My Son’s First Bully

Growing up, bullying shaped how I saw myself. I was body-shamed, called names, excluded. I was rarely picked for teams or invited to playdates. These weren’t just childhood hurts. They quietly rewrote the story I told myself: I am not lovable. I am flawed. I don’t deserve friendship.

As I grew older, I made myself a promise: my child would never feel that way. I would be vigilant. Protective. Present. But life has a confronting way of holding up mirrors. And one day, in the reflection of my son’s eyes, I saw something I never wanted to see: fear. Not of the world. Of me.

Little did I know, I would be my son’s first bully.

Becoming What I Feared

I didn’t hit. I didn’t call names. But I used my size, my voice, my authority. I used if-then statements like tools: “If you don’t brush, then no television.”  It wasn’t just once or twice. It became a pattern — during meals, bath time, getting ready, play time, screen time. Even comforting moments were conditional: "Stop crying, then I’ll listen to you." Every interaction became a transaction. I told myself I was parenting. But really, I was controlling. Urgency replaced understanding.

And then came a moment. I can’t even remember the exact trigger. But I saw it: the way he shrunk. The way his eyes darted. He wasn’t learning. He was complying. Not from clarity, but from fear.

In that moment, I wasn’t protecting him from bullies. I was being one.

It’s hard — really, really hard. Parenting peels away every layer of your emotional conditioning. And some days, you just want a break. But the truth is: our children do too.

Why Parents Bully: The Invisible Pain

Parental bullying doesn’t always look like abuse. But it can feel just as heavy.

Experts like Dr Becky Kennedy and Janet Lansbury say it clearly: parenting isn’t just about raising children. It’s about raising ourselves. And often, when we hurt our children emotionally, we are reacting not to them, but to old pain in us.

The School of Life frames this with painful precision: parents sometimes project their own buried shame or inadequacy onto their children. A child’s slowness, sensitivity, defiance — it lights up something unresolved in us. We lash out, not because of who our child is, but because of what we haven't faced in ourselves.

It’s not deliberate. But the result is the same: the child doesn’t think “something bad was done to me.” They think: “I am bad.” And that belief travels with them, often for decades.

Healing this dynamic starts with one radical shift: learning to discriminate between what actually belongs to us — and what was placed on us.

Recognising and Repairing

The first time I truly saw what I was doing, I felt sick. Saying sorry was harder than I imagined. But I knew it was essential. Not: "I'm sorry, but you didn’t listen." Just: "I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. You don't deserve that.”

Children are remarkably forgiving. What they need most is to be seen, to be safe, and to be heard. Repair is not a one-time apology. It’s a practice. A commitment to pause. To regulate yourself before trying to regulate your child. To stop bullying yourself for being imperfect — because self-compassion is what makes compassion for others sustainable.

There have been moments since where both of us have cried. Where we’ve hugged without words. Where my son has said, with more courage than I had at his age: "Papa, you can’t raise your voice and tell me not to raise mine."

He wasn’t being rude. He was showing me something powerful: that love and voice can coexist. That repair is possible. That he is learning not just to feel, but to speak up.

And every time he does, I think: if he can stand up to me, he’ll stand up to anyone.

What I Do Differently Now

Every day is a new opportunity. Some days I still slip. But now, I catch myself faster. I apologise more freely. I focus on connection, not compliance. And I listen. Really listen. When I feel dysregulated, I pause and ask: "Do I want to get this done, or does my child actually need to do this now?" That single question has diffused so many unnecessary battles.

Now, I won’t pretend I always manage to do this. I don’t. But I’ve seen the difference — when I do pause, my child isn’t just calmer. He’s emotionally healthier. Not bullied into doing something. Just met where he is. And when I don’t catch myself in time — when I lose it or default to old patterns — I lean into repair. I apologise to him. Unconditionally. No “but you didn’t listen.” Just: “I’m sorry. That wasn’t okay.”

Because repair is as important as the rupture. Maybe more so.

Healing the Child Within

This work isn’t just for my son. It’s for the child I once was — the one who never felt heard, who internalised shame and called it truth. When I raise my voice, I know it’s often the inner child reacting, trying to protect the adult me from chaos and feelings I could never face before.

But healing means I don’t pass that pain forward.

It means I say: The story ends here.

To the parent reading this who sees themselves in these words: You are not broken. You are becoming. You are not doomed to repeat the past. But you do have to choose differently — again and again.

Begin with honesty. Stay with repair. Lead with love.

Your child doesn’t need a perfect parent. Just a real one.

💬 Call to Action: Commit to a Healthier Parenting Path

If any part of this story resonates with you, take a breath. You’re not alone. And you’re not beyond repair.

Commit today to a healthier parenting path — one that roots itself in empathy, reflection, and self-awareness.

Not just for your child’s well-being. But for your own healing too.

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Resources That Helped Me

• Books - Full list here

• Articles - Why Parents Bully Their Children – The School of Life

• Videos -