B.Løvetann

Breaking the Pattern:

When you grow up with a mother who never taught you how to raise children in a healthy, loving way, having children of your own can be terrifying.

I didn’t know how to create a safe home.
I didn’t know how to make children feel loved, secure, or valued.
I only knew one thing:
My children would never experience the childhood I had.
The problem was that I had no idea how to make that happen.

I’ve always been fascinated by psychology.
By how people become who they are.
Maybe because I first had to understand myself before I could become the kind of adult I wanted to be for my children.

For many years, I was angry with my mother.
Especially after I became a parent myself.
How could she have treated us that way?
But over time, something changed.
I began to understand that she carried her own trauma.
She struggled with mental illness.
She had wounds of her own—just as I have mine.
That doesn’t excuse what she did.
But it helped me understand that most people truly do the best they can with the tools they have.
Not everyone is capable of doing better.

I think that’s when the pattern began to break.
The moment I stopped asking,
«Why did she do this to me?»
and started asking,
«Why do I react the way I do?»
That was the moment I took responsibility for my own healing.
And I made a decision:
The pattern would end with me.

My «Mafia» – My Greatest Teachers:

I’ve never been a perfect mother.
But I’ve always allowed my children—my Mafia—to teach me how to become a better one.
I’ve tried to learn.
To grow.
To become a better version of myself.

Maybe I didn’t have the best foundation.
But I could be the mother who apologized.
The mother who listened.
The mother who respected her children.

When my children were six, five, and two years old, we started having family meetings.
We gathered around the kitchen table and talked about the week.
What had gone well?
What could have been better?
Everyone had a voice.
Including me.
Sometimes I had to hear things like:
«Mom, you yell too much.»
And you know what?
They were right.
So we made an agreement.
I would try to yell less and communicate more.
They would try to listen a little better.
It didn’t change overnight.
But over time, it changed all of us.

Love and Security:

Maybe I overcompensated a little.
I wanted to be there for everything.
Everything my own mother never showed up for—I wanted to show up for.
I became very focused on routines.
On structure.
Maybe even more than necessary.
But to me, it meant security.

In the summer, we rode our bikes.
In the winter, we went skiing.
One day I asked my middle son if he wanted to go for a bike ride.
He sighed dramatically and said,
«Ugh… In the winter it’s skiing, skiing, skiing. In the summer it’s biking, biking, biking. We’re always doing family stuff!»

I laughed.
Because, honestly, it might have been the greatest compliment I had ever received.
It meant our family had become a we.
That spending time together had become normal.
Not because we had to.
But because we were a family.
And maybe that’s why it mattered so much to me.

Because I knew what it felt like to grow up believing you weren’t loved.
So I made myself a promise:
My children would never doubt that they were loved.

We had little rituals.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, they would say:
«I am good.»
«I am capable.»
«I am cool.»
«I am beautiful.» (or handsome, depending on who was speaking.)
Then we’d add:
«I love myself.»
«I love Mom and Dad.»
«I love my brothers and sister.»

And I often told them:
«If you know in your heart that you are enough, never let anyone convince you otherwise.»

Values:

I wanted my children to know that their opinions matter.
That communication matters.
That taking responsibility for your choices matters.
That you don’t have to be friends with everyone—but you can treat everyone with respect.

I taught them:
«Be kind—but don’t let people take advantage of you.»
Because of what I had experienced myself, it was also important for me to teach them about their bodies.
About boundaries.
About consent.
That their bodies belong to them—and no one else.

Growing Together:

I’ve always chosen to be honest with my Mafia.
I wanted them to feel they could come home with anything.
I wanted them to become everything I never had the chance to be.
And I wanted to become everything my own mother couldn’t be for me.

When my children were nine, eight, and five years old, I had a conversation with my aunt about parenting.
She shared how she had raised her own children.
Something she said stayed with me.
I made a decision.
Later, my son said:
«It was so strange, Mom. You just stopped yelling. Not little by little—you stopped overnight.»
He was right.
I made a conscious choice.
It wasn’t perfect after that.
But it became so much better.

We also created a new rule in our home.
If someone had done something wrong and nobody admitted it, everyone stood together.
If someone tattled, both the person who tattled and the person who had done it faced the consequences.
But if the person responsible admitted it on their own, everyone else was free.
I wanted to teach them responsibility.
Honesty.
Loyalty.
And I always told them:
«One day, it’ll just be the three of you. You won’t always agree, but when life gets hard, I hope you’ll always stand together.»
🌿
I’ve never been a perfect mother.
But I’ve been a conscious one.
I haven’t always had the answers.
But I’ve never stopped looking for them.
I haven’t had everything.
But I’ve given my children everything I could.

And I hope the love, the honesty, and the sense of security we built together will stay with them long after I’m gone.
Because maybe that’s what breaking a cycle really means.
Not becoming perfect.
But making sure the next generation has it just a little bit better than the one before.