[When ignoring a bone-deep wound revealed a deeper truth about love, sacrifice, and breaking cycles.]
We’re mid June in Hong Kong, aka the start of the rainy / typhoon season, rain lashed against the streets as I made my way toward the school auditorium, heart pounding out of excitement to attend my kid’s end-of-year show – about to start in another 30 minutes: a milestone I’d promised not to miss.
Then, as I walked down the stairs, I slipped.
I crashed onto wet concrete, pain exploding through my elbow. Blood mixed with rainwater, and drops of the matcha latte I was holding… A staff member rushed over to prompt me to go see the nurse. After an initial resistance (thinking “I need to get a good seat”), as I saw blood dripping down, I followed her, with heavy mixed feelings I knew I had to unpack later.
The Band-Aid Parenting
As I reached the nurse’s office, my throat felt tight, I contained my tears thinking “that’s just a little wound, why are you even crying?” Those tears were not from physical pain, but from the unusual posture I was in: I was being looked after, and that felt vulnerable.
I rushed to explain to the nurse that I was in a hurry to back to the auditorium. She took a look at my wound, she looked at me and said: “This needs stitches. Now.”
“After the show,” I insisted, voice tight. “Please just wrap it for now, I’ll deal with it later.”
As she secured the gauze, I felt no fear about the wound, only terror at the thought of an empty seat.
What if he looks for me and I’m not there? What if he feels… unseen? Forgotten?
I slipped into the auditorium as lights dimmed. My son stepped on the stage. Our eyes locked. He smiled and waved at me, I felt relieved, joyful, to the point of not feeling any pain at this point.
This is motherhood, I thought. We fold our needs into invisible origami, we tuck them away, small, and paper thin.
That Hospital Moment When I Finally Got It
So there I was, lying on that bed in the ER – fluorescent lights above me, a super nice doc who ran me through a few pages of paperwork to let me know about the “invasive” procedure I was about to go through and made me realized “Ok, yeah that’s more than a scratch”. He snapped on his gloves, gave me that numbing shot and then confessed “It’s deeper than I thought. Let me film to show you. See that white bit? that’s your bone.”
And as he stitched me up?
The truth hit me.
I didn’t tough it out for my son.
I did it for the scared little voice in my head that whispered:
“If you miss this, he’ll feel unseen…
…like you did sometimes as a kid.”
The Real scar (spoiler: it’s not on my elbow)
The cut is healing fine, 5 stitches, a possible little scar.
But the real injury?
That habit of overcompensating. Of thinking:
“If I’m not front-row-perfect,
have I really loved them enough?”
Girl. No.
That day, I accidentally taught my son:
“Mom’s needs? Optional.
Her pain? Not urgent.”
And that? That’s the wound I’m still tending.
What Love actually says (because we’re rewriting this script)
Real love isn’t measured in:
- Attendance awards
- Bloody bandages
- How much you “suck it up”
Real love sounds like this:
“I’ll protect my energy fiercely, because burnout helps no one.”
“When my cup is full, I can pour into yours without resentment.”
“Watch me choose rest my love, so you learn that self-care isn’t selfish, it’s sacred.”
Your takeaway (because I’m passing the mic)
Parenting from our scars? We all do it sometimes.
But here’s your permission slip:
👉 Tend your wounds first: yes, even the invisible ones.
👉 Miss the thing. Reschedule the thing. Protect your peace.
👉 Trust: Your kids feel loved when you feel free.
You’re not just raising them, you’re rewiring generations.
With love,
Joëlle
PS: If this landed deep? listen to The Stripped Podcast (this is episode #24).
