What Surviving Childhood Neglect Taught Me About Parenting

Since its creation, this blog has been a place for me to connect with readers, share ideas, and recommend parenting strategies. Many people disregard their childhood as a precursor to their parenting skills, while others reflect on how their experiences shaped their parenting routines.

What childhood neglect taught me was that I was responsible for everyone. What healing taught me was that children were never meant to carry that responsibility.

As a child, I believed it was my job to:

• Keep the peace
• Manage adults’ emotions
• Prevent conflict
• Fix family problems
• Save people from themselves

I want to write this post to share how my childhood experiences have shaped the way I parent my own children. I will briefly discuss the ways my beginnings influenced my parenting. I truly hope it is meaningful.

What Childhood Neglect Looked Like For Me

The Things Other People Could See

From the outside, I appeared to be a resilient and tenacious child. My clothes were always clean, though rarely fashionable, and my hair was often admired for its shine. In school, I was persistent and applied myself in every subject. My school supplies were everyone’s to share because I cared deeply about my community. Teachers and family members knew I valued learning because I was always asking questions. If my work on a math assignment was marked incorrect, I stayed after class to learn the correct process.

I usually had a few friends and did my best to be a responsible peer. I collected spare change to buy food, played double dutch, and made sure everyone got on the right bus at the end of the school day. On foot, I traveled to the library, local hangouts, and the corner market, usually for milk or snacks.

From the outside, everything seemed fine.

Inside, however, I was burning.

The Things They Did Not See

Most of the time, I felt disoriented and discouraged. I was often confused about schedules, transportation, and even when my next meal would come. I may have been a dedicated learner, but my brain stopped short, and I rarely had the mental space for true understanding. It was difficult to prepare for the ordinary responsibilities of childhood when my days were filled with emotional labor, adult chores, and conflict resolution.

Relationships in my family often revolved around pitting one adult against another. The children became sounding boards, confidants, and messengers. As a result, our needs were rarely prioritized, and we were not treated as deserving of consistency, routine, or a stable family life, resulting in us becoming fosters.

My support system was tenuous. Some days were marked by explosive fits of rage. Other days, I would come home from school only to hear, “We’re leaving right now. Get your shit.”

My biological father rarely cared for my two sisters or me. At best, he was lackadaisical and disengaged. My stepfather was—and still is—an alcoholic and drug user whose need for validation often manifested in chaos and instability. Even on his sober days, he struggled to function as a dependable adult. When he drank, he became irate, volatile, and sometimes violent. He provided my first alcoholic drink when I was merely eight.

My mother struggled with both her physical and mental health. She also struggled to maintain stable relationships, leaving little room for the consistency and security that children need to thrive.

Once, while traveling from my stepfather’s house to my biological father’s apartment, we passed an Olive Garden sign. A Family Restaurant, it read.

“Family.”

I repeated the word to myself, sounding out each letter—F-A-M-I-L-Y—over and over until we arrived.

How Childhood Neglect Followed Me Into Adulthood

Learning to Trust People

My experiences taught me that even the smallest discomforts could spiral into catastrophe. It was common to hear adults weaponize their relationships with their children or threaten suicide, abandonment, or increased drug use. When I later untangled the conflicts, I often found that the original disagreement was relatively minor—though I understand now that it stemmed from deeper insecurities and unresolved pain.

I will never forget the cookie incident. One evening, a disagreement over someone eating my stepdad’s cookies escalated into him gripping my sister’s neck. Moments like these taught me that ordinary inconveniences could quickly become dangerous.

After my stepfather drank two or three Long Island iced teas, my mother often compelled her children to express exaggerated gratitude for the evening or to help manufacture some display of affection. It was as if his attention-starved inner child had taken over. Eventually, those nights ended with her shifting into damage-control mode. To prevent further conflict, she extended her caregiving responsibilities well beyond what should have been necessary for young children—washing and folding his clothes in front of him, for example.

