The Wound Isn't The Rupture

Every parent asks some version of the same question. Am I damaging my child? Have I already damaged them?

This episode is Jacky's answer. It's not an answer that reassuringly bypasses the truth, but an answer that holds the truth.  Because the question isn't how do I never hurt my child. The question is: when I do hurt them  - because I will - how do I repair?

Ruptures happen in every relationship. They're part of being human. They're even part of healthy relationships - they show that each person has their own separate sense of self. What creates lasting damage isn't the rupture. It's the rupture that goes unrepaired.

In this episode:

• What it means to parent from your wounded child - and why even the best intentions can mean you're parenting the child you were, not the child in front of you
• The despair magnet - how shame turns one mistake into a tally of evidence that you're fundamentally flawed
• The difference between guilt (I did something bad) and shame (I am bad) 
• What a genuine amend looks like - and why an apology with 'but' on the end isn't one
• Dan Siegel's four S's: Safe, Seen, Soothed, Secure - and how repair rebuilds all four
• The intergenerational gift: when you repair with your child, you repair with yourself

 
 | "Beneath the stars of destiny, beneath the numbing and defences, beneath the self-doubting censorship, beneath it all... catch a glimpse of precious alchemy. Beneath it all, beneath — is me."

Creators and Guests

Host

Jacky Power

What is Words in the Wilderness?

The Words in the Wilderness podcast is for those who have the conviction to make changes in their life as they drag their feet through the messy middle, crying into the void "it ends with me."

Led by Jacky Power - The Therapeutic Poet - these are conversations that look underneath the label, the diagnosis, the tidy explanation, at what's actually going on.

If you've made a decision to change your life and now you're in that wobbly, lonely bit where nobody quite gets what you're going through, I made this for you. Because I've been there. Many times.

Each episode starts with one of my own poems, using therapeutic poetry to set the scene. Sometimes it's just me, unpacking human tricky things. Sometimes it's a guest - a therapist, a coach, someone whose lived experience has taught them something worth passing on.

We talk about leaving what doesn't fit anymore, about breaking the patterns you inherited and don't want to leave as your legacy, about all your human tricky things that you've maybe been taught to hide.

I'm Jacky Power and I'm on a mission to rehumanise, one poem at a time. Reminding you that you have permission to feel and use those feelings as data to decode, not symptoms to squash.

Follow Jacky on Instagram: @the_therapeutic_poet
Find out more: www.jackypower.com
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**WORDS IN THE WILDERNESS — EPISODE 8**
**Solo: The Wound Isn't the Rupture**

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**Jacky:**
Welcome to Words in the Wilderness. I'm Jacky Power.

In the last episode, I was talking to Nicole Runyon about her book, *Free to Fly* — all these things about child development and what kids need, and the importance of things like crawling and movement and connection. And as we talked, I thought about the parents I've worked with. How they come to me carrying their own childhood wounds, determined not to pass them on. How they ask me: am I damaging my child? Have I already damaged them? I don't want to damage my child.

And this fear - this terror that we're getting it wrong - can be really paralysing. Or it can push us into overdrive, trying to be perfect, trying to undo every mistake the moment we've made it. But the question isn't: how do I never hurt my child? The question is: when I do hurt them - because I will - how do I repair?

So today I want to walk through what happens when we do hurt our children through being human. What rupture actually is, how our own shame can get in the way, and how we can move through that shame to make a genuine repair.

Let me start with something that happens when we're trying so hard not to repeat what happened to us.

When we parent from our wounded child - the part of us that is still trying to heal what happened to us when we didn't feel good enough or we didn't feel heard - we're not actually parenting our actual child. We're trying to parent the child we were.

And this creates a problem. Because even with the best intentions, we will act out some of the patterns from our own childhood onto our children. And those patterns are driven by unconscious limiting beliefs that we formed long ago. Like: if I'm not perfect, I'll be abandoned. Now this might make you overly permissive with your child, desperately trying to be different from your controlling parents. But your child might grow up with anxiety, with no boundaries to push against.

Or say you've got that "I'm not good enough" tape running. That might make you swing between extremes - either becoming a hypervigilant perfectionist who micromanages everything, or withdrawing emotionally because you feel inadequate.

