What traditions have you not kept that your parents had?
They passed down a few things, sure – a roast dinner on Sundays, perfectly folded laundry, and a deep, loyal commitment to never acknowledging a single emotional need.
Some people inherit heirlooms. I inherited a legacy of be quiet and get on with it.
The real tradition in our house wasn’t passed with china plates or Christmas rituals, it was silence. Neat, quiet, and polished. Like grief in a pretty blouse.
We didn’t talk about feelings. We talked about the weather. The bins. What time the potatoes needed to be put in the oven. I learned from a young age that questions about emotions would never be asked, sadness would never be acknowledged and that any behaviour that threatened their image would have consequences.
So no, I don’t keep the family traditions. I don’t sweep things under the rug. I don’t pretend everything’s fine for the sake of appearances. I don’t save face at the cost of my feelings.
I do the opposite now. With my son, there’s no guessing. No tiptoeing. He hears “I love you” every single day. He’s allowed to cry, rage, fall apart, and I sit with him through it. I don’t shush him or try and fix him. I see him. Because I know exactly what it feels like not to be seen. I grew up in a house where nothing was said but everything hurt.
He gets freedom. He gets expression. He gets love, not just in clean uniforms or bedtime routines, but in words, presence, and arms that stay open.
So yeah. I might still time when the potatoes need to go in the oven, and fold my laundry like a pro. But the real difference?
In this house, the silence doesn’t scream anymore. And neither do the children who live here 🫶
Thirty Something Plus VAT 