The guilt of wanting your child to listen

If you’ve ever found yourself shouting "Why can’t you just listen?!" before 8 am and then instantly feeling guilty, this is for you.

If you're exhausted from doing everything you can to be a good mum, reading the books, trying to stay calm, trying to do things differently from how you were raised, but still find yourself crying in the bathroom or snapping over something small... this is for you too.

You’re not failing. You’re not broken. You’re a good mum, one who’s just doing their best in a job that is really hard.

And I promise, you’re not the only one wishing your child would just do what you’ve asked the first time or even the third time. Especially now, with summer holidays looming, and the pressure to be calm, creative, fun, and patient 24/7, on top of everything else.

But here’s what I want you to know: wanting things to feel easier doesn’t make you a bad parent. And the fact that it feels hard doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong.

So let’s take a breath (never underestimate the power of a few deep breaths).

When your child is in a full meltdown, screaming, crying, refusing to listen, it’s not just stressful; it can feel genuinely threatening. Like your whole body is saying, "This isn’t safe."

Maybe it reminds you of how it felt when you were little and emotions weren’t safe. Or maybe it’s just the sheer overwhelm of being needed so much, so loudly, so often. Either way, it’s no wonder we snap.

One of the most powerful things I’ve learned to say in those moments is: "I’m safe." Quietly, under my breath.

It might sound ridiculous, but it works — because your brain can’t tell the difference between real danger and the micro-stresses we go through all day as parents.

Saying it helps bring you back into your body. It reminds you that you don’t have to react like you’re under attack.

You can pause. You can choose how you respond.

And this is exactly the kind of nervous system support I help my clients build, so they can stop parenting from a place of panic and start responding from a place of calm, clarity, and compassion.

I just want to add, even with all my training, even after years of supporting other families, I still have those moments most days, usually when we’re already running late, where I think: Why won’t they just do what I asked the first time? Why does it have to be so hard?

Goodness is not the goal

I have two children who are completely different. My son is more compliant, more bouncy, but less emotionally intense. My daughter feels things deeply. Her emotions are huge. And when she’s dysregulated, it’s hard. Really hard. Especially when I’m tired, or I’ve had a long day at work, or I just want to make one dinner without thinking of four different versions to suit everyone. Or my son just won't sit still, and I've told him 20 times to just eat his dinner.

Some days, I just want to get out the door or eat a meal without someone crying or me shouting, "Why can't you just listen?"

And then I feel guilty.

But here’s what I want you to know: if you’ve shouted, if you’ve lost it, if you’ve said something you wish you hadn’t, all is not lost.

What matters most isn’t getting it right every time. It’s what happens after. The repair. The reconnection. The moment where you take a breath, come back together, and remind your child (and yourself) that you’re both still safe, still loved, and still learning.

And the thing is… they’re only little. They are good kids. But good kids have big emotions sometimes. And when we expect them to be calm, reasonable, and easy all the time, we forget that being "good" doesn’t mean being emotionless. It means being human, and safe enough to let it show, and their big emotions don't mean we are failing.

I was never very good at being the “good girl.” I was loud, emotional, full-on. I didn’t read the room and make myself smaller to keep the peace — I didn’t know how. And growing up, I learned that those parts of me weren’t always welcome. So I learned that to be lovable, I had to hide my emotions. That being easy to be around was more important than being honest about how I felt.

Now I see those same big feelings in my daughter. She’s my mini-me. She’s got my fire — and I don’t want her to lose that. But parenting her is really hard sometimes. I’m starting to understand why my mum found me so difficult, but she didn’t have all the tools I have now to do better. I want to raise kids who will always come to me when they have a problem — something I know she wishes I could do, but even now, she doesn’t feel like a safe person to be vulnerable with, a lot of the time.

I have to constantly remind myself, my job isn’t to raise a ‘good girl.’ It’s to raise a child who knows she’s loved, even when she’s hard to be around. Who knows how to feel her feelings, not bury them. Who doesn’t spend her adult life apologising for her vulnerability, because I know that is the reason so many of us struggle with our mental health.

The hidden cost of "good"

So many of us were raised to perform for approval. We became helpers, people-pleasers, and perfectionists. That's hard pre-kids, but once you become a parent, it's exhausting. We're parenting whilst trying to reparent ourselves, whilst trying to learn healthy ways to manage our emotions. Whilst carrying childhood messages that whisper: If your child is out of control, you must be doing it wrong, or everyone thinks you're a bad parent, or she is a horrible little girl

And those messages we have been brought up believing don't just affect how we parent, they affect how we love, too.

A lot of us grew up learning that love had to be earned. That if we were helpful, quiet, well-behaved, we’d get praise, attention, affection. And if we were loud, emotional, or difficult? We were told to stop making a fuss. To calm down. We were horrible.

So we learned to push our feelings down. To be “easy.” To be the one who held it all together.

That kind of love is transactional, and we want our kids to learn that love is unconditional. But even though we’re adults now, those beliefs that we’re only lovable when we’re self-sacrificing don’t just disappear. It’s why we say yes when we’re exhausted and overwhelmed. It’s why we feel guilty for needing space or time away from our kids. It’s why we try to keep everyone happy, even when it’s hurting us. And it can sneak into our relationships too — trying too hard, doing too much, worrying that if we stop being useful or “good,” we’ll stop being loved.

I don’t want that for children.

I don’t want them to grow up thinking she has to be easy to be loved. I want her to feel safe being her full, messy self. To know she doesn’t have to earn love by being good. That’s why this work matters. That’s why even on the hard days, I remind myself, I’m not just raising a child, I’m becoming the mum I needed.

Therapy gives you space to reparent yourself

As the holidays approach, it’s not just our kids who need support; it’s us, too.

Therapy helps you unpick your triggers, make that voice in your head a little bit kinder, and start showing yourself the same compassion you offer your child. It’s not about becoming a perfect parent. It’s about becoming a more present one. One who can respond instead of react sometimes. One who remembers: I matter too, and rest isn't just something I have to earn — it's something that makes me a better mum.

This is what I often share with the mums I work with. You don’t have to get it right all the time. In fact, the research says we only need to get it right about 30% of the time to raise securely attached children. That’s it — 30%. Not perfect. Not even close. Just consistent enough, with space for repair when things go wrong.

So if you’ve shouted. Or gone for a drive-thru dinner. Or cried in the car after drop-off. Take a breath. You’re not failing. You’re human. And your child doesn’t need a perfect parent. They need a present one. Someone who’ll come back, listen, cuddle them, and remind them they’re safe, just like you’re learning to do for yourself.

It's not just magical memories that make an amazing childhood — it's the small, meaningful moments of connection that matter. And that's one of the things I love about being a mum: jumping in a puddle, going to the park in their PJs before bed — those little things are just as special to our kids as the big days out that cost a fortune.

If you’re finding this hard (especially as the summer holidays approach), therapy can give you a space to pause and exhale. A space where you can make sense of why certain moments feel so overwhelming, why you feel so guilty for needing rest, and how your past might be unconsciously shaping how you show up as a parent. Therapy can help you calm your nervous system, quiet that inner critic, and remind you that you matter too.