:
The sacred, often unseen labor of raising whole humans while healing yourself.

Because maybe, just maybe…

“Your greatest contribution to the world may not be something you do, but someone you raise.”

With grace, with strength, and always with love,
Lydia 🤍