We can blame each other. We can blame our environment, our parents, social media, politics, culture, or any number of things happening in the world when our children struggle to understand who they are.

But the honest truth—the one many people do not want to admit—is that we, as parents, shape the space where our children learn how to question, express, hide, fight, soften, and become themselves.

Did we take the time to let them fully express every emotion as they were growing up? Did we teach them that a tantrum is not power, but emotion looking for somewhere safe to land? Did we ignore them, punish them, shame them, or help them move through it?

One of my favorite memories from my firstborn’s toddler years was letting her cry and rage until all of her anger was fully expressed. She was not hurting anyone. She was safe. I was right there with her, tickling her and encouraging her to let it out.

“I can’t hear you! Is that all you’ve got? Come on! Fight for it. You’re so angry!”

I do not remember what made her so upset. Maybe a toy was not doing what she wanted. Maybe she lacked the dexterity or words to communicate clearly. Whatever the reason, I wanted her to know her feelings were not something to fear. I wanted to raise a fighter.

Maybe I went a little too far sometimes. In the life I left behind, I had leaned so hard into survival, control, strength, and “feminist energy” that even I eventually realized I had lost balance. I realized that years before my grandmother passed in 2017.

I showed my children softness, strength, love, care, hard work, and dedication. But I do not know if I ever truly taught them self-respect.

When their father left me during his relapse, it did a few things. It taught my children how much they felt they needed to protect me. It taught my son how much anger he had inside toward the man who raised them. I do not know what my children think about me staying in a relationship where I was miserable because I was trying to provide them with something I never had.

In reality, I had chosen to repeat the same life I had already lived.

I was raised inside a marriage that had run its course. The love and patience between two people had completely run dry, but the structure remained. I still love the man I built a life with. He is one of the best people I know. I may never truly trust him again.

And that breaks my heart in a different way.

I taught my children what love could look like, but I also taught them what pain could look like. I taught them how a man should treat a woman, and I am disappointed in some of what they saw. My children know better than to become emotionless. They know better because they watched what happens when emotions are buried until they turn into silence, resentment, or collapse.

Or maybe I am wrong.

Maybe I taught them to be comfortable in their emotions. Maybe the places where I failed were not because I did not love them enough, but because they were watching me slowly die while no one came to save me.

I was so worried about making everyone else happy that I never had the time or energy to consider myself. I never had the space to ask what I wanted to do with my own life.

I have always wanted to be a writer. I have always wanted to travel. Driving a school bus made it possible for me to see the area around me, even if I was still trapped inside a life that did not feel like mine.

I hated the job because I never got to experience life for myself. I loved it because I got to participate in field trips, sports events, and little moments that reminded me the world was still out there. Those were the moments that made driving the school bus bearable.

I always longed to see the world and bring my children with me, if they ever wanted that kind of time with me. I know I am a lot to handle. I am my mother’s daughter, and I know I would grow exhausted if I spent too much time with her, too.

My youngest is the only one who has ever seen me completely happy. He has seen someone look at me like I raised the moon. I hope I look at him like he hung the stars, because gods be damned, he did.

We all become echoes of what raised us.

Our parents were born in the 1940s. They taught us how to become the people we are. Where one family may have been overbearing and pushed mental health treatment too hard, mine did not believe in health care unless something was obviously broken, bleeding, or needed stitches.

Broken ribs. Broken jaw. Broken toes. Bloody noses. Cuts. Burns. All of it was home first aid first.

If Mom did not have a clean needle and the ability to throw a stitch in it herself, then maybe you went to the ER.

As a mother, I learned to trust my intuition. I would tell my kids, “From my experience and what I know to be true…” Then I would explain whether something seemed like a cold, something more serious, something that needed medication, or something that probably needed a cast.

I was usually pretty spot-on.

Now I am living in a place where no one knows how deeply I listen to my intuition or how quickly I can act when needed. And honestly, I have been lacking a little bit.

Give me a break.

I just left a survival lifestyle, and now I finally get to use all of the amazing skills I learned to actually enjoy life.

I am the kind of woman who will toss a blanket in the car and say, “Good enough to sleep in.” And if I do not have the blanket? I can make do.

I have lived with nothing. I have also lived in a place where I sold my soul so everything would be provided to me and my children. I hate that I lived in a monotone world where people had no color, and I felt like I had to wrap myself in black just to remind myself to stay dim.

Now I wear bright colors. I let my skin show. I am comfortable in my skin for the first time in my life.

I may hate my body some days, but I love who I am. I will always be working toward feeling better about myself in one way or another.

Right now, that means taking care of my physical health. It means getting my semiannual and annual tests, watching the things that need watching, and hoping my extreme lifestyle changes are enough to help me live until I am 102.

I want to experience life and everything it has to offer.

Maybe I call myself insane because that is the only way I know how to temper myself. Maybe it is the only way I have learned to keep my passion for life, movement, advocacy, change, and stirring the pot from taking complete control over my actions.

Sometimes I feel like one of those wind-up toys. You turn the key, set me down, and no one has any idea what I am going to do next because my wiring is not automatic. I am not built for one track.

I want to know what happens when I finally hone my passion, goals, dreams, and everything important to me into one clear map. I want to know what happens when I stop spinning in survival mode and start moving with intention.

Maybe I will go wild and bounce from track to track.

Maybe I will crash.

Maybe I will discover something amazing.

And maybe the bouncing, imbalance, speed, and chaos are not because the wind-up toy is a poor metaphor.

Maybe it is because I was never meant to stay on one track.

Maybe I need to find a way to connect all of the tracks at once and point them toward the same destination.

Or maybe I am just a train with broken rails, learning how to build the track as I go.