“Always communicate with compassion to your child. Even if they appear not to listen, repeat those phrases a hundred or even a thousand times, and they’ll eventually become the child’s own inner dialogue.” ~My grandmother
When I think back to my childhood, “night” is the first term that surfaces.
The nights were consistently the most challenging.
My father struggled with alcoholism and occasionally expressed his pain through aggression in the home.
As a young one, I felt peril could emerge at any moment once darkness fell.
I was afraid of sleeping soundly. I kept a light on in my room because the dark felt like surrendering control.
I positioned my head near the door, leaving it slightly open. I wanted it to bump my head if someone entered, so I could wake up immediately.
Part of me was terrified my father could enter and do something to me while I slept.
Another part worried he might harm my mother, and I would be oblivious. Thus, I remained half awake, attuned to every sound, ready to defend her, even though I was just a young child.
Living this way made attending school feel impossible.
I was too drained to concentrate, my body tense from nightly anxieties. Moreover, people in our neighborhood were aware of my father’s issues.
Some parents instructed their kids to steer clear of forming friendships with me due to his reputation. At school, I often found myself alone, observing other children laughing together during lunch while I quietly ate in the corner.
Teachers mostly recognized my pain only when it surfaced as misbehavior. They often reprimanded me, and soon I began to internalize the belief that something was deeply flawed within me.
In my own perception, I wasn’t an anxious, weary child. I was labeled “the bad one,” the difficult child, the person everyone evaded. I didn’t know how to alter that narrative, so I bore it like a heavy burden.
My mother was also struggling. Wounded by my father, anxious about finances, and perpetually fearful of what might happen next, she occasionally raised her voice at me when I misbehaved as she had exhausted her energy. I don’t hold it against her—she was doing her best in a tough situation.
One day, my grandmother came to visit and witnessed my mother yelling at me. Later, she pulled her aside and imparted something that transformed our lives.
She suggested, “Always speak positively to your child. Even if it appears he isn’t paying attention, if you repeat those affirming words a hundred or a thousand times, they will eventually become his thoughts.”
My grandmother was convinced that reiterating love could reshape a child’s internal landscape.
My mother took this to heart more than I could have anticipated. She began carrying a small notebook.
Within it, she penned line after line—things she wished for me to believe about myself. The pages were brimming, overflowing with her aspirations for me.
Daily, she selected a different phrase to share with me. At times she would say, “You are a kind boy.” Other times, “You can evolve into a gentle, strong adult.” Occasionally, “No matter what happened today, you still