When I first became a mom, I thought parenting was mostly about teaching. You know, teaching your child to eat vegetables, say thank you, be kind, brush their teeth, and not lick the grocery cart handle.
But lately, I’ve realized parenting is also about repairing. Not just your child’s scrapes and spills, but something inside you. It’s about reparenting the little kid you once were —the one who didn’t always get what she needed, even when she was loved. The one who did her best, absorbed what she didn’t understand, and carried feelings she couldn’t name.
And nothing brings that out quite like watching your child walk through the same moments you once struggled with.
My son just started school this year, and for him it’s exciting—new backpack, new friends, new everything. For me, it’s like someone pressed play on an old, grainy reel of my own childhood. Because school, for me, was complicated.
I wasn’t bullied, but I wasn’t particularly seen either. I was the quiet kid, the one who sat in the corner, did well in class, but couldn’t quite figure out how to join the fun. By the end of the year, half the class didn’t know my name. I used to watch the “group projects” turn into friend clusters and wonder who I’d end up with. Spoiler: sometimes, no one.
By college, I forced myself to become more social, more outgoing, more “normal.” I learned to fake confidence until it felt slightly more real. But the shy, overthinking kid inside me never disappeared; she just got quieter.
And now she’s back, sitting next to me at soccer practice.
My son is a little shy, too. Totally normal for a five-year-old. But every time I see him hang back while the other kids are already playing, or freeze when the coach says “find a partner,” I feel a familiar tightening in my chest, that small, irrational panic.
In my head, it escalates fast: Oh no, he’s going to be the lonely kid. He’ll get left out. He’ll hate sports. He’ll eat lunch alone. He’ll never learn to network as an adult, and..
You get the idea.
Meanwhile, five minutes later, he’s happily crouched over a bug, talking to it like it’s his best friend, and I’m still emotionally hyperventilating in the corner.
That’s the thing about parenting. It’s not just about what your child is going through; it’s about what it stirs up in you.
Every time he hesitates on the playground, I’m not just seeing him. I’m seeing myself at seven, sitting on a bench, pretending to tie my shoelaces so I wouldn’t look like I had no one to play with. Suddenly, I’m both the mother and the child, trying to comfort them both.
It’s wild how our kids become mirrors. They magnify everything, the healed parts, the messy parts, the things you thought you’d outgrown.
But I keep reminding myself, he is not me. He’s his own person. He may grow out of this, or he may stay a little shy forever, and that’s okay, too. My anxiety belongs to me. That’s my unfinished business, not his.
Reparenting, for me, is realizing when I’m parenting my son and when I’m really parenting the younger version of myself through him. It’s catching myself before I project my story onto his. It’s learning not to grieve things that haven’t even happened yet.
Sometimes the most challenging part of parenting isn’t the tantrums, the sleepless nights, or the endless snacks. It’s facing yourself —the version that never fully found comfort.
When I feel that old panic rise, I remind myself that he doesn’t need rescuing. He just needs to be seen, the same way that little girl once did. She wasn’t wrong for being quiet. She wasn’t less lovable. She was just wired differently.
And I still am. I’m still shy. I still hate small talk. I’m still the one who needs a minute to warm up. At 42, I’m learning that it’s okay, that you can lean into who you are without trying to fix it.
I just hope my son learns that sooner than I did.
So maybe that’s the real repair. Not turning your child into a more confident version of yourself, but helping them feel at home in who they already are.
Because this time, when a kid hesitates before joining the group, there’s someone nearby saying, “Take your time, buddy. You’ll find your people.”
And that’s me, the grown-up version of the quiet girl who finally believes that was enough all along.
