“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life, and you will call it fate.” ~Carl Jung
The words hit me with unexpected force: “You’re just like your mother.” It was a comment in a social media post, swiftly followed by a powerful retort: “Actually, I’m my mother’s revenge. I’m the voice she didn’t have and the boundary she couldn’t set.” While the idea of revenge held no appeal for me, the sentiment resonated deeply. Something within me stirred, prompting a journey back through my own history, to an article I penned five years prior for Tiny Buddha.
Unearthing the Echoes of Childhood
That earlier piece bravely explored a seldom-discussed facet of my upbringing: my mother’s profound overwhelm when left alone with my brother and me. This often manifested as intense anger, snapping, or shouting. As a child, I became adept at navigating this volatile landscape, learning to think ten steps ahead, meticulously choose my words, and anticipate potential triggers. Yet, even then, I wrote of my mother with compassion. Her own past, marred by an abusive, alcoholic father, offered a poignant lens through which to understand how destructive patterns can insidiously seep through generations, often without conscious intent.
Children, witnessing a parent as perpetrator and another as victim, often forge resolute decisions about what they will never tolerate, what they will never become. But sometimes, these very protective responses can morph into patterns of their own, inadvertently perpetuating elements of the original dynamic rather than truly severing the cycle.
The Untamed Flame Within
I’ve always possessed a vibrant inner fire. As a teenager, I channeled it as the spirited captain of my swim team, my voice ringing out in our chants. A parent once playfully asked my mother, “Do you feed her raw meat?” The fire itself was never the issue; the challenge lay in my inability to contain it when overwhelmed.
Becoming a mother myself brought this truth into sharp focus. I occasionally caught myself slipping into the same “chuntering” state I remembered from my own childhood – a stark red flag. I was determined that my children would not learn to meticulously monitor my emotional state as I had learned to monitor my mother’s.
Learning to Hold, Not Swallow, the Fire
This realization spurred me to action. I devised a simple, yet profoundly effective, exercise with my children. Each evening, they would mark a tick or a cross on a fridge chart, indicating whether they felt I had communicated respectfully with them that day. It was a humbling experience, and arguably one of the most transformative parenting tools I ever employed. My aim wasn’t perfection, but rather to cultivate awareness, repair missteps, and commit to continuous learning.
For so much of my childhood, fire had been synonymous with danger. Consequently, when my own children were young and sensitive to conflict, particularly loud voices, my default response was to swallow my own frustrations. I became hyper-vigilant about maintaining peace, carefully selecting my words, and containing my reactions. This was a crucial stage, undoubtedly, but it was not the ultimate destination. Swallowing our fire, after all, is not the same as regulating it.
Finding a New Voice: Forceful Yet Respectful
Through dedicated practice and introspection, I discovered a different way. I learned that I could express disagreement without resorting to attack, establish boundaries without initiating a battle, and assert “no” without needing external validation. I found a way to be forceful and firm, yet unfailingly respectful. This transformation is particularly evident in my parenting.
When my teenagers test boundaries, frustration inevitably arises. In the past, I might have suppressed it to preserve harmony, allowing it to fester until it erupted unconstructively. Now, I pause. I focus on the core message I need to convey. I can be clear and resolute about expectations without escalating the situation into a conflict. I didn’t extinguish my fire; I learned how to wield it with intention and control.
The Legacy of a Mother’s Strength
This journey illuminated why the phrase “my mother’s revenge” resonated so differently now. I could acknowledge the echoes of her behavior within myself, especially when frustration mounted. Yet, I also understood that I was not destined to repeat her patterns. I inherited her fire, yes, but the choice of what to do with it was mine alone.
My mother’s own fire, I came to understand, was born from a fierce determination: “That won’t be me.” Her childhood had laid bare the vulnerabilities of women in the face of male aggression and abandonment. She witnessed her father strike her mother, and knew her mother’s first husband had vanished, only to reappear with divorce papers. This instilled in my mother a profound resolve to protect herself, and her daughter, from similar exploitation. “Don’t be naive, don’t let yourself be taken in, don’t give someone the opportunity to hurt you” became a recurring mantra.
Ironically, my mother also nurtured a different kind of strength in me. From an early age, she’d declare, “Shona’s not afraid of anything,” or “She’s fiercely independent.” This was a voice that imbued me with courage. And, like a moth drawn to a flame, I became drawn to many of the qualities she embodied, but with a newfound understanding of how to temper and direct that inherent power.
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