Or maybe you've got that message of: I don't deserve good things. And that can create a martyrdom in you. You sacrifice everything, teaching your child that wanting is dangerous - because they don't see you receiving.

And none of this means that you're a bad parent. It means that you're a human parent, along with the rest of us, with unhealed wounds.

When those wounds get triggered — when you snap at your child, when you're distracted when they need you, when you lose your temper — that gap between who you want to be, your ideal self, and who you actually are in that moment, your actual self, that's where shame can flood in.

So let me show you what this actually looks like. I wrote this poem about a moment when one of my unconscious limiting beliefs got triggered on what was supposed to be a lovely walk. It's called Screaming Like a Banshee.

I'm screaming like a banshee at the hilltop on our walk.
I brought my sons along, you know, to bond and share and talk.
One asked a simple question, requested what he'd like.
My not-good-enough bruise impaled by this guiltless probing spike.
I vented my frustration at my demanding child
For all my inner calm had fucked off — I was left scared, raw and wild.
My observer stood out to the side: get a grip girl, take a breath.
I saw my son's hurting sorrow and kind of felt like death.
What's going on? I asked my mind. I haven't got a clue.
In vivo parenting myself with kids is hard to do.
I just want to please you, Mum, he says through broken tears.
You're failing him if that's his goal — my inner critic interferes.
Sometimes I'm messy and imperfect as a mum,
Acting out my fearful child on my bewildered, loving son.
Just know I don't have any answers now.
Just know my tantrum here is not to do with you, my love,
But an age-old triggered fear.

Gosh. You can see it all there, can't you? My not-good-enough limiting belief gets impaled — and it feels like an impalement — by his innocent request. And I become the blamer, calling him demanding when he's just expressing a want. Then the self-shamer arrives: you're failing him. And then underneath it all, there's that frantic up-your-gamer energy: get a grip girl, take a breath. Trying to white-knuckle my way back to control.

And when you're caught in that triangle of blamer, self-shamer and up-your-gamer, you're not connected to your child anymore. You're actually drowning in your own shame. And you start what I call the despair magnet — tallying all your failures. I let them have too much screen time. I didn't know about the importance of crawling. I tightly swaddled them too much. I wasn't present enough when they were babies. Or still not present enough now.

My God, it's exhausting. Before you know it, every past mistake becomes evidence that you're fundamentally flawed as a parent. But none of those positions — whether it's blaming yourself, blaming society, or trying harder — let you do what actually needs to happen.

What needs to happen is understanding what goes on in your own body when connection breaks down with your children. Because you can't repair a rupture with your child while you're drowning in your own shame.

So I've got another poem I want to share, about what it's like being in that shame spiral, and what we might really need. It's called Lolo.

When I say I'm feeling low, low,
I need an: oh, how so?
Let the tears flow, have a good old blow.
That will let me know that you know
that my lolo will surely go.
Because I'm a pro at handling my lolo.
I know it's just another string from my long-ago bow.
I don't need a should-show of out-you-go,
or a tell-and-show of how you overthrow your lolo,
or a just-go-with-the-flow.
Just let me be so full of my woeful.
And in time, my lolo will go.

This poem is really about what we need when we're in shame. We don't need someone to fix us, or to tell us to get over it, or to reassure us, or to show us how they did it better. We just need someone to be with us. To let us be full of our woeful.

And actually, we need to do this for ourselves, because it doesn't often come in the way we need it from other people. That's about reparenting ourselves. And then it really is a mirror image — what we learn to give ourselves, we can pass on to our children. We can be present with them.

But let's talk about what a rupture actually is a bit more. It's a breakdown in emotional connection. It can be a small moment of distraction, a sharp word, or it can be big — a big conflict. I think of the film *
Despicable Me - Gru trying to impress his mum all the time, and she doesn't really notice, she shrugs it off. They're all little ruptures.

When we have those ruptures, it's not actually the ruptures themselves that become the damaging thing. I mean, they're harmful. But what creates lasting damage is when they go unrepaired. Because ruptures happen in every relationship. They're part of being human. Actually, they're part of healthy relationships, because they show that each person has their own separate sense of self.

