It starts with me.

This past January, after months of what seemed like constant power struggles with our 3-year-old son, Scott and I deemed it our mission to better understand Jude’s strong-willed demeanor. Family and close friends would tell us not to worry, that his remarkable determination—while tough to parent now—will serve him well later in life. “It’ll take him places,” they’d kindly encourage in the middle of one of our back-to-back standoffs. “I’m sure he’ll change the world someday,” I’d mutter, defeated, as if the nice sentiment made up for the debilitating lack of control I felt as his mother in the moment.

PICK YOUR PARENTING STYLE

Despite trying to convince ourselves that we were just in a challenging phase, we eventually hit a wall in March and decided to reach out to a local neurodevelopment specialist. We wanted to figure out why Jude is the way he is: Were we dealing with a rebel by nature, or was his tendency towards defiance a learned behavior? Did he have a medical issue that was affecting his behavior? Was his brain irreversibly damaged from the hours of Piano Guys music videos I let him watch as a baby?! (I’d reckon it’s a combination of all of the above, except the last one. That was me joking, sort of.) Our goal was to uncover the root of the problem by approaching his health from all sides, but in the meantime, we desperately needed the tools to discipline him more effectively. That’s when she recommended the book Easy to Love, Difficult to Discipline: The 7 Basic Skills for Turning Conflict into Cooperation by Dr. Becky Bailey. This served as our first introduction to Conscious Parenting, a model of discipline that emphasizes connection, emotional awareness, and self-control.

Up until this point, Scott and I hadn’t really researched different “parenting styles” or come up with a plan to adhere to any specific one. Unlike many moms and dads today, who are committed to one methodology or another before their first-born can crawl, we entered parenthood simply hoping to instill good values in our kids while fostering their independence. The how was a bit foggy, I’ll admit, but we figured it was a learn-as-you-go sort of thing. I mean, how hard could it be to teach a toddler right from wrong? (Ha!) That was our first mistake. Our second was assuming that our kids would be fairly compliant and somewhat open to guidance.

But in our defense, we were expecting the younger versions of ourselves. I, for one, was a piece of cake to discipline, because I didn’t like to push the envelope. (Natural-born approval-seeker, at your service.) Not to say that I was never a pain in the ass—that’s certainly not true; but when I did get feisty, a simple stern look from Karen or a swat on the butt from Marty was more than enough to set me straight onto the path of submission. I revered my parents, and this conveniently translated into unquestioning obedience most of the time. (I think I was only ever “grounded” once in 18 years, and even my mom agrees now that it was for a stupid reason.) Scott had the same experience, so why would we prepare for something different? Imagine our surprise when it became clear that Jude did not inherit our innate respect for authority.

We learned real fast that the typical “behaviorist” philosophy, which utilizes rewards and punishment to control a child’s behavior, was not going to work for him. Why? Because Jude cannot be controlled. When he is having a moment (aka being belligerent or blatantly disobeying us), popular deterrents like spanking and timeout rarely motivate him to cooperate, and can actually exacerbate his dysregulated state. Luckily, Dr. Bailey offers an alternative solution through equal-parts boundary-setting, empathy, open communication, problem-solving, and consequences. I’m not going to summarize the book for you; it’s available on Bookshop.org if you’re interested. But what I do want to highlight here is the communication aspect of child-rearing. I’m fascinated by Dr. Bailey’s idea of the “inner voice,” and how it’s shaped in early childhood.

EVERYONE HAS AN INNER VOICE

The concept is simple yet powerful, and one that hit me like a ton of bricks: Everyone has self-regulatory speech—a voice in their head, if you will—that processes and responds to their surroundings. So influential is this tiny, ever-present inner voice that it single-handedly sets the tone for how we think and what we believe, both about ourselves and the world at large. Dr. Bailey suggests that this self-talk is a pretty identical replication of how we were spoken to as children by none other than—you guessed it—our parents. In other words, the way that we speak to our children when they are young is the way they will speak to themselves for the rest of their lives.

