Dancing away patterns.

They say that once a baby arrives, parenthood brings up all kinds of patterns and activates deep underlying currents you thought were settled long ago. Just a month in, and we already have at least three major themes that have surfaced while making decisions about Oa. These patterns slipped from my awareness, hiding deep in the folds of my mind. Like the way cordyceps mushrooms possess the brains of ants, taking over their movements, these old patterns begin to take control of my decisions. They aim for influence, but I catch them-at least the ones I know, but have simply forgotten. Intergenerational transference feels more tangible than ever. I see how I pull Oa into my own story, and the question lingers: how do I provide the opportunity for his own story to unfold? As I ask this, I realize the impossibility of fully achieving it. Yet, there is a difference between the things I pass on. Some patterns seem to belong to a younger version of myself, one who was hurt, unseen, or faced other undesirable circumstances.

For example, I notice my desire to appear in the best possible light. By best, I mean not causing worry or deviating from what’s considered normal. I dislike conflict and avoid disturbances triggered by my actions. I prefer to keep my problems to myself and only share things that won’t cause concern. I am getting better, though.

I’ve learned to share distress and moments of uncertainty. At first, I would share with people I didn’t know, like in these letters-a mostly one-way communication, a safe way to leak out imperfections and challenges. I expect no judgment or distress from readers. Even if someone reacts in a way I dislike, I respect that, and it doesn’t shake my confidence. For a long time, it was easier to share with strangers, one-way feels safe and uncomplicated. I started revealing personal matters online at first, then moved into more direct practices that involve real presence. I began circling and practicing authentic relating, where I could be with what is and express it to strangers. After that, I could share more of myself with acquaintances, those with whom I didn’t have a very personal connection, which protected me from the risk of judgment. Once that was manageable, I could share with friends, and finally, with family. However, sharing with family remains the most inaccessible. There is still a fear of raising worry or causing unease. Honestly, I still prefer to share only positive moments and keep the lows private. So, my ability to open up about difficult moments has been a slow, gradual journey, from the anonymous reader to my closest family, it took several steps. Looking back, this process evokes self-compassion. I wonder what created the need for such a transition. Realizing that the hardest space to share is the closest circle also brings up emotions.

Now, I see how little Oa is being drawn into my pattern, woven by the spirits of multifaceted fears. About two weeks after he was born, he developed baby acne. In his case, it was quite severe. His face was covered in small pimples, like those of puberty, but covering most of his delicate, fragile baby skin. It was difficult to look at, and even though I knew nothing was wrong, he wasn’t bothered by it and the pimples healed quickly, I still felt uneasy looking at him and showing him to others. I felt compelled to normalize it and offer a disclaimer: neonatal acne is a reaction to hormonal changes during adaptation to life outside the womb and adjustment to mother’s milk. I wanted to make sure people knew it was nothing serious and would pass with time. In my experience, people recognized the condition and weren’t surprised or concerned. It seemed I was the one who needed justification to feel calm. This reminded me of my own behavior and tendency to provide an image of all is good. I was projecting my own insecurity and coping mechanisms onto my little boy, who has nothing to do with it. He doesn’t care about his pimples; he is a perfectly happy and healthy bundle of joy. Realizing that it was my story I was putting on him was a beautiful moment, tinged with grief. Yet, it also brought a beam of light, illuminating the possibility that things can be different and that my noticing allows for choice.

How will I move through life with my son? What will my steps, reactions, and behaviors be? Seeing what belongs to me, and choosing what I will do next, feels like an expansion of freedom. As Forrest Landry said, Love is that which enables choice. In my opinion, this is the most accurate definition of love. Recognizing my patterns, especially those rooted in past hurts-gives me the chance to pause, reflect, and choose differently for Oa. Perhaps this is the essence of loving parenthood: not erasing the past, but creating space for new stories to emerge, guided by awareness and the freedom to choose. In the end you can only see the future if you see the past.

Love is not about control, perfection, or even protection from all harm. It is about creating the conditions where freedom can dance, where both I and Oa can make choices that are true to ourselves, rather than simply repeating inherited patterns or reacting out of old fears. Love is what gives me the courage to notice when I am projecting my own insecurities onto him, and to pause before acting on them. It is the gentle force that allows me to step back, breathe, and ask: Is this truly about him, or is it about me? In that moment of awareness, a space opens up a space where something new can happen.

This kind of love is not always easy. It asks me to face my own discomfort, to sit with the urge to “fix” or “explain away” anything that feels abnormal or imperfect. It invites me to trust in Oa’s natural unfolding of his own story, even when it doesn’t match my expectations or soothe my anxieties. Love, as choice, means letting go of the illusion that I can shield him from every bump or blemish along the way. Instead, it is about being present, honest, and supportive, while also allowing him the dignity of his own experiences.

It is hard but also is a beautiful challenge to withstand.