I grew up knowing I was loved. My father made sure of that, offering effusive declarations of affection that echoed across school parking lots for everyone to hear. But it wasn’t until I became a mother myself that I truly understood a critical distinction: love and emotional safety are not always the same thing.
That realization forms the foundation of a profound personal shift explored in Motherly’s series, Can I Be Honest?, where mothers share the vulnerabilities and unspoken realities of parenting that rarely make it into casual group chats. For writer and somatic practitioner Ariana Friedlander, the journey into motherhood became an unexpected mirror, reflecting not just her own deep affection for her daughter, but also the unresolved shadows of her own upbringing.
When Friedlander first held her newborn daughter to her chest, the emotional response was immediate and overwhelming. She felt the same effusive love she had known in her youth, showering the baby with kisses, snuggles, and constant reassurance. The early months were a period of seamless connection; her daughter was an easy infant who didn’t fuss for long, allowing Friedlander to look into her eyes and intuitively understand her needs.
However, as infancy gave way to toddlerhood, the dynamic shifted. Like many young children, Friedlander’s daughter began expressing herself through normal developmental behaviors—throwing tantrums and seeking physical closeness. Lacking the perspective that these outbursts were a normal part of growing up, Friedlander initially reacted with hypercriticism and controlling behaviors. Unintentionally, her reaction only further dysregulated the toddler, setting off a cycle of escalating tension.
The underlying patterns of her family history came into sharp focus when her daughter was three years old. During a visit, Friedlander’s father observed the toddler—who was feeling unwell and behaving in a tender, clinging manner toward her mother—and openly criticized the child’s emotional display. He remarked that she was rejecting him, expressed disappointment that she was still acting like a toddler, and criticized her sensitivity.
Initially, Friedlander experienced a wave of shame and embarrassment, hoping to mold her daughter into the kind of grandchild who would make her father proud, much as she had tried to do in her own childhood. But as she processed the incident in her journal, a buried memory surfaced. She recalled how, when she was younger, any display of anger or upset from her would prompt her father to roll his eyes, declare he didn’t want to be near her if she was going to "act that way," and shut the door to her room while threatening her for crying.
Allowing herself to sit with the discomfort rather than pushing it away, Friedlander recognized the deep sense of loneliness and worthlessness that his conditional approval had left behind. She realized that her father’s love had always come with strings attached, and she firmly resolved not to pass that same emotional disdain down to her daughter.
What the body remembers
That realization was reinforced a few weeks later during a stressful house move. When her daughter experienced a severe meltdown amidst the packing chaos, Friedlander exploded in anger, frustrated that the child was complicating an already difficult situation. Struggling to cope, she called her mother, who recounted the single major tantrum Friedlander had thrown as a child over a Barbie doll she couldn’t dress. Unable to reason with her young daughter back then, Friedlander’s mother had similarly closed the bedroom door and walked away.
The revelation hit Friedlander hard. She remembered the lingering pain of that isolation, realizing she had never been taught how to manage big emotions, only how to suppress them until they inevitably boiled over. She recognized the familiar physical sensation—sadness draining from her head while anger rose from her sternum. While she was determined not to shame her daughter’s emotions the way her own parents had, simply knowing her goal did not make it easy to achieve. Her daughter’s outbursts continued, and caught in old reactive loops, Friedlander often felt she needed to "win the fight" rather than remaining present and co-regulating her own nervous system.
Seeking a way out of these inherited cycles, Friedlander turned to somatic therapy.
Unlike traditional talk therapy, somatic therapy focuses on the body as a primary gateway to healing. Developed by trauma researchers who observed that distressing experiences remain stored in the physical body regardless of conscious memory, this approach addresses how past events rewire the nervous system. These old wirings often leave individuals trapped in automatic survival responses—fight, flight, freeze, or fawn. For parents, somatic therapy offers a mechanism to interrupt reactive patterns, allowing them to act in alignment with their values rather than relying on outdated mechanisms like shame and fear.
Sitting in her therapist’s office, grappling with initial discomfort and lingering guilt over feeling critical of her parents, Friedlander slowly learned to acknowledge the stored hurt. With guidance, she practiced staying present with the emotions she had suppressed for decades, meeting them with self-compassion instead of judgment. As she developed greater kindness toward her own difficult moments, she discovered an expanded capacity to remain steady during her daughter’s emotional storms.
Friedlander emphasizes that she could not simply think her way out of her conditioning; true safety had to be experienced physically rather than just understood intellectually. In her professional practice as a somatic practitioner, she observes the same phenomenon in other parents and professionals whose minds understand what needs to change, but whose bodies continue running old programs.
To help disrupt these automatic responses, she frequently utilizes a simple three-step framework known as the 3 Ns: notice, name, and navigate. This process involves noticing physical manifestations of stress—such as a clenched jaw, a racing heart, or chest tightness—naming the state internally by acknowledging activation, and navigating the moment by introducing a deliberate pause. Whether through a deep breath, stepping outside, splashing cool water on the face, or grounding oneself by observing the surrounding environment, these actions create a vital choice point that interrupts automatic reactivity.
Becoming a calmer, steadier presence
Today, the approach has fundamentally changed the atmosphere in Friedlander’s home. When her daughter—now a tween—returns from school carrying the heavy emotional weight of a difficult day, Friedlander resists the urge to immediately react or fix the problem. Instead, she remains present, curious, and quiet, offering a steady witness rather than an attempt at control. In those moments, she can feel her daughter’s body physically relax, her nervous system settling because she is being met with empathy rather than evaluation.
Acknowledging that healing is an ongoing journey, Friedlander notes that perfection is no longer the goal. Parenting a growing child means missteps still happen, as evidenced by a recent tense morning involving household chores where she lost her temper and spoke harshly. However, the aftermath looked entirely different from her own childhood experiences. After noticing the familiar drivers of shame and anger, she took steps to manage her internal state, apologized to her daughter, and took full accountability for her behavior.
That willingness to repair, she notes, is the piece her parents were never able to show her—and it remains the most vital gift she is committed to passing on to her child.
