If you're listening now,
Something happened.
Maybe you raised your voice.
Maybe you grabbed too quickly,
Spoke too sharply,
Or saw a look in your child's eyes that pierced your heart.
Maybe you just know,
Deep down,
That you weren't the parent you wanted to be in that moment.
Maybe it reminded you of your own parents.
Take a breath.
In.
.
.
And out.
You are not alone in this.
Every single parent has been here.
Inhale again slowly through your nose.
And exhale softly through your mouth.
Feel the breath begin to create a small space between what happened and what's next.
Your body might still carry the charge of the moment.
Tight chest.
Clenched stomach.
Heat in your face.
You don't have to push it away.
Just notice.
This is what remorse feels like in my body.
It's your nervous system's way of saying,
I care.
As you breathe,
Imagine each exhale releasing a little of that tension.
Not erasing what happened,
But loosening its grip.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The body softens first.
The heart follows.
Drop your shoulders.
Breathe again,
Lengthening your inhale and your exhale.
You are safe right now.
Whisper to yourself,
That was hard.
I didn't show up the way I wanted to.
And I can begin again.
You are not defined by your worst moments.
None of us are.
You are shaped by what you do after them.
By your willingness to notice,
To repair,
To love again.
That is what your child will see.
If your mind tries to replay the scene,
Let it happen.
Then imagine placing that moment gently in the palm of your hand.
You don't have to crush it or hide it.
Just hold it with compassion.
These hard moments too are part of parenting.
Learning to love your child and yourself through imperfection.
Picture a small ember glowing in a bed of ashes,
Faint but steady.
Around it,
The evidence of a flare-up,
A burst of heat that burned too fast.
But underneath,
The ember is still alive.
The warmth of love that never truly went out.
With each breath,
Imagine that ember growing brighter,
Steady,
Giving off warmth.
It doesn't burn now,
It soothes.
This is your love,
Your care,
Your intention to grow and do better.
Still here,
Still strong.
Bring one hand to your heart,
And if it feels comfortable,
Place the other over it for extra comfort.
Feel your heartbeat,
Your own steady rhythm of life and care.
You're human.
You're learning.
You're growing right alongside your child.
There is no manual.
Whisper softly,
I can forgive myself for being human.
I can make repair from a grounded place.
My love is bigger than this one moment.
Let those words melt into you.
Let those words melt you.
They don't erase what happened,
But they create the soil from which healing can grow.
If it feels right,
Imagine offering a quiet apology in your heart.
Not to erase guilt,
But to strengthen connection.
I'm sorry,
I love you,
I'm still here.
Offer forgiveness to yourself in addition to your child.
Take another steady,
Deep breath in,
Filling your belly,
Your chest,
All the way to your shoulders.
Exhale completely,
Bringing your navel to your back.
Notice what has softened.
Your breath,
Your body,
Your inner tone and voice.
This is the space where repair begins.
Calm,
Open,
Kind.
You can return to your child when you're ready.
Not as a perfect parent,
But as a connected parent.
The ability to reflect,
To feel,
To try again.
That's what makes you a safe base for your child.
As you move forward,
Carry this reminder.
Perfection never built connection.
Presence did.
You can always return to yourself,
To your child.
