Article Information

Category: Personal Stories
Topic: Emotional wellbeing, parenting, perfectionism, self-worth, family dynamics, breaking cycles
Author: Author information withheld by request

I Never Thought It Was Abuse

For most of my life, I believed abuse was something that happened in other families.

Abuse was yelling, hitting, threats, fear, police reports, and broken homes. Abuse was obvious. It left bruises. It made the evening news.

My childhood looked nothing like that.
I grew up in a home where my parents loved me.

At least, I never doubted that they did.

There was food on the table. I had clothes to wear. I was encouraged to work hard in school. My parents attended my activities, worried about my future, and wanted me to succeed.

For many years, that was enough evidence for me.

How could I possibly claim I had experienced abuse when I knew there were children who had suffered so much more?

The word never crossed my mind.

Not once.

When Success Never Felt Like Enough

Instead, I grew up believing something else.

I believed there was something wrong with me.

I was never quite good enough. Never quite responsible enough. Never quite successful enough. Never quite grateful enough.
There was always another standard to meet, another expectation to satisfy, another reason I should have done better.

If I brought home a report card with five excellent grades and one average grade, the conversation focused on the average grade.
If I achieved something important, the celebration was often brief before attention shifted to what came next.
If I made a mistake, even a small one, it seemed to become evidence of a larger flaw in my character.

I don’t think my parents intended to hurt me.

In fact, I believe they were trying to help.

They wanted me to succeed. They wanted me to be prepared for life. They wanted me to avoid failure.

The problem was that somewhere along the way, I stopped hearing encouragement and started hearing something very different.

I heard that my worth depended on my performance.
I heard that mistakes were unacceptable.
I heard that love and approval had to be earned.

As a child, I couldn’t explain any of this.

I simply adapted.

I became a perfectionist.
I became anxious.
I learned to monitor every word I spoke and every decision I made.

I became terrified of disappointing people.

From the outside, I looked successful.
Inside, I felt exhausted.

For years, I carried those beliefs into adulthood without questioning them.
I chose careers, friendships, and relationships that reinforced the same patterns.

I measured myself constantly.
I criticized myself relentlessly.

No matter what I achieved, it never felt like enough.

There was always another hill to climb.
Another expectation to meet.
Another opportunity to prove my value.

The Moment Everything Changed

Then I became a parent.

At first, I was determined to do everything differently.
Every new parent says that.

We promise ourselves that we will avoid the mistakes made by previous generations. We imagine that awareness alone will protect us.
Unfortunately, patterns are stubborn things.
The lessons we learn as children often become invisible rules that govern our behaviour as adults.

One afternoon, my child came home excited about something they had accomplished at school.
They handed me a paper with a huge smile on their face.
I looked at it.
And without thinking, I pointed out the mistake.

Just one small mistake.

A tiny correction.

A simple observation.

At least that’s what I thought it was.

The smile disappeared almost immediately.
Not dramatically.
Not with tears.
Not with anger.

It simply faded.

The way a light dims when someone turns down the switch.

The moment lasted only seconds.
But it stayed with me.
Because suddenly I remembered that feeling.
I knew exactly what had happened.
I had experienced it hundreds of times myself.

A child sharing something with pride.
An adult focusing on what was wrong.

A child seeking connection.
An adult offering correction.

I told myself it wasn’t a big deal.

Every parent makes mistakes. Every parent gives feedback. Every parent wants their child to improve.

But the moment kept returning to me.

Days later.
Weeks later.
Months later.

I began noticing other things.

How quickly I pointed out flaws.
How often I corrected before I encouraged.
How easily I dismissed emotions with phrases like:

“You’re overreacting.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“You’ll understand when you’re older.”

I heard my own voice.

And sometimes, if I am honest, I heard my parents’ voices too.

Understanding Intent and Impact

That realization was deeply uncomfortable.
Because it forced me to confront a possibility I had spent my entire life avoiding.

What if some of the things that hurt me as a child weren’t normal?
What if good intentions didn’t erase the impact?
What if emotional harm could occur even in loving homes?

I began reading.
Talking.
Reflecting.

Learning.

And for the first time, I encountered a phrase that felt impossible to accept.

Emotional abuse.

I resisted it immediately.
The word seemed too strong.
Too harsh.
Too unfair.

My parents weren’t monsters.
They weren’t cruel.
They weren’t trying to damage me.
They were doing what many parents do.

They were repeating what they had experienced themselves.

The more I learned, however, the more I realized that intent and impact are not always the same thing.

A parent can love their child deeply and still hurt them.
A parent can want the best for their child and still create wounds.
A parent can be trying to protect, motivate, or prepare a child for life while unintentionally teaching fear, shame, or self-doubt.

Breaking the Cycle

That realization changed everything.

Not because it filled me with anger.
Oddly enough, it filled me with compassion.

For myself.
For my parents.
For every family trapped in patterns they never chose and never questioned.

I started understanding that emotional harm often moves through generations quietly.

Not through malice.
Not through cruelty.
Through repetition.

A parent learns a way of speaking.
A child grows up hearing it.
That child becomes an adult.
Then a parent.

Then repeats it.

The cycle continues.

Not because anyone wants it to.
Because it feels normal.
Because it is familiar.
Because it is all we know.

The hardest part of breaking a cycle is recognizing that it exists.

Once I saw it, I could no longer ignore it.
I started apologizing when I made mistakes.
I started listening more carefully.
I started asking questions instead of immediately offering solutions.
I began celebrating effort instead of demanding perfection.

Most importantly, I began trying to separate my child’s worth from their performance.

I wanted them to understand something I had struggled to believe for most of my life.
That mistakes do not reduce their value.
That failure does not make them a failure.
That being loved and being successful are not the same thing.

Am I perfect?

Not even close.

I still catch myself repeating old habits.
I still hear echoes of the past in my own words.
The difference is that now I notice them.

Awareness creates choice.
Choice creates change.
And change, however imperfect, creates hope.

When people talk about abuse, they often imagine the worst examples.
Sometimes those examples are real and deserve our full attention.
But there are other forms of harm that are more difficult to recognize.

They hide behind good intentions.
They disguise themselves as discipline, preparation, protection, or motivation.
They are often passed from one generation to the next by people who genuinely believe they are helping.

Recognizing that truth is uncomfortable.
But discomfort is sometimes where growth begins.

Today, I do not see my childhood through a lens of blame.
I see it through a lens of understanding.

My parents were imperfect people raising children with the tools they had available.

So am I.

The difference is that I now have an opportunity they may never have had.
I can stop and ask difficult questions.
I can challenge patterns.

I can choose a different path.

And perhaps that is what breaking a cycle really means.
Not condemning the generation that came before us.
Not pretending we will never make mistakes.
But having the courage to recognize harm, learn from it, and ensure that the next generation carries a little less of it forward.