As I grew older, I became deeply skeptical of others and assumed people always wanted something from me. I did not get to explore life naturally because I rarely felt that anyone had my best interests at heart. It was not until years later that I realized parents are typically responsible for caring for their children—not the other way around.

I had learned to remain composed during adult crises. It seemed normal to serve as the decision-maker, mediator, and diplomat in everyday situations. I worked tirelessly to create stability because there was no blueprint to follow. I came to assume that adults were incapable of regulating their emotions, so I overprepared for everything. Forgetting something or making a mistake felt dangerous because I was accustomed to verbal explosions, threats, and violence erupting from the smallest disruption.

As an adult, I eventually learned to let go of the stress response I had built around other people’s discomfort. When someone experiences a minor setback—like losing a credit card at a nearby gas station—it does not automatically become an end-of-the-world crisis. In healthy relationships, disappointment, frustration, and inconvenience can exist without spiraling into chaos. That was a lesson I had to learn long after childhood.

Struggles With Self-Worth

I spent much of my childhood in survival mode. My life became one crisis after another, with little time to process or heal before the next one arrived. The incidents bled together in my memory, and closure was virtually nonexistent.

My nervous system was constantly on high alert. Looking back, I do not think my mind and body truly learned that I was safe—that I was allowed to simply breathe and exist—until my early twenties. I woke up exhausted. I was always tired, always burned out.

My internal dialogue revolved around a single message: You have to do this, or something terrible will happen.

Because I never learned healthy coping skills, I developed maladaptive ones instead. Positive affirmations were not part of my world. I internalized blame, guilt, and regret.

I wished I could have gone on the Europe trip with my clarinet, but my foster parents could not afford it. I wished I could have saved my mother from her eventual suicide, convinced somehow that it was my fault. I wanted to help my stepfather overcome his substance dependence. I wished I could have taught my biological father how to cook.

As a child, I carried the impossible belief that it was my responsibility to fix the adults around me. Their struggles became my burdens, their pain became my responsibility, and their failures became evidence that I had not done enough. It would take years for me to understand that none of those things were mine to carry.

Hyper-Independence and Asking for Help

I had to work early to make money, and because I was a ward of the state and a foster child, I learned to take care of myself the way an adult would. I was used to working as much as I possibly could. I had to buy a car as early as I was able and got an apartment with my sisters when I was sixteen, after I sent my foster father to prison.

I remember working at a beach restaurant, Kohl’s, Texas Roadhouse, and Spencer’s Gifts within the same one- to two-year period. My name was on my younger sister’s school forms, and I often received calls from teachers offering heartfelt congratulations for things like Student of the Week or other honors she earned.

My older sister and I earned money to pay the rent, car payments, and food. We used employee discounts to stretch what little we had, covering clothing and school supplies. We relied on food drives, yard sales, and donation events to furnish a sparse apartment.

I remember collecting blankets because I always gave my younger sister the best of what we had, so I built myself a bed out of blankets on the floor. We did what we could, as sisters, to make up for what we lacked. We were generous in the ways we could afford to be, trying to provide for one another what no one else consistently could.

Although we struggled, we were not broken. We were responsible for each other and cared deeply in ways that more stable families may never fully understand.

Disappointment looked like not being able to afford extra work shirts because I always smelled like pork ribs, or needing to replace makeup after I lost my belongings in a car accident that totaled our Ford Focus.

I often told myself that my problems were relatively normal for someone my age. But even now, I wonder if it was ever truly normal to house four young adults in a small two-bedroom apartment.

Parenting Without a Roadmap

I became a parent in my early twenties after meeting my partner at a restaurant where we both worked. I remember warning him that I was a “basket case.” While he thought I was being cute, I felt I needed to be very clear: it was a daily struggle to stay mindful when my negative thoughts often overwhelmed my ability to function normally.

It felt strange at first to sit and eat cereal together without arguing about something like which grocery store to go to. When I opposed something, it often wasn’t met with conflict but with agreement. We were a largely non-confrontational couple and rarely had disputes.

