When Our Children Illuminate Our Shadow

A few weeks ago, my niece turned six years old. To mark the occasion, she had a karate-themed birthday party at a martial arts studio in the heart of Chinatown. 

As soon as we walked in the door, we were immediately hit by the sound of happy chatter and laughter from the children. The well-lit studio was brightly decorated with balloons and streamers, and packed with dozens of kids. The parents stood on the periphery immersed in chitchat, occasionally glancing toward the action. 

Throughout the afternoon, the kids were immersed in the engaging world of karate, learning a variety of kicks and punches from the friendly sensei and his two teenage sidekicks. With each new exercise, I could see the kids growing more confident, their bodies moving with newfound grace and precision.

As the party began to wind down, the sensei saved the best for last. Gathering the kids together, he arranged them into three neat lines, each one eagerly awaiting their turn to take on the ultimate challenge. In front of each line stood a stack of wooden slats, carefully arranged and waiting to be broken with a clean punch.

I stood on the side, watching with pride as my four-year-old daughter, Faye, filed into the line closest to me. Each time a child stepped forward, I could hear the sound of the boards cracking under the weight of their punches. Whack. Crunch. Whack. Crunch.

As Faye stood in line, grinning from ear to ear, her tiny body radiated anticipation. She kept glancing over at me to make sure I was paying attention to her. I could see the excitement building in her with each passing moment, her tiny fists clenched as she eagerly waited for her turn.

Finally, there was just one little boy in front of her. By this point, the anticipation was building in my chest, my heart rate spiking with excitement and pride. I knew this was a moment that I wanted to have forever, so I quickly pulled out my phone to record the action.

The moment had arrived. Faye stepped to the front of the line. Her small body bounced with excitement as she approached the sensei, and looked at me once again to make sure I was paying attention. I was locked in.

As she stood before the board, the sensei stepped forward to guide her through the proper technique. With a slow and steady motion, he demonstrated the perfect strike, his hand moving with precision and control. Taking Faye's small hand in his, the sensei carefully guided her into position, ensuring every detail of her stance was just right. He showed her how to position her fingers, how to align her wrist, and how to focus her energy into the strike.

Faye looked at me again. She was ready. It was go time.

With a slow, deliberate motion, she cocked her right hand back, then let the punch fly with all the force her miniature body could muster. 

Thud. 

Her first try barely kicked up any dust on the board. 

Unfazed, Faye immediately raised her left hand above her head, gathering all of her energy into the strike, and hit the board with a downward chop.

Thud.

As Faye stood before the sensei, he assured her everything was ok, took her small hand in his, and guided her through the proper technique once again. He adjusted her grip and stance, showing her how to channel her energy and focus her strength. Despite the obstacle that stood in her way, I could sense the determination within Faye. She was still beaming with excitement and enthusiasm. 

Third attempt. Thud. 

Fourth attempt. Thud. 

As Faye struggled to break the board, one of the young helpers stepped forward to lend his support. Taking her hand in theirs, they showed her once again how to strike the board. Faye remained eager, enthusiastic, and determined to snap the wood just like all the other kids had done.

As I patiently watched from the sidelines, the thought eventually crossed my mind…this might not happen. What if she’s too small to break the board? At that moment, the anticipation in my chest turned to anxiety and nausea. A sense of unease held me tightly.

As Faye prepared for her fifth attempt, the other kids behind her began to grow impatient, their excitement turning to restlessness. But Faye remained undaunted, her eyes fixed on the challenge before her and ignoring what was happening around her.

Her small fist recoiled and she lunged toward the board with all of her might. Thud. The sound was immediately swallowed into the silence of the room. The wood remained stubbornly unbroken.

She looked at me. I looked at her. Something snapped inside of her. Her face turned bright red, her mouth quivered and tears streamed down her face, and she leapt into my arms.

As I held her close, I could feel the weight of her disappointment and sadness pressed against my large frame. I whispered words of encouragement into her ear. It’s ok. It’s ok. I love you. 