Reading this made me sweat, not gonna lie, because how many times have I lost my cool and yelled, exasperated, “Jude, why can’t you just listen for once?!” Look, I am not the mom to lecture anyone on the importance of maintaining composure with their toddler; I can hurl some ugly insults disguised as discipline when I’m at the end of my rope, and in all honesty, I probably get to that emotionally charged state at least several times a week. Yep, Dr. Bailey is def calling me out. But there’s more!

Certified Trauma Coach Iris McAlpin argues that our inner-critic may not actually be the internalized voice of our parents, but rather a survival mechanism that we developed as children in response to not having our basic needs fully met. In an article for The Candidly, McAlpin explains that in order to cope with a lack of whatever was missing—affection, stability, connection, physical touch, validation—and preserve the relationship with our caregivers (because who else is going to keep us alive?), we began to tell ourselves that our needs were no good. In essence, we learned to habitually reject ourselves in favor of pleasing others. Yikes, sound familiar?

MY INNER-CRITIC AND I GO WAY BACK

All this talk about self-regulating speech had me curious about my own, so I started to pay attention to the things I tell myself on the reg. What stood out was not totally surprising: My internal dialogue is very glass-half-empty, scarcity-mindset kind of shit. And it gets a kick out of nit-picking me to pieces:

Don’t waste your money on another fitness program. You’ll quit after a week, anyway.
Your own kid doesn’t respect you. You’re not cut out for motherhood.
There you go again, dominating the conversation. Try not to be so self-absorbed.

You get my drift. But, come to find out, my inner Regina George is not limited to my private thoughts. A few years back, on a trip to Nashville with my best friends, the straight-shooter of the group pointed out my bad habit of putting myself down. “I’m not sure if you realize you’re doing it,” she said while lounging in the bedroom of our AirBNB, “but you’ve said a number of negative things about yourself today that aren’t at all true.” I remember being a little blindsided by her observation at the time. Sure, I might have jokingly referred to myself as lazy or selfish once or twice, but didn’t everyone occasionally inject a healthy dose of self-deprecation into friendly discourse? Apparently not. Her feedback begged the question: Do I actually believe myself to be lazy and selfish, and if so, where did those belittling thoughts stem from?

You all saw this coming: It’s my parents’ fault, of course. My mom and dad must have treated me like I wasn’t good enough or smart enough or hardworking enough as a child, and THAT’s why the voice inside my head is such a snarky bitch. Right? Well, no, not exactly. My parents are wonderful people whom I admire greatly, and although they weren’t perfect (who is?), they did a fantastic job raising my brothers and me. In fact, I have nothing but good memories growing up, and even after 31 years, I still consider them to be my most beloved role models and trusted confidantes. (It’s not lost on me how lucky I am.)

But when I reflect on how they were raised, in households where the words “I love you” were rarely spoken and fear was the biggest motivator, is it such a stretch to imagine that the emotional baggage from my parents’ authoritarian-style upbringings might have adversely impacted their sense of self, thereby indirectly undermining their capacity to “consciously” (aka empathetically) parent us three kids? Am I spouting Psychology 101? I’m not sure, I never took it.

Speculation aside, it doesn’t take a psychologist to see that my mother, the most capable person I know, is also her own worst critic. A classic “if-you-want-something-done-right-do-it-yourself” perfectionist, she can’t help but hold herself and everybody else to insanely high expectations. My happy-go-lucky father, on the other hand, is Mr. Live and Let Live; he tends to avoid conflict because confrontation just ain’t his thing, and he can somehow let everything roll off his back—even, at times, to his own detriment. (Incidentally, I inherited the worst of both: I’m my mother’s anxiety combined with my father’s passivity. Woo!)

Still, it’s difficult for me to pinpoint their shortcomings as parents. I don’t recall specific times when they spoke to me in a way that made me feel inferior, or deprived me of any particular need that triggered my self-preservation tactics to kick in. So either I just don’t remember my formative years that well, or the evolution of my nasty inner-critic was a very gradual and inconspicuous process spearheaded by the most influential people in my life: a dismissive word here, a lack of faith there, and a few condemning character critiques sprinkled throughout my childhood like black confetti until one day I wake up to find that I’m in my thirties and repeatedly telling myself I’m wasted potential. (Wait, what?)

