Mother’s Warnings. Father’s Rules. And the Parent I’m Becoming. Vol. 08 — WordsByEkta🌿
Mother's Warnings. Father's Rules. And the Parent I'm Becoming.
"I hope you have a child just like you someday."
It was a half-joke, half-curse my mother threw in my direction during one of my teenage meltdowns. I had rolled my eyes then — the way all teenagers do when they feel misunderstood — but now, as I stand at the threshold of parenthood, that sentence rings differently. Not just louder, but deeper.
Because now, when my child throws a tantrum, I hear her voice — my mother's — clear and stern in my head. And then I hear my father's silence. And together, they shape what comes out of me.
When I imagined becoming a parent, I thought I would do things differently. Gentler, maybe. More understanding. Less controlling. I had made mental lists of "never" and "always" — things I swore I'd never say, patterns I promised I'd never repeat. But when you're sleep-deprived, emotionally frayed, and holding a crying child who won't be soothed, something primal kicks in. And that something often sounds eerily like your own parents.
From my mother, I absorbed emotional immediacy — her ability to respond fast, feel big, worry often. Her love was fierce and practical: extra ghee on my chapati when I was stressed, overthinking my friendships, reminding me of the "right age" for everything. I had always thought I'd avoid her anxious tone when parenting. But now, when my child stumbles, I find myself saying "Be careful!" before I've even checked if they're hurt.
From my father, I absorbed silence — the kind that entered the room before he did. He wasn't absent, but he was distant. His rules were followed without being questioned. His displeasure, though rare, was enough to straighten backs and stifle arguments. I swore I'd never be that rigid. But when my child defies me, there's a voice in me that doesn't shout — it withdraws. Just like he did. And that, too, is its own kind of echo.
They show up in whispers and reflexes. In the way you tie a ponytail, the way you fold a blanket, the way you panic when there's a fever. They show up in your vocabulary — not just in words, but in tone. The sighs. The warnings. The rules. And sometimes, they show up in the very things you swore you'd never do.
But maybe the point isn't to parent completely differently. Maybe it's to parent more consciously. To notice when your mother's anxiety is taking the wheel. Or when your father's silence is shaping the mood of your home. Maybe it's not about erasing those voices — but learning how to make room for your own voice, too.
I'm still learning how to speak differently. Sometimes that means choosing softness where I once heard sharpness. Other times, it means pausing before reacting, giving my child space I wasn't given. And sometimes, honestly, it just means saying sorry — something neither of my parents ever modeled.
There are days I still fail. I lose patience. I speak too fast. I enforce a rule too strictly or let guilt parent for me. But there are also days I catch myself — and choose better. Not because I'm undoing what my parents did, but because I'm learning to choose differently — with intention. And yes, on those days, I feel proud. Not loud, not boastful — just quietly proud that I'm shifting something I once thought was unchangeable.
That kind of pride often goes unnoticed. And maybe that's okay. But it does make me think about how we talk about pride in parenting — and how it's not always treated equally.
Some might say there's a double standard. When women feel proud of breaking generational patterns, it's celebrated as strength. But when men try to dismantle patriarchy and feel proud, they're often told they're just catching up to basic decency. I understand that frustration. But here's what's different — most women aren't asking for applause. Their pride isn't performative. It's quiet, internal, often unspoken. It's the kind of pride that shows up not in posts, but in moments — choosing softness where there was sharpness, choosing apology where there was silence.
It's not about boasting. It's about healing — quietly, consistently, in real time. That might be the real work of parenting — not just shaping your child, but reshaping yourself.
And maybe, that's how I honour both of them — my mother and my father. Not by blindly following or forcefully rejecting their ways, but by listening to their echoes — and choosing, again and again, to become the kind of parent I needed once, too.
✍️ Written by WordsByEkta🌿
🖋️ Emotional Storyteller | Writing what hearts never say aloud
💌 If you connected with my way of saying hard truths — often overlooked but deeply felt — explore one of my free letters:
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