If a child is pushing back, that's good — there's some individuation there. That's them developing who they are. If you set a boundary they dislike, you're actually maintaining who you are. They're not going to like everything you do. But when it's about keeping yourself safe or keeping them safe, it's absolutely necessary. So the rupture isn't the problem. What happens next is what matters.

You know that sense of a rupture, right? When you've had it with your kid, you feel uneasy, there's an agitation, everything feels slightly off. And if you grew up with unrepaired ruptures in your own childhood — which most of us did — then you can be in a real rush to fix that feeling, to make everything okay again.

If we really pause and slow down when this has happened, we can't actually healthily repair from that jangled place. We need to understand what our unmet needs were. The old wounds and limiting beliefs that might be there. Because underneath it might be: I'm too much. Or: I'm not good enough. Or: I always hurt people. Or: I can't do anything right. We need to reckon with that space before we go into repair, so that we can separate what's happening now from all the ghosts and unrepaired ruptures of the past. We need to give ourselves a time out.

Because otherwise you can end up making the rupture all about you and your feelings. If you rush to repair, it becomes about fixing your own discomfort. And then that's like a double rupture — not only have you hurt them, but you abandon them emotionally because you're trying to fix your own feelings. So it's okay to say: I need a bit of time, and to take that time to work it through.

I'm not saying any of this to make you feel worse. I know a lot of this can't be done in real time. This is a process - it's not a tick-box and you're done. But when we're rushing to say sorry, or rushing to get them to be okay with things, we're really trying to discharge our own uncomfortable feelings.

I wrote a poem once after a rupture with one of my sons. In it, I wrestle with all my own limiting beliefs — going through all the things I'd done wrong and would do right next time. It was my way of wrangling through what was going on for me. Poetry can give us a safe container for our shame. We can write out the ugly stuff, whatever the messages are that you're telling yourself. And by putting them into a poem, it's almost like looking at them through a prism. We can start to see what elements might be true, and what elements might have been reflected or refracted from somebody else. This is how we can study ourselves — so that we can show up for the repair with our child without making it about our shame and our old beliefs.

So what does a good repair look like? I have another poem. It's called Don't Tell Me Not to Worry.

Don't tell me not to worry about it.
I don't know how to not worry about it, and that makes me worry.
Tell me that sounds tough
Tell me: I hear you.
Tell me: sometimes we can't control outcomes, test results,
how people will interpret our actions.
Tell me we'll find a way to handle it.
Tell me: sometimes we don't have all the answers,
But often things have a way of working through, if not always working out.
Tell me I'm here and I'm not going anywhere.
Tell me it's okay to rest, to let go.
Tell me it's okay to be messy. We all are.
But don't tell me not to worry. I find that worrying.

This is what repair can look like.

First — tell me that sounds tough. I hear you. Acknowledge the hurt. Get curious instead of defensive. Be willing to hear how your child experienced what happened, even if it's different from how you experienced it. Not: you're overreacting. Not: it wasn't that bad. Instead: I can see you're really upset. Help me understand what this was like for you.

Second — sometimes we can't control outcomes. Give space to name the reality of the situation, the feelings that are there. Your child needs to know that their emotional response is allowed. Help them by being with them in it, mirroring it, noticing it and naming it. Dan Siegel talks about "name it to tame it" — you have to name what those feelings are so they feel valid, seen and understood.

Third — I'm here and I'm not going anywhere. Not offering fixes or solutions. Offering your presence. This is where most of us mess up — we jump into fixing, explaining or defending ourselves. We bypass the repair. We can't believe that just our presence will be enough. So instead we essentially say: your feelings are inconvenient, let's make them go away so I can stop feeling uncomfortable.

Instead, lean into the listening. Own your role in what happened without deflecting. You know: you're right, I wasn't paying attention when you needed me. Or: I was tired and I took it out on you. I did make a choice that hurt you. It can feel toe-curlingly uncomfortable. But your child is going to trust you more by you sitting with them in it, not trying to make it better.