Later that night, as Faye was sound asleep, I laid awake in bed lost in a sea of thoughts and emotions—a kaleidoscope of memories and reflections that danced behind my eyes like a movie reel on rewind.

The disappointment and frustration I had seen in Faye's eyes had unearthed something within me—a sense of sadness and empathy that was oddly familiar. At first, I couldn’t place what it was. But I sensed something was rising to the surface from the depths of my psyche. 

It hit me like the first ray of sunlight, creeping up the horizon and piercing through the darkest night.

Thud. 

Thud. 

Thud. 

My hands are frozen and I can see my breath emerge as a faint mist from behind my facemask. Football practice is coming to an end and I’m spent. As the offense runs the last series of plays, I watch from the sidelines, moving my body side to side in a rhythmic motion to stay warm.

Just one week until the big Thanksgiving day game. I’m fucking ready for this season to be over. I can’t wait to go inside, take a warm shower, and play PlayStation when I get home.

As the whistle blows, its sharp and high-pitched tone cuts through the air, signaling the end of practice. Thank God, practice is over. In the distance, I see the coaches gather in a huddle to discuss breaking practice. The distant sounds of equipment being arranged echoes in the background.

In the distance, one of the coaches arranges ten rectangular tackle pads into what appears to be a bowling formation. What drill is this? My head coach blows his whistle once again and gathers the team.

Alright fellas, listen up! We've got a special challenge for you tonight. We're gonna select one lucky player to be a human bowling ball and try to knock down all those pads over there in the distance. Now, if our boy knocks 'em all down, we get to hit the showers early and call it a night. But, if he can't get the job done, we'll be hitting the turf for some extra running. So, who's ready to step up and be our hero?

The adrenaline pumps through my veins as I nervously wait to see who will be selected for the challenge. My eyes are fixed on the coaches as they decide a player’s fate, and I feel unease grip my chest, tighter with every passing moment.

“Schlafa! You're up,” I hear one of the coaches shout, snapping me out of my trance and bringing me back to the present moment. In a nanosecond, my stomach drops deep beneath the frozen ground underneath me. 

As I look up, I can see the pads looming in the distance, fifty yards away, a mountain to be conquered. With my eyes fixed on the pads, I can feel the intensity building, knowing that my team’s fate rests on my shoulders.

My teammates start chanting. Schlafa. Schlafa. Schlafa. Let’s goooooo! Schlafa!!! 

I step to the line, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement as I prepare to land a perfect strike. Taking a few deep breaths, I try to steady my nerves and calm my racing heart. As I try to dig my cleats into the grass, I realize it's too hard to get any real traction. Steve, don’t worry about the field. Focus on the pads. You got this.

SCHLAFA!!!!!! 

I take another deep breath, get into my three-point stance, and I’m off. Everything around me becomes a blur as I sprint through the night. I feel nothing other than the rattling of my pads against my frozen body. All I can see are the pads in the distance, my vision tunneled and locked on the target. The sound of the cheers fades away as I focus all my energy on each step and the pads in the distance.

40 yards…30 yards…20 yards…10 yards. 

And then, in one swift movement, I lower my shoulder, stretch out my arms, and leap horizontally into the air towards the target, letting out a scream. Arrrrrggggghhhhh. My body feels weightless as I soar through the air, focused on making my body as big as possible to take out the pads. Time stands still as I hold my breath, close my eyes for an instant, and brace for impact.

THUD! 

I hit the pads with every ounce of my beefy frame, and for a moment, everything is black. As I lay on the frozen tundra, dazed and disoriented, I glance up through my facemask and take in my surroundings. All I can see are the pads scattered around me, but then something catches my eye. There, a few feet beside me, one pad still stands upright, like a lone tree on a mountainside after a landslide. I had knocked all of them down but one. 

Fuck. Oh no.

As I hold my breath against the crushing disappointment of the moment, dejection begins to set in, and the coldness of the air engulfs my body and seeps into my soul. Shame and inadequacy flood my system with a deep bitter chill. I want to cry and remain there all by myself on the frozen turf.