But that’s not true; I know it’s not. And it’ll never be true for my kids, either. I don’t want Jude and Ayla to ever have to convince themselves that they’re worthy of anything. I don’t want them to have to battle a bitter voice inside their head that repeatedly tells them that they are too much or not enough. I want their self-regulatory speech to sound exactly like Viola Davis in The Help echoing, “You is kind, you is smart, you is important” in the same lovingly reassuring way every single morning when they get out of bed, when they look in the mirror, and when they greet their own family.

And what I find most overwhelming is knowing that their future inner dialogue has infinitely more to do with me than it does with them—at least, for the next few crucial years of their lives. The ways in which I talk to them, how I talk about them… Well, it makes a huge difference. We all recognize that. But what seems to be just as instrumental in building up (or tearing down) our kids’ self-esteem is so much subtler than I could have predicted: While the words are important, the intention behind my words probably matter more. Children are little detectives, constantly analyzing our tone of voice, facial expressions, and body language to convey meaning—and all it takes is a quick roll of the eyes, an escaped sigh, or a fake smile through gritted teeth to turn “Try it like this instead,” into “You never do anything right.” This is chaos theory at its finest, and I am the butterfly.

At the end of the day, I guess what I’m asking myself is: Is the message I’m communicating to my kids, whether intentionally or unintentionally, one of love, patience, and understanding—or is it merely one of tolerance?

IT STARTS WITH ME

So, basically, all I have to do to ensure that my kids are on a path to self-actualization and emotional intelligence is meet their every need and always say the right thing at the right time. Great! Sounds easy. *Insert eye roll here.*

The point of this post is not to promote anything remotely resembling perfection, because that ain’t gonna happen. We’re all human, and it’d be ridiculous and downright damaging to pretend otherwise. (I’m gonna slip up, and that’s okay.) But you know what is possible? Viewing and embracing parenthood through a lens of love—love for God, love for my family, love for myself—rather than a fear of failing. And it starts with putting an end to a generational cycle of self-sabotaging inner criticism. I can’t possibly radiate kindness and encouragement when the thoughts running through my own brain echo, “You can’t do this, you’re the worst.”

If I want to raise well-adjusted humans free of anxiety, feelings of worthlessness, or fear of failure, I have to free myself from those traps first. And while that certainly seems like a tall order, maybe it simply starts with infusing my judgmental self-talk with more curiosity and compassion. Baby steps! Since reading Dr. Bailey’s book, I have already begun to witness how small shifts in my attitude and perspective can instantly dig me out of the “Bad Mom” shame spiral and launch our whole household into a much more peaceful place—where warmth and gentleness permeate. This change didn’t happen overnight, and it still requires many, many silent prayers and deep breaths to make it through each day, but we’re getting there! With time, I’m optimistic that these patterns of positive thinking (and speaking) will become second-nature.

NOW BACK TO JUDE

So, what does this all have to do with Jude? At the beginning of this 9-month journey, I told the behavioral specialist that he was the most resilient 3-year-old we’d ever met. He’s incredibly strong, bright, and as resourceful as they come. “The kid is fearless,” I boasted at our first appointment, “so he needs strict rules to keep him safe.” Which is true; Jude can spot weakness from a mile away (it’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me), and he will effortlessly bulldoze his way through any boundary that is proven flimsy. It’s because of his seemingly unbreakable spirit that, until recently, I couldn’t see what was right in front of me: Jude is a highly sensitive individual, and extremely vulnerable to harsh criticism. Unlike most sensitive children, however, he doesn’t show his emotions through tears or meltdowns; he expresses his pain through anger and aggression. Which is why punishment isn’t the answer; focusing on his faults and blaming him for what he can’t necessarily control only breeds distrust between us and further alienates him. The truth is, Jude has a empath’s heart; he really cares about people, and he demands a lot of care in return to be his best self.

We still have our challenging days, but he is growing by leaps and bounds in his ability and willingness to cooperate and communicate calmly. In fact, this week has been one of the smoothest we’ve had all summer. Scott and I are both a work in progress when it comes to disciplining our fierce little man, but we’re striving every day to become the type of mindful parents who lead by example, love unconditionally, and welcome Jude’s larger-than-life personality with arms wide open—the type of parents he deserves.