It's okay to be messy. We all are. By acknowledging and accepting my own messiness, I give you permission to do the same.

Now, repair requires an amend — and an amend is different from an apology. An apology just acknowledges wrongdoing: I'm sorry I shouted at you. An amend is an active mend. It's where you take action to mend the rupture. You're willing to change your behaviour to restore balance in the relationship.

So it's not: I'm sorry I shouted. And it's certainly not: I'm sorry I shouted, but you were being annoying. Any apology with a "but" on the end of it isn't an apology.

It's: I'm sorry I shouted. I was overwhelmed and I did take it out on you, and that wasn't fair. When I feel that way, I need to take a break before I talk to you. You didn't deserve to be spoken to like that. Next time I feel myself getting to that point, I'm going to take some deep breaths or go to another room first.

That's an amend. I know that sounds incredibly perfect, and it's never going to be that perfect — or that scripted. But it's that kind of thing. You're showing them through changed behaviour that the relationship matters more than your momentary discomfort.

And look at what I said to my son at the very end of that banshee poem: I don't have any answers now. Just know my tantrum here is not to do with you, my love, but an age-old triggered fear.

That's not a perfect amend. It's not: I'll take some deep breaths and I'll feel better. It's: I'm owning this. I've resorted to being about three years old and that's as good as I've got right now. But it's naming the reality. And that's where repair can begin — in that honesty, and that willingness to own your own part.

Nicole said in the last episode: don't run from the guilt, be with it, embrace it. The way through the guilt is through. It's like *Going on a Bear Hunt*, isn't it? You can't go over it, you can't go under it, you've got to go through it.

When you've hurt your child, the guilt is information. It's your conscience. It's telling you what your values are — this matters to you, so stick with it, and feel the discomfort of knowing you got it wrong. Because on the other side of that discomfort, if you can stick with it, is a little treasure nugget of clarity. Once you're with your guilt instead of running from it, you can see where you went wrong and what you need to do differently. And then you can repair and make your amend. And then — you can let go of that guilt. Because guilt isn't meant to be carried around, and your kids don't want you carrying it. They just want to get on with life. It's like a doorway — you walk through it, you do the work, you come out the other side.

But like I've said, you can't repair a rupture whilst you're in shame. Guilt is: I did something bad. Shame says: I am bad. Shame is about self and identity. And when you're in shame, it's almost like a vortex — it's not really possible to hold your own experience and your child's at the same time. You're thinking about protecting yourself from the unbearable feeling of being bad, being wrong.

This is why we need that space between rupture and repair. A rupture has happened — now I need to take some time. Write a poem, talk to a friend, sit with what came up, ask yourself: what does this remind me of from my own childhood? So that you can move through it. So that you're coming to your child from: I made a mistake as a parent — not from: I am a terrible parent, I am damaging my child.

That's what makes the repair possible.

Like I've said, it's a process. It's messy. It's not linear. Things might need to be revisited. Old wounds can get triggered again. And your child might not immediately say: I forgive you, it's okay. They might still be hurt and they might need time. If you find yourself thinking: for goodness sake, I'm the parent and they just need to move on — I'd invite you to get curious about what part of you is saying that. What part of you is still uncomfortable? Because your child doesn't have the emotional robustness or the brain development to have the perspective and discernment that you have as an adult.

Dan Siegel talks about the four S's. In childhood, in order to feel secure, in order to have secure attachment, children need to feel safe, seen and soothed. And when children consistently experience those three things, they internalise two core beliefs: I am worthy of love, help and nurturance. And the world is a safe place for me to reach out and ask for that.

These are the building blocks of healthy relationships and healthy self-esteem.

Safe means they need to know you're not going to harm them physically or emotionally, and that your anger won't become rage. To feel seen, they need to feel understood — not just noticed, but truly seen in their experience. And to feel soothed — that isn't chucking an iPad at them. It's comforting them through them understanding that their distress matters to you. It doesn't take precedence over everything, but it is something that needs to be addressed. And when that happens consistently enough, they know the relationship can weather storms.

