Parenting Through Trauma: A Journey of Healing & Understanding
I’m a parent who’s walked through the fire of raising children touched by childhood trauma and managing my own scars from the past. At times, it’s felt like juggling roles: parent, therapist, advocate, teacher and often all at once. Some days, trauma whispers that I’m failing. But research shows something profound: we are not alone, and our efforts can break cycles of harm.
The Hidden Weight of Trauma
Childhood trauma isn’t just an emotional wound, it reshapes brain development, affecting trust, regulation, and resilience (Trauma Research Foundation). As parents, many of us carry remnants of past hurt especially if we grew up in chaotic homes or experienced neglect or abuse at some stage of our lives. These patterns can echo in our parenting, often without us realising it. We are also products of our generation. Let’s face it parenting has moved on a lot since the “wait ‘til I get you home” of the 80’s.
UK data shows approximately 68% of women and 57% of men facing mental health challenges are parents (Mental Health Foundation) yet support is often inadequate. Without reflection, unresolved trauma may unintentionally shape how we respond to our children, especially during overwhelming moments.
This Morning
This morning began like many others, a whirlwind. My son, who lives with the impact of early trauma and neurodivergence, woke like a hurricane. The storm that arrives as the day begins. The shouts, squeals, a flurry of stimming and stomping. Everything is heightened. Our morning routine becomes an emotional endurance test.
He moved quickly from one impulse to the next, every sound, every texture seemingly too much. He squealed when the deodrant met his skin felt wrong, struggled through the need to move and jerk his body incessantly and shouted when I asked him to get dressed. These aren’t just tantrums. They’re responses from a nervous system that’s always on high alert, a brain shaped by early trauma.
I used to try to control these moments: raising my voice, laying down consequences. But these days, I’m learning to meet his dysregulation with co-regulation. I bring him breakfast to his room, not as an indulgence, but to remove the sensory overwhelm of the kitchen. His clothes are laid out the night before, giving him one less mountain to climb. A checklist with eight simple steps helps him stay on track. These are strategies born of trial, error, and persistence…certainly not perfection.
Still, there are moments of struggle. Today, he got half-dressed, then bolted downstairs. I called after him, and he shouted, “No!”
That familiar voice on my shoulder chimed in, the one shaped by my own experience: “Are you really going to let him talk to you like that?” The voice whispered that he doesn’t respect me, that love means compliance. It told me that I needed to win, to assert control, to teach him a lesson. It’s the same voice that says children must obey, that kindness looks like silence, and that boundaries must be policed with consequences or I’m failing as a parent.
This voice isn’t always loud, but it’s persistent. It echoes from a place deep inside where my own childhood expectations were wired in. I grew up in a household where children didn’t answer back, where ‘being good’ was a currency for approval. I’ve internalised that model, and I still measure my worth by how agreeable, helpful and rule-abiding I am. I bend myself into shapes to avoid conflict. I over-function. I say yes when I mean no. And when my son shouts at me, a little voice inside me whispers that I must not be lovable if I’m being spoken to like that.
This is the truth I carry alongside my parenting: I’m still healing too.
But I’ve come to understand that voice doesn’t always serve me or my children. So I paused.
Instead of escalating, I walked downstairs. I softened my tone. “What are you doing, sweetheart? Do you need help?”
He looked up, quieter now. I reminded him he could tick off another item on his checklist if he came back up. He did. Later, he even said sorry. Not because I demanded it but because I gave him space to return to regulation.
But that wasn’t the only fire to put out.
My daughter (facing her transition day at high school) needed me too. I had tried to give her a special moment that morning. I brushed and styled her hair, hoping to build a bubble of calm around her. But as the tension with my son mounted, she felt forgotten. When we asked her to help with something, she snapped. “No!” she shouted, storming off.
My husband called after her, but she didn’t come. Minutes passed, and then she reappeared having done the task anyway. She had taken a small but significant pause.
Later, I said, “I wanted this morning to be special for you.” She replied, “I’m sorry.”
And that’s when it clicked: she had taken a pause.
It reminded me of something I wrote recently, “the power of a pause”. My daughter, in her own way, used that pause to self-regulate, to reset. That space is something I fight to give both of them and myself.
The Evenings Aren’t Easy Either
It doesn’t end when the school day does.
By the time we’re back home, my son’s composure has thinned to its last threads. Transitions are always hard for him. The noise, the social strain, the constant effort of ‘keeping it together’ at school… it all comes undone the moment he walks through the door.
Last week, was a real challenge. The slightest request or comment would provoke an aggressive response. I felt the sting rise in my chest. My instinct screamed: He’s being disrespectful. He should apologise. He needs to understand consequences. But when I took that breath, I saw something different. His red cheeks. The tension in his shoulders. The wide eyes. This wasn’t defiance. It was dysregulation. A cry for safety, not a challenge to authority.
That voice, the one I’ve carried for decades, urged me to react. It told me I was letting him “get away with it.” That other parents wouldn’t tolerate this. That I was too soft. But I’ve come to understand that voice isn’t always the wisest in the room. It’s often the loudest when I’m scared. Scared I’m not doing it right. Scared I’m being judged. Scared I’m failing.
So instead, I said, “I think you’re having a really hard time so I think you should choose something that would help (like football or lego). Have a think what would be best” He nodded, silent now. He chose the lego and tv. Later he let me close the gap, physically and emotionally. And later that night, when the storm had passed, he told me he was sorry and hugged me so tight I thought my heart would crack.
These are the moments trauma-informed parenting gives us: not perfect outcomes, but real connection.
Parenting With Old Scars
The trauma we carry as parents doesn’t just live in memory, it lives in how we react. In the expectations we hold. In the shame we feel when things don’t go to plan. I grew up learning that respect was silent, unquestioning obedience. That love was about being agreeable. And yet here I am, trying to raise children who challenge, who cry out, who unravel… and who deserve to be seen through the lens of compassion, not compliance.
It’s not easy. I still fall into old patterns. I still get it wrong. But I’m learning to shift from consequence to understanding, from shame to strategy.
Because the truth is: these kids don’t need fixing. They need support. They need presence. They need us to be their external regulation until they can manage it on their own.
A Work in Progress
Some mornings are storms. Others are slow drizzles. But I’ve tried to stop searching for sunshine and started focusing on building shelter.
There are moments where I want to scream, cry, or shut the door. But I remind myself: healing doesn’t mean perfection. It means showing up. Again. And again. And again.
And maybe today, it means walking back upstairs with a cup of tea, a checklist, and enough softness to ride the wave.
Resources
Beacon House: Excellent resources on trauma-informed care
Trauma Research Foundation: Leading edge trauma science and tools
PAC-UK: Post-adoption support & therapeutic parenting
If your mornings are hard too, know this: you are not alone. And your presence—messy, patient, imperfect—is enough.
Let’s keep rewriting the story.