I can’t. I lift my gaze toward the team, shaking their heads and throwing up their arms. My coaches look like they expected as much. I hear the distant sound of the whistle and it prompts me to pick up my pace to reunite with the team. As I approached the guys, I see the anger and irritation etched on their faces. The once supportive atmosphere turned to blame.

What the fuck, man. You’re pathetic. I can’t believe we have to run because of you. It’s fucking freezing out. It's all your fault. Come on dude.

I ran my wind sprints, back and forth on the field, keeping myself away from the others. I was done with myself, sickened. This was one of the loneliest moments in my life, and it's a memory that was buried in my psyche for decades.

When Faye leaped into my arms in that Chinatown martial arts studio, something shifted. Once she made impact, my heart shattered into a million pieces, and unearthed this old, painful memory. It came to life like a geyser erupting, a powerful surge of emotions and memories that had been bubbling underground for years.

My daughter was fine after the birthday party—we ate cake together, held hands as we walked home, and danced to Trolls: World Tour before dinner.  It dawned on me that it was my inner sixteen-year-old who needed comfort. I realized that I yearned to be wrapped in warmth and compassion the same way I had wrapped up Faye. As soon as this occurred to me, I was able to offer myself the tenderness and compassion that I had longed for that cold night in 1995.

In that moment of vulnerability, I gave that exiled, childlike part of myself the love and acceptance he had wanted all these years. I was finally able to forgive and embrace him fully, to hold him close, and to offer him the unconditional love he so desperately craved. By extending this compassion to myself, I began to heal an old wound, and turn some more of my pain into love.

Through this experience, I have come to a powerful realization—when we are fully conscious as parents, our children act as a mirror, illuminating the darker corners of our psyche that we may have repressed or overlooked. Before becoming a parent, I never imagined that my kids would serve as such a powerful reflection of myself, inviting me to confront buried parts of my psyche. I couldn’t anticipate their presence would trigger a host of emotions and memories, including those associated with parts of myself that had been exiled and dormant for years.

Our children are not only a reflection of us but also a key to unlocking our own healing and growth. Through them, we gain a window into our souls and can better understand our own projections and complex parts. When old traumas and wounds are triggered by their experiences, we are given a profound opportunity to face them, acknowledge them, and ultimately transform them. 

By beginning to parent and nurture the old exiled parts within ourselves, we can develop greater compassion and understanding not just for our own past experiences, but also for the challenges that our children may face. This process helps us cultivate greater empathy, love, and compassion for both ourselves and our families.

I want to acknowledge that many parents, including myself, can be triggered by their children in ways that lead to unwanted behaviors such as unconscious rage, violence, and abuse. At times, I catch myself snapping at Faye, and when I come into presence, I realize that it's not my own voice that I'm hearing. It's the familiar voice, tone, and temperament of my father, echoing how I was parented in similar situations. These moments of clarity serve as a reminder of how deeply ingrained our past experiences can be, and how they can surface in unexpected ways—especially if we are not conscious of the possibility.

It's important to recognize that these reactions are common, especially for those of us who carry childhood traumas and unresolved emotional wounds. By not being aware of these triggers, we risk perpetuating the harmful cycle and pain that we experienced as kids. This makes it even more important to understand and explore our own triggers as parents so that we can break the pattern and offer our children a different experience filled with love and support.

When we fully embrace our consciousness, particularly as parents, we must be willing to see and accept all aspects of ourselves, including those that we may have disowned or rejected in the past. But by taking ownership of our projections and facing our past experiences, we can develop a profound sense of self-compassion and self-love. When we extend the same level of care and understanding to ourselves that we offer to our children, we have the ability to heal old wounds, shift our behavior patterns, and ultimately become the parents we needed.

Through this experience over the last few weeks, I see that my children are becoming my teachers, helping me to see my own parts and projections with greater clarity and to take responsibility for them. In this and many other ways, they have given me the gift of healing.