I'm Not a Calm Mum. But I Think I Might Be a Good One.

Let me be upfront about something: I am not a calm mum. I never have been, and I'm fairly sure I never will be.

I feel everything loudly. When I have a point to make, I make it with my whole chest. When something lights me up, you'll know about it. When something frustrates me, I'm not exactly known for my poker face. I am passionate, opinionated, and emotionally... present. Very present.

For a long time I thought this was a problem. That to be a "good mum" I needed to somehow become a different kind of person. Softer. Quieter. More measured. Less... me.

But somewhere along the way, something shifted. Not in my personality — that's staying, thanks — but in the way I show up when things go sideways with my kids.

I Put Down the Rule Book

I grew up in a household where rules were rules. You did what you were told, you didn't answer back, and feelings were largely... irrelevant to the outcome. A lot of us were raised that way. It was just how it was.

And for years, without even realising it, I was parenting from that same playbook. Not harshly — but with this underlying belief that my job was to manage behaviour, correct mistakes, and make sure things went the way they were supposed to go.

The shift happened when I started to understand what it actually means to nurture a child's nervous system. And I don't mean that in a clinical way — I mean in the very practical, everyday sense of: what does my kid actually need from me right now?

Most of the time? They need to feel seen. Heard. Understood. Not corrected. Not lectured. Not managed.

So now, when something happens — when there's a clash, a muck-up, a moment where I can feel the heat rising — I pause. And I ask myself one question:

"How would I have wanted my parents to respond to me in this moment?"

The Week My Son "Couldn't" Go to School

My kids are 15 and 14 now. We're firmly in the teenager years, which — no one warns you — come with their own whole emotional weather system.

This week, my 14-year-old woke up on Wednesday morning and told me he wasn't feeling well. Couldn't go to school.

Did I believe him? Honestly, not really. Mum radar was pinging.

Old me might have pushed back. Interrogated. Sent him anyway and told him he could call me if he got worse.

Instead, I let him stay home.

Not because I was convinced. But because I decided that this moment was bigger than the attendance record.

Later that day, I sat down with him. Not to catch him out. Not to lecture. Just to talk.

I told him that I'd rather not spend my day worrying about whether he was genuinely unwell — so if he ever just needed a day off, he could just say that. That I genuinely get it. We all need a day off from life sometimes, don't we?

And then I said this: if we can practice being honest about the small stuff now — like needing a mental health day — it'll be so much easier when the big stuff comes.

Because the big stuff is coming. He's 14. In a few years, the phone call I want him to feel safe making is the one where he needs me to pick him up from somewhere because things have gotten out of hand — no questions asked, no drama, just "Mum, I need you." That's the relationship I'm building toward. Right now, with every tiny moment of honesty.

I also made sure he understood: I won't always say yes to a day off. But I'll always take it into consideration. And pretending to be sick to get what he wants? That gets us nowhere. Honesty gets us somewhere.

This Isn't About Letting Them Do Whatever They Want

I want to be clear about that, because I think sometimes when we talk about "nurturing" and "feeling seen" it sounds a bit like... no rules, no consequences, everyone just does what they feel like.

That's not it.

It's about picking battles. It's about asking yourself whether the battle you're about to pick is actually going to matter in five years, or whether it's just ego — the feeling that things should go the way you decided they should go.

It's about stepping in with curiosity rather than authority. What's going on? What's actually underneath this? How can we work out the best way forward — together?

My kids lead me. Not because I've given up the parent role, but because I've decided that their emotional experience of our relationship is the most important thing I'm building right now. More important than clean rooms. More important than perfect homework habits. More important than whether Wednesday looked exactly the way it was supposed to.

What This Actually Looks Like in a Non-Calm Household

It looks like me still being loud about things that matter. I'm not suddenly speaking in a soft, measured therapy voice — that ship has sailed.

But it also looks like: pausing before I react. Asking a question instead of making a statement. Letting a moment breathe instead of filling it with all my feelings about how it should have gone.

It looks like coming back later for a calm conversation when I know the heat has passed — for both of us.

It looks like my teenagers knowing that they can bring me the messy, complicated, slightly embarrassing stuff — and I'll meet them with curiosity instead of judgment.

Calm? No. Safe? I'm working really hard on yes.

The Question That Changed Everything

I'll leave you with the question I keep coming back to, because I think it's genuinely useful whether your kids are toddlers or teenagers:

"How would I have wanted my parents to respond to me in this moment?"

Not what would have been the "correct" response. Not what the parenting books say. What would have made little-kid you feel loved? Understood? Safe?

Start there. And don't worry if you're loud about it.

Alisha x

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