When we decided to become parents, it was mutual and felt steady, not rushed or uncertain. We were willing to take on the challenge and understood the level of selflessness and sacrifice it would require.

Still, I continued to emphasize my nervous system struggles. For example, on road trips, my partner might expect me to take in beautiful mountain scenery, while my body simply needed sleep to regulate. I was still learning how to function outside of survival mode.

I collected parenting books obsessively, trying to prepare myself with as much knowledge as possible so we could be the strongest parents we could be despite my traumatic past. I believed my experience with caregiving, combined with his experience of relative stability, could balance each other in raising children.

We got pregnant and moved west when I was 38 weeks pregnant with our firstborn.

Becoming a Parent Changed Everything

Realizing What I Missed as a Child

What I missed most as a child was the opportunity to have a relationship with someone who could listen to my truest feelings and internal struggles. I missed the experience of having a reciprocal emotional relationship where someone was available to listen, hold space, and be a consistent confidant.

When I became a parent, I realized more deeply that I had no one to turn to for support—no one to talk to. I was alone in my mind and, in many ways, alone in my real life. I came to accept that my support system was extremely limited.

I struggled with feelings of food insecurity and often ignored my own hunger cues, even when we were more than adequately stocked with essentials. I also struggled to move past anger. I was deeply unsettled by my experiences and had difficulty understanding how to process my rage. Because I had primarily witnessed unhealthy ways of expressing anger and grief, I simply did not know what healthy emotional regulation looked like.

I also didn’t know how to have fun or enjoy simple, ordinary moments. I was intolerant of boredom and could not stay regulated. I disliked board games because they were tied to memories that felt chaotic and, many times, traumatic, as adults liked to “play games.” Unless someone was in crisis, I often felt uncomfortable, causing me to catastrophize minor issues. I struggled with the quiet, mundane moments of life and eventually realized I needed to learn how to tolerate them—because parenting, in reality, contains a great deal of ordinary, uneventful time.

I did not have anyone to call and vent to, because that kind of emotional support was not a normal part of my life. Flashbacks of instability would surface in my mind, reminding me of the experiences that shaped how I understood the world.

Over time, I realized I had been wrong about many things. I had to learn how to redirect my thoughts onto a different path—one that reflected the reality I was living in now, rather than the one I had survived before.

I like to call this “running in place.” Like running in place, your mind is still moving, but you are not actually going anywhere. By continually thinking, you are trying to reposition your thoughts just to maintain where you already are. You stay in the same place, yet you still become exhausted.

My mind was always tired. I wanted relief from thought patterns that once kept me safe, but no longer served me as a parent raising my children.

The Grief I Didn’t Expect

I did not look forward to holidays, birthdays, or major social events because I could not fully access excitement for them. I had a difficult time adjusting to a relatively normal lifestyle—one that was quieter and less defined by chaos or artificial drama.

I would wail uncontrollably more days than not, and I experienced severe postpartum depression that eventually developed into clinical depression. I tried to stay optimistic and to interpret what others did through the lens of how I was raised, as if that might make it easier to understand.

I made countless photo books to preserve memories—both positive and negative. I would go on long walks with my children and often feel like something was missing. I wanted to call someone just to stay grounded and content, but I had no mother or father to reach out to. I had no one to turn to, and very little support for the things new parents typically need help with.

Everything around me seemed to point back to my history—my deceased mother, my abusive stepfather, my passive and emotionally unavailable father, and my oblivious foster parents. Because children force you to grow, I learned I had to confront the thing I feared most: healthy attachment. I still didn’t fully understand what that looked like when all I had ever known was turbulence.

I latched onto small moments in an effort to feel something stable and healthy. If a squirrel died in the street, my children and I would stop and talk about it—about what it might have felt like and how we could give it a proper burial.

My anger would surface unexpectedly, especially when my children did not stay emotionally regulated or did not finish their dinner. At times, I expected my toddler daughter to do the dishes. While it is normal for parents to have expectations of their children, I had to learn what was reasonable, because what I had experienced had not modeled realistic expectations for a young child.

