This piece is about the messiness of raising kids while still healing from your own childhood. About the subtle but powerful ways our family patterns get passed down without us even realizing it. It is called intergenerational transmission (Lochner, 2008)—the idea that emotional habits, trauma, coping mechanisms, and beliefs can be handed down through behavior.
Somewhere in the process of parenting, you begin to see your younger self in your child—and you are forced to face the parts of yourself you have either buried or never fully understood.
I started noticing this mirror effect when my daughter became a teenager. Suddenly, her behavior—makeup, boyfriend, confidence—was triggering emotions I did not expect.
At first, I thought she was pushing boundaries. Then I realized she was pushing mine. Because, as a teenager, I was nothing like her. I was introverted. I wore simple clothes, tied my hair back, and had no interest in boys or parties. My world revolved around academics. I had tunnel vision: study, succeed, achieve.
Maybe that drive came from my childhood.
I grew up in the former Soviet Union, where schools had two languages: Russian and Kazakh. At home and with friends, we spoke Russian; with relatives, Kazakh. My conversational Kazakh was fine—but my academic Kazakh was weak. Then, at the age of six, just as I began first grade, I got into a bike accident and couldn’t walk for six months. When I recovered, my mother enrolled me in a Kazakh-language school instead of a Russian one.
I had missed the basics, and now everything—from reading to math—was in a language I didn’t fully understand. I was lost. Instead of trying to keep up, I gave up. I sat at the back of the classroom, played games, hung out with my friends, and stopped doing homework altogether. My teacher used to call me “stupid.” I was six, and I believed her.
At home, my stepfather often told me I was fat, ugly, and that everything I touched I would ruin. I believed him, too. That was my early childhood reality. I thought I was worthless.
Everything changed when my mom transferred me to a Russian school. Suddenly, I could understand again. I discovered my love for literature and started competing in regional-level competitions for Russian language and writing. For the first time, I felt capable.
But the damage had already shaped me. I did not think of myself as pretty or anything like that.
I remember walking to the mall one winter afternoon with my friend. We were eighth graders wearing jeans and jackets. Two boys started following us, asking what time it was. I panicked and ducked into the nearest store. One of them just wanted my number—but I didn’t know how to handle that kind of attention. It scared me.
Another time, my neighbor—he had already graduated while I was still in high school—offered to walk me to the store. I was in my usual home clothes, no makeup, completely casual. On the way back, he stopped at a flower shop and said, “Wait here a minute.” He came back with ice cream and a bouquet, and he handed them to me: “They’re for you.” I felt uncomfortable and awkward. I shared that with my cousin, and after that, I never saw the guy again.
When I was a teenager, I spent entire days in my room, surrounded by textbooks and notes. I was preparing for history exams and reading literature like my life depended on it. Meanwhile, just outside my window, life was happening.
It was spring. The air was fresh, the birds were singing, and the sun stayed longer than it used to. My friends and neighbors would gather in the courtyard under my window, playing guitar, singing. People would flirt, share drinks, and tell stories.
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I would pause sometimes. I wanted to go. But then I’d look down at my books and feel guilty. If I stop now, I’ll fall behind. I was chasing success or self-worth. I don’t know.
One day, my mom, concerned for my mental health and isolation, signed me up for a one-month summer camp in another town. I was horrified. A month away from home? With strangers? It felt like exile. But it became one of the most eye-opening experiences of my life.
The girls at camp wore makeup and talked openly about relationships. The boys flirted and competed. Couples formed, broke up, and formed again. There was drama like in a movie.
I observed and kept a distance from the boys and the drama. Instead, I threw myself into sports. Volleyball, hikes, group games, and dance rehearsals. I made friends.
That summer didn’t change who I was—but it expanded me. It showed me that life could be more than achievement.
Now the Roles Have Flipped
Now, I am the mom. And I have a teenage daughter who lives in the world I once resisted. She is confident, social, expressive, and different. She goes out, experiments, has a boyfriend, and wears full-face makeup. And sometimes, I want to say no. I want to say, stop, slow down, be more focused. I want to turn her into the teenage version of myself.
But then I pause. Because that’s not fair to her. And it is not healing for me. My daughter is not me. She does not need to carry my past. She is allowed to make her own mistakes. And that’s where parenting becomes the hardest mirror of all.
Years ago, a friend told me something I could not understand at the time: “Children are not ours. They come through us, not for us.” I remember resisting it. How could I raise, love, and protect someone—and then just let them go?
But after years of reflection, reading, breathwork, and self-inquiry—I understand now. Our children are not here to fulfill our dreams. They are not here to become who we wish we had been. They come into this world through us, yes—but they are their own people. With their own paths. Their own lessons to learn.
Our role is just to guide and support them. And, eventually, to release them. Letting go does not mean not caring. It means caring enough to trust the life within them. Parenting my daughter has made me confront my own rigid beliefs. It’s made me ask questions:
- Why did I hold myself back so much?
- Am I projecting my past onto my child?
I used to think my strict study habits made me strong. And maybe they did. But they also came from fear of being “not enough.” If you’ve ever felt tension with your child, or confusion about why you react the way you do—pause. Ask yourself: Is this about them, or is this about me?
