“I will not teach or love or show you anything perfectly, but I will let you see me, and I will always hold the sacred gift of seeing you—truly, deeply, seeing you.” ~ Brene Brown
The Christmas of 2021 was the first time my kids actually saw me cry. I am sixteen and my youngest is twelve.
They had just opened their presents. It should have been a warm, pleasant morning. Instead, I turned my back to the foyer near the entrance to the house, my back to them, as tears threatened to spill. My mother—whose mental disorder had disrupted a large part of my life—was again in a mental hospital. his mental health Once more unfolded, and all its sadness, repetition, helplessness finally caught up with me.
I spent years keeping my pain out of sight. I thought I could hide again. But this time I could not.
Both my kids asked, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I whispered, even through tears.
Then something unexpected happened. They both came towards me and hugged me. no fear No confusion. just love pure and steady.
At that moment something began to unfold in me. What met me was tenderness. My children were not overwhelmed by my grief. They simply react to it. At that moment, something old began to crack: the belief that my pain was dangerous to the people I loved most.
I spent so long trying not to be like my mother. I always felt responsible for her feelings and well-being, and I would never want my own children to be burdened like I was. But by trying so hard not to repeat the past, I kept my emotional interior very guarded when I was sad.
I thought I was protecting them.
What I didn’t realize then was that my children didn’t need the protection of my humanity. They needed some connection with it.
In late 2023, my toddler made an observation that showed me my hide wasn’t really working.
“You’re the sad one,” she said, “and daddy’s crazy.”
Satya was shocked, but I knew she wasn’t cruel. He was just saying what he saw.
And he was not wrong.
After that Christmas, I held everything in and tried not to let my sadness show too much. But without tears, my son still saw my grief over the years – through what was happening to my mother, through the loss I carried silently, through the burden I thought I kept to myself.
Of course he sensed it. Maybe it was my demeanor or my energy, the heaviness of my face, the way I sometimes stared blankly, or the moments when he had to call my name a few times before I returned. He would often ask, “Are you okay mom?” He knew there was something there.
At that moment I realized that there was no point in hiding my inner world if my children could experience it without words.
Children are incredibly intuitive. Even if they don’t have language, they can feel what’s going on. They take on tension, sadness, distance and stress long before anyone can explain it. When we pretend everything is fine, they still think something is off.
What I began to realize was that without context, they were left to make meaning out of what they experienced. They may assume that my sadness has something to do with them, or that it’s something they need to fix.
But when I start giving them enough truth – except trauma Dumping, not carrying what I had—was fine for not being able to personalize what they were feeling. They understand that I had feelings, that those feelings were real and human, and that those feelings were not their fault.
I began to see something else more clearly: my children always saw me as strong, independent and capable, who handled things and handled what needed to be handled. Because I didn’t let them see what I thought was weakness, I didn’t really let them know it either: I have feelings. My feelings matter Not just them.
As I began to share more of my inner world in age-appropriate ways, my children became more thoughtful and considerate. Not because they were responsible for me, but because they understood me more fully.
What struck me most was that I felt as a child – being invisible – something I was unknowingly repeating with my own children. Not in the same form, but in a similar emotional pattern.
How can they see me if I don’t tell them anything about what’s going on inside me? How can we have a true connection if I hide the deeper parts of my inner world and allow them to relate only to my strength, competence and composure?
By 2026, something had begun to change, but not quickly and not by accident. It came after years of therapy, reflection, and slowly learning how often I still suppressed what I felt—pushing it down, swallowing hard, going to my bedroom to hide it, trying to calm down before anyone saw. Gradually, I stopped doing as much. I cried more freely. Let me see more.
who is my little son Autistic And deeply attached to me, at first I did not know what to do when I began to see my tears more often. A few months ago, when I was crying, he said, “I want to make you feel better, but I don’t know how.”
I told her, “You don’t have to fix anything. Just let me be me, and I’ll let you be yours. That’s the best gift we can give each other.”
After that, I felt her awkwardness begin to soften into acceptance.
After landing in Houston at the end of the trip to Canada, the tears started to fall again. I didn’t want to come back. That place doesn’t feel like home to me anymore. Without saying a word, my son wrapped his arms around me and held me as I cried.
After a few minutes, I sighed and said, “Thank you. I feel better now.”
But that moment in the car stayed with me the most.
About a month later, I was crying Again when we were driving. A song came on the radio that reminded me of someone I missed, and the sadness quickly mounted. He was sitting next to me, and I said, “I’m fine, honey. The song just reminds me of somebody and makes me sad. I’ve got to get it out, and then I’ll be fine.”
Even then, I still felt self-conscious. Part of me still worries he might be judging me.
Instead, he said something that completely stunned me.
“I wish I could cry like this,” he said. “You are strong.”
I smiled a little and said, “Got it, honey. We’ll make you cry again eventually.”
I meant it gently, but I realized in that moment that he had learned some of the same lessons so many boys learn early – that tears are pushed down, feelings are bottled up, that tears become something to resist. And I knew she learned something from her father and I both modeled. It will take time to learn.
That moment stayed with me because it showed me how differently he saw my tears than I saw myself.
For so much of my life, I equated crying with weakness. I thought being strong meant holding everything back, being restrained, pushing through and hiding the hard parts. But through my son’s eyes I saw something different. He didn’t see my crying as a failure. He saw courage in them.
At that moment another conversation opened up between us. She told me she couldn’t cry anymore. He said it was always stuck in his throat. He could feel it, but it wouldn’t come out. She told me that the last time she really cried was when she was thirteen.
I then thought about how much energy many of us spend trying not to feel what we already have.
For years, I thought being a good parent meant being steadfast. I thought refers to power Keep my children from seeing my sadness, my overwhelm, my tenderness, and my breaking point.
Now I think kids need integrity more than performance. They need to know that difficult feelings can be felt without being dangerous, sadness can move through a room without being their responsibility, and that love doesn’t disappear when life gets tough.
I thought my crying would make my children feel less safe.
What I know now is that when these tears are held with honesty and care, they can teach something powerful: that being fully human is not weakness, and that connection often deepens when we stop pretending we have nothing to feel.
about Alison Briggs
Alison Jeanette Briggs is a therapist, author and speaker who helps women heal from codependency, childhood trauma and emotional neglect. She blends psychological insight with spiritual depth to guide clients and readers toward confidence, boundaries, and authentic connection. Alison is the author of the forthcoming memoir On Being Real: Healing the Co-Dependent Heart of a Woman and shares her reflections on healing, resilience and inner freedom here. on-being-real.com.