Wanting to Do Things Differently

I realized I needed to pivot when my present no longer mirrored my past experiences. As an adult, I had a better life than I did as a child. That realization came with responsibility: I had to break cycles, including patterns of addiction, and build a stronger foundation for the next generation.

I had to create routine where none had existed before. I had to establish a baseline emotional stability as part of my own recovery from childhood trauma. At times, I struggled with functional alcohol use and eventually had to stop.

I gave myself permission to grieve, but I also had to acknowledge my human tendencies and allow emotions to move through me rather than be controlled by them. Becoming a parent forced me to care for my own mental and emotional health in order to model that care for my children.

I learned to crochet, knit, and garden, and I revisited long division. I worked to rebuild a sense of structure in my life through small, ordinary practices. I learned to lower myself onto my hands and knees, to loosen the grip my mind had on my body—so I could begin to experience life without constantly predicting tragedy.

Lessons Childhood Neglect Taught Me About Parenting

Love Is More Than Providing Basic Needs

Loving my children meant teaching nuance. I broke the fourth wall.

I taught my kids that it is okay to experience emotions and that sometimes you might break something fragile—whether physical or emotional.

I taught them that family life is a balance between togetherness and healthy distance. Most of the time, the easy way out is also the more careless one.

I encourage them to ask good questions. I reinforce that confusion is a necessary part of learning, and that feeling unsure is completely normal.

Sometimes nothing makes sense, and other times everything suddenly does.

Children Need to Feel Seen and Heard

Kids crave very specific attention in order to flourish. I try my hardest, and so does their dad, to be present and honor their differences.

Kids are loud, messy, and constantly experimenting—with sticks, mud, and video games. And still, they are deserving of your attention.

Some of my most fulfilling parenting moments are when I hear, “Mama, can I show you something?” or when I’m called repeatedly, only to find no one and no real emergency—just a desire to play hide and seek.

The more narrow my perspective becomes, the more I struggle as a parent. I also try to teach my children to treat failure as something safe and normal.

So when I notice I’ve become too distant or too clingy, I adjust. I widen my perspective again and look for more ways to connect.

Consistency Creates Safety

As a parent, I try to create predictable schedules, memorable park and museum outings, and regular time for listening. We listen before we solve. We use calendars, journals, planners, and plenty of loose paper.

I try to understand before reacting. I apologize when it is appropriate and hold myself accountable for my mistakes. I want to understand how I can adapt and change as my children grow and shift.

Schedules may change with each new stage of development, but the basic premise remains the same: how can we stay active, connected, and healthy as a family?

I try to create new memories while gently filling in older ones with experiences that feel more relatable, grounded, and secure. I notice that as my children grow, they express sadness about experiences like family death, the global pandemic, and abrupt changes. As they are given space to feel that sadness, they also learn to make room for their own needs.

Over time, I’ve seen that change is often balanced by a strong need for predictable routine as they discover who they are and what they enjoy. As a family, we stay flexible while also honoring the routines that help us stay regulated.

We regularly have family game nights, “repair nights,” where we talk through problem behaviors, and shared dinners. Every child deserves to find a rhythm. Every child deserves to feel safe.

Final Thoughts

My childhood was quite tumultuous—we have only barely scratched the surface here. I wanted to write this post because I have a unique perspective and wanted to share how my experiences shaped who I became, and how becoming a parent forced me to confront my own weaknesses.

Becoming a parent required me to evaluate what I had learned so I would not unintentionally pass harmful patterns on to my children. I had to learn new ways to cope and model healthy communication, even though I did not grow up with a clear example of what that looked like.

Overcoming challenges often presents a choice at a fork in the road. It can be easier to be avoidant or disengaged because that is what many of us learn as a response to discomfort. But choosing effort when it matters most creates more long-term ease, stability, and freedom in daily life.

I am still learning, but I am no longer running in place—I am building something steadier for my children, my family, and myself.