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| The author (not pictured) admits parenting her son is different than parenting her daughter, noting that he often comes to her with actions instead of words. franckreporter/Getty Images |
Growing up in a lively household with five sisters shaped so much of who I am. Our home was a whirlwind of chatter, laughter, and the occasional tear-filled argument. We navigated each other’s moods with an unspoken understanding, built on years of sharing bedrooms, clothes, secrets, and space. I learned early how to comfort someone through heartbreak, how to pick up on subtle emotional cues, and how to manage the delicate dance between closeness and personal boundaries.
I thought I knew exactly what parenting might look like for me one day. I pictured myself as a mother who could read emotions like a book, who could soothe tears, encourage independence, and nurture with empathy. So, when my first child — a daughter — arrived, I felt almost immediately at home in the role. Dressing her, understanding her shifting moods, helping her find her words when feelings ran high — all of it felt familiar, almost instinctive.
But when my second child, a son, was born, I realized my “preparedness” had limits I’d never anticipated.
A Completely New Experience
Having only grown up around girls, I suddenly found myself raising someone whose childhood I had never experienced firsthand. I had no brothers, no boy cousins nearby, no real frame of reference for what boyhood might look like. My love for him was instant and unshakable, but I was hit with a wave of uncertainty: Would I understand him? Would I be able to connect with him in the way he needed? And perhaps the question that weighed on me most — How do I raise a kind, compassionate boy in a world that still sometimes tells them to hide their tenderness?
He was different from my daughter in ways that felt both beautiful and bewildering. He was pure movement — climbing, running, leaping off the couch, turning our living room into a mini wrestling arena. His laughter was loud, his play physical, his energy boundless. Sometimes, I stood in the middle of the chaos thinking, I have no idea what I’m doing.
Letting Go of Assumptions
Over time, I learned that my job wasn’t to “figure him out” as if he were a riddle to solve. My job was to meet him exactly where he was. I had to loosen my grip on the parenting instincts I had built with my daughter and approach him with curiosity instead of expectation.
While my daughter often expressed her feelings through words, my son often spoke in action. A surprise tackle-hug from behind. A toy car proudly placed in my hand. A sudden “Mom, watch this!” yelled before he launched himself off the furniture. His love language was physical presence and shared activity more than verbal exchange.
It required a new kind of attentiveness — watching not just for what he said, but for what his actions revealed. His frustration sometimes erupted in movement, his joy in uncontained laughter, and his affection in the simple act of curling into my lap without a word. When I started responding to those cues instead of waiting for verbal ones, we began to find our rhythm. Wrestling matches became moments of bonding. Our bedtime stories turned into whispered conversations that I now treasure. Slowly, I realized that he wasn’t difficult to reach — I simply needed to learn a different way to get there.
Parenting Without a Manual
Raising both a daughter and a son has taught me that love is never one-size-fits-all. It’s adaptable, responsive, and constantly evolving. Each child invites you into their world in their own way, and part of parenting is having the humility to admit when you need to learn their language.
My son showed me that connection can be physical, energetic, and sometimes messy — but also deeply tender. My daughter reminded me of the power of conversation and emotional nuance. Together, they’ve expanded my definition of what it means to nurture, to guide, and to truly see someone.
I used to think my upbringing had “prepared” me for parenting. Now I know the truth: parenting isn’t about being ready in advance. It’s about being willing — willing to grow, to adapt, to sit in discomfort when you don’t know the answer, and to love without limits, even when you’re learning as you go.
If motherhood has taught me anything, it’s that your children aren’t puzzles to solve. They’re people to discover — and the joy is in the discovery itself.
