I grew up in a toxic home and vowed to be an amazing mother but I worry I’ve fallen short in these ways

The vow I made was specific.

I was sixteen, sitting in my car after a particularly bad night at home, and I remember thinking with a clarity that felt almost physical:

“When I have children, it will be different. I will be different.”

I had a whole list in my head of things I would never do—never say, never make them feel. I was going to be the mother I’d needed, and I was absolutely certain I knew what that looked like.

I’ve been a mother for eleven years now. And the honest answer is that I’ve kept most of that list. I have never said the things that were said to me. I have never created the particular kind of chaos I grew up in. By almost every external measure, I’ve broken the cycle.

But there are other ways I’ve fallen short that took longer to see—patterns that aren’t dramatic enough to name easily, that don’t look like what I was afraid of becoming, but that leave their own marks.

The over-explaining that is really anxiety trying to control outcomes.

The emotional distance I create when I’m overwhelmed is because I never learned to stay close under pressure.

The way I sometimes turn my children’s problems into my own, or disappear into caretaking as a way of avoiding the scarier work of just being present.

Growing up in a toxic home doesn’t just leave obvious wounds. It leaves gaps—places where you simply didn’t learn how to do things, because no one modeled them. Those gaps show up in parenting in ways that are easy to miss until you’re looking directly at them.

These are the ways I’m worried that I’ve fallen short.

1. I made safety so important that I forgot about joy

The thing I wanted most for my children was for them to feel safe. It was the organizing principle of my whole approach to mothering—the thing my childhood had been so short on, the thing I was determined to provide. And I did provide it. But somewhere in the effort to make sure nothing felt threatening, I started optimizing for protection over delight.

Safe is not the same as joyful. And for a long time, I didn’t know the difference, because I’d never had much of either. I knew how to prevent the bad things. I didn’t know how to invite the good ones—the silliness, the ease, the kind of lightness that doesn’t need a reason.

2. I over-explained instead of staying present

When something went wrong—a disappointment, a conflict, a hard moment—my instinct was always to explain it. To give context, to provide a framework, to help them understand why things were the way they were. I thought this was good parenting. The opposite of what I’d experienced.

What I’ve come to understand is that sometimes what a child needs isn’t an explanation. They need someone to sit with them in the feeling without immediately trying to process it away. My over-explaining was often anxiety in disguise—a way of managing my own discomfort with their distress by turning it into something cognitive that could be resolved.

Therapists who study emotional development have found that children whose parents rush to explain or fix their feelings—rather than just sitting with them—can start to doubt whether what they’re feeling is okay as-is. The explanation, however loving, can land as: what you’re feeling needs to be corrected.

3. I repeated patterns I swore I never would

This is the hardest one to write. I didn’t become my parents. But I caught myself, more than once, in a smaller version of something I’d promised I’d never do.

The way I’d sometimes go cold and pull back when I was overwhelmed, because that was the only emotional management I’d ever seen modeled. The way conflict could turn me into someone slightly unrecognizable—not cruel, but closed.

The patterns we grew up in don’t disappear just because we hated them. They’re the first tools we reach for under pressure because they’re the most practiced.

4. I sometimes made my kids’ emotions about my history

When one of my children was struggling, there were moments when something in me would recognize it too sharply—a grief on their behalf that was bigger than the situation warranted, because I was grieving something older at the same time.

Therapists who work with parents from tough backgrounds often talk about something called emotional bleed. That’s when a child’s experience triggers old wounds in the parent, and the parent’s reaction is more about their own past than what’s happening right now. From the outside, it might look like empathy—but for the child, it can feel confusing. They end up carrying feelings that never really belonged to them.

5. I struggled to receive their love without deflecting it

Growing up in a house where love was conditional or unpredictable leaves a specific residue: difficulty trusting it when it arrives simply.

When my children would show me uncomplicated affection—a drawing, a hug, an unsolicited “I love you”—there was a part of me that didn’t quite know how to receive it without redirecting it.

Attachment researchers have found that people who grew up with love that was unpredictable or conditional often have a hard time just taking in warmth. It’s not that they don’t want it—it’s that their nervous system learned to expect it to be taken away. That shows up in little ways: deflecting compliments, putting yourself down, or subtly pulling back when things start to feel close.

I didn’t understand this about myself until my daughter asked me once why I always changed the subject when she said something nice. I didn’t have an answer at the time.

6. I carried so much guilt that it got in the way of connection

The worry that I’d fallen short became its own problem.

I’d notice a moment where I’d been less than I wanted to be, and the guilt would arrive quickly—a familiar, well-worn feeling.

And guilt, when it becomes chronic, makes connection harder rather than easier. You can’t be fully present with your children when you’re monitoring yourself for failure.

7. I was better at managing crises than ordinary moments

When something actually went wrong—someone was hurt, someone was scared, something needed handling—I was good. Present, calm, competent.

The ordinary moments were harder. The Tuesday evenings with nothing particular happening, the slow, unhurried time that didn’t require anything specific from me.

I’d grown up in a home where ordinary was never quite safe. I didn’t have good instincts for just being with someone when there was nothing wrong. My children needed both versions of me. I gave them more of one than the other.

8. I protected them from discomfort that would have helped them

Because I knew what real hardship felt like, ordinary discomfort could feel urgent to me in a way it probably shouldn’t have. A difficult friendship, a disappointing grade, a rejection—things that were genuinely hard but genuinely manageable—would sometimes activate a protectiveness in me that was out of proportion.

Psychologists who study overprotective parenting have found that kids whose parents step in too fast often end up with less tolerance for frustration and a wobblier sense of their own resilience.

The protection feels like love—and it is—, but it can also send the unintentional message that the child can’t handle things on their own. I was trying to spare them the pain I’d known. Sometimes, I ended up sparing them the growth, too.

9. I loved them intensely and sometimes forgot to show it simply

The love I have for my children is the realest thing I know. But love that lives mostly inside you—that expresses itself through provision and protection and showing up for crises—can be harder for a child to actually feel than love that shows up in small, ordinary moments.

I grew up not knowing how to express affection casually. How to touch someone’s shoulder as you pass, how to say something warm without it being weighted by occasion. Those small gestures were never modeled for me. And without realizing it, I sometimes withheld them from my children, not out of coldness but out of not knowing they were available.

Editor’s Note: This piece is part of our “As Told to Bolde” series, where we share personal stories from individuals we have interviewed or surveyed. For more information on how we create content, please review our Editorial Policy.