When we repair ruptures, we're reinforcing all four of these. We're saying: you're safe with me even when I make mistakes. I see how I hurt you — seen. I'm here to help soothe this hurt between us. And our relationship is secure enough to survive this.

And it's never too late to start offering these to your children.

Much of what comes up when we have ruptures with our children is actually about ruptures from our own childhood that were never repaired. This is what can make it so uncomfortable. It's worth tracking what age you feel when you're going through this process. If you're feeling very young, there's an unmet need there. Maybe your parents didn't know how to repair. Maybe they thought apologising to a child meant losing authority. Maybe they were so caught up in their own shame they couldn't see your needs. They were human. That's the way it was. But you have the chance to do something differently. And that is an amazing gift you can give to your children.

Unrepaired ruptures from childhood become wounds we carry into adulthood. And then we become parents ourselves and we're face to face with those old wounds every single day. Our children's needs trigger our own unmet needs. Their disappointment in us triggers our old shame. And their big feelings trigger all the times our big feelings weren't allowed.

This is where the work of reparenting comes in. When you learn to repair ruptures with your children, you're also learning to repair ruptures with yourself — with the parts of you that needed repair long ago and never got it. You now have the chance to change that. You can be the good-enough parent to yourself. You can acknowledge where needs weren't met, and give yourself permission to heal those wounds. Circle back to those younger versions of yourself. Reassure yourself that you weren't too much, or too sensitive — that you deserved to be heard. That inside job is the work that makes us better parents.

Because the fear of damaging our children — it comes back to the idea that we're afraid we're not good enough. We're afraid we're repeating our parents' mistakes or that our unhealed wounds are spilling over onto our innocent children. And honestly, some of that's probably true. We are going to repeat some of the mistakes that were passed on to us. We are going to have moments where our unhealed wounds show up. We are going to hurt our children sometimes. That's not something to be blasé about — it needs to be addressed, by being aware of it.

The research on secure attachment is clear. Children don't need perfect parents. They need good-enough parents. Parents who get it right about 30% of the time. The rest of the time, the process of messing up and repairing — that can happen. The children who end up most wounded aren't the children whose parents made mistakes. They're the children whose parents made mistakes and then never acknowledged them, never repaired, never came back. That's when children absorb the shame, because that shame has to go somewhere. If a parent rejects it — if they say I'm perfect, I'm not wrong — a child will absorb it.

So the wound isn't the rupture. The wound is the unrepaired rupture.

And if shame goes unrepaired, it gets passed down. Your parents' unrepaired shame became your shame. Their fear of being bad parents might have shown up as perfectionism, control, criticism, always needing to be right. And you absorbed that. You learned that making a mistake means you're fundamentally flawed. And now when you make a parenting mistake, all that inherited shame comes flooding in.

This is intergenerational work. When you decide to break this cycle, it will have been passed down through many generations. And you're becoming the ancestor that you needed but never had. The one who could just say: yeah, I made a mistake, and I'm sorry, and let me make an amend. And in doing that, you show that love can survive imperfection.

And I want to share one final poem — about what's underneath all that shame, the fear that you're damaging them, the performance of trying to be perfect. This was my discovery.

Beneath the stars of destiny,
Beneath the tales, the history,
Beneath the numbing and defences,
Beneath the dire consequences,
Beneath decisions that have broken hearts,
Beneath all the adapted parts,
Beneath the blame and brinkmanship,
Beneath the self-doubting censorship,
Beneath the seething condemnation,
Beneath the unspoken conversations,
Beneath the righteous, raging tears,
Beneath the terror, beneath the fear,
Beneath the hulps and yelps unheard,
Beneath, beneath, undeterred —
Catch a glimpse of precious alchemy.
Beneath it all, beneath — is me.

As Nicole said in that last episode: your children don't need you to be perfect. They need you to be human. They need you to be you. They need you to mess up and come back. They need you to show them that love survives rupture, that relationships can be broken and repaired, and that they are worthy of that repair.

And so, you know - so are you.

Thank you so much for joining me here in Words in the Wilderness today. I would love to hear your thoughts, so please do get in touch. That's it for now.

Until next time.

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* All poems featured on this podcast are subject to copyright. Jacky Power 2026