When my daughter was little, maybe two or three, she had this way of showing her anger we couldn’t quite break her of. If we told her no, or corrected her for something, she’d sometimes give us a quick, defiant little kick to the shin. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, not really—but it hurt anyway. Not physically. Emotionally. Because we knew it came from a place of frustration and helplessness. And because no matter how many times we talked about it, how many time-outs or stern reminders we gave, she kept doing it.
That small, angry foot said what she didn’t have the words for: I don’t like this. I feel powerless. I don’t know what to do with these big feelings. It was her protest—not her rejection.
I hadn’t thought about those kicks in years. But now, as I stand on the receiving end of her teenage temper, I find myself remembering them.
Only now, instead of a kick, it’s words that hit.
“You ruin everything.”
“I can’t wait to move away.”
“Just leave me alone.”
It’s the same protest.
Only louder, harsher, and far more painful.
And like before, no amount of explaining or boundary-setting seems to reach the part of her that’s lashing out. I try to stay calm. I try to be steady. I try not to take it personally. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt. Because it does. Deeply.
It hurts to be the punching bag for her growing pains.
It hurts to remember how close we used to be, when she wanted nothing more than to curl up in my lap, when she’d reach for my hand automatically, when I was her safest place.
It hurts to see that tenderness buried under sarcasm and silence, eye rolls and slammed doors.
Some days I want to scream back. Some days I want to walk away and say, “Fine. Figure it out on your own.” Some days, I cry when she’s not looking.
But then I remember those kicks.
And I remember that the kicking eventually stopped—not because we forced it out of her, but because she grew up and found better ways to express herself. Because she trusted us to love her anyway. Because we stayed steady.
And so I’m doing my best to stay steady now.
I believe—sometimes blindly, sometimes through tears—that this version of her is not the final one. That underneath the anger is still the little girl who used to press stickers into my arm, who made me daisy chain necklaces and left me love notes, “You’re the best mommy ever.”
Right now, she doesn’t know how to say, “I’m scared. I’m overwhelmed. I feel like I’m supposed to be grown up, but I’m not ready.” So instead she says, “You’re ruining my life.”
And just like before, I’ll keep being the safe place for her to land—even if she fights me all the way down.
Because even when she’s pushing me away, I’m still her mother.
Even when she doesn’t want my love, I will keep offering it.
Even when she forgets who I am to her, I will remember who she is to me.
My daughter used to kick me. Now she uses words.
But I know her heart is still in there. And I’ll keep loving her until she finds her way back to it.
by Cheryl Donely 
by Whitney Fleming 
by Megan Vollmer 
