Reparenting the Past: Why Healing Requires Conscious Relationship

We don’t outgrow childhood just because we reach adulthood.

Time passes, bodies mature, roles shift—but many of us carry unmet needs from earlier stages of life. We continue to seek approval, to brace for rejection, to collapse under shame or inflate with defensiveness. So often, what we think of as our “personality” is actually a brilliant but exhausted survival strategy—crafted in the face of early disconnection or developmental disruption.

The truth is: many of us were not met in the ways we needed most. And no amount of self-improvement or self-reliance can substitute for the core wound of not being seen, mirrored, or loved as we were.

That’s why we must take on the work of reparenting—ourselves, and one another.

The Windows of Development (and What Happens When They’re Missed)

From the moment we’re born, we move through essential stages of development. Each one builds upon the last, scaffolding our sense of self, safety, and belonging:

• Ages 0–7: We need attunement, safety, and nervous system regulation. This is where we learn “I am wanted. I am welcome here.”

• Ages 7–14: We need encouragement, limits (aka boundaries), validation of our emotions, and room to explore. This is where we learn “I can try, fail, and still be loved.”

• Ages 14–21: We need room to rebel, to question, to differentiate. This is where we learn “I get to become myself—even if it’s different than you.”

But for many of us, something goes missing along the way.

Maybe we were parented by people who were themselves overwhelmed, disconnected, or steeped in their own trauma. Maybe we were given roles instead of reflection, silence instead of safety, punishment instead of presence. Maybe our families loved us—but didn’t know how to see us.

When our development is interrupted—whether through neglect, overprotection, enmeshment, or emotional absence—parts of us become frozen in time. And those parts don’t vanish. They wait. They reappear in our adult lives, especially in intimate relationships, asking to be met again.

Regression is Not the Problem—Being Alone In It Is

You’ve probably felt it: a moment of feedback from a friend that hits you too hard, a partner’s disapproval that sends you spiralling, or a moment of emotional overwhelm that makes you feel… five years old.

That’s regression. Not weakness—but the resurfacing of a younger part of you that didn’t get what it needed the first time around.

And while regression is natural and even necessary for healing, it requires one essential ingredient: a new kind of relationship.

We cannot reparent ourselves in a vacuum. True repair happens in the right kind of connection—in friendships, partnerships, and therapeutic containers that are conscious, kind, and willing to walk with us through our unraveling.

Relational Repair: The Medicine We Were Missing

When we talk about reparenting, we often think of self-talk and internal work. And while those are vital, what’s often overlooked is this: we heal in relationships when someone offers us what we didn’t receive before—with awareness, consistency, and grace.

That might look like:

• Being lovingly mirrored, even when we’re a mess.

• Receiving boundaries that are firm but not punishing.

• Being trusted to find our own way instead of being fixed or judged.

• Being allowed to regress—to cry, collapse, lash out—and not be left.

This is what it means to hold space. Not to bypass or analyze, but to stay present. To not flinch at another’s rawness. To trust the process of becoming.

These patterns don’t live only in the mind—they live in the body. Our nervous system remembers every time love was withheld or connection felt unsafe. Reparenting brings us back into contact, not only with others, but with ourselves.

Escaping the Grip of Parental Disapproval

Many of us unknowingly relate to the world through the eyes of our early caregivers. If we were met with disapproval, judgment, or conditional love, we internalize that energy—and then bring it into every room we enter.

We try to earn love instead of receive it. We silence ourselves before others can. We anticipate rejection and call it intuition.

This is where the reparenting work becomes radical: we must not only reparent ourselves, but also refuse to perpetuate those same energies in our relationships. That means not punishing the parts of others that would have scared our parents. It means not withdrawing love when someone makes a mistake. It means trusting that reality itself will humble each of us in time—and we don’t need to play God in someone else’s process. Because here’s the truth: when humbling is modelled instead of imposed, growth becomes possible. When I trust that life will guide you—and I stay by your side instead of shaming you—you grow with dignity, not with fear.

The Grief of What We Expected But Did Not Receive

As Francis Weller writes in his book, The Wild Edge of Sorrow that one form of grief we carry is for “what we expected but did not receive.” This speaks to a deep ache many of us hold—not only for parents who couldn’t meet us, but for a culture that failed to surround us with what we were wired for: community, ritual, belonging, and shared witnessing.

So much of what we longed for—mirroring, guidance, safe elders, collective rhythm—was once embedded in communal life. The loss of this web hasn’t just impacted parenting—it’s left entire generations trying to meet vast emotional and spiritual needs in the confines of nuclear family, partnership, or self-help.

Reparenting ourselves means acknowledging this grief and leaning into it. We must grieve - it is in this grieving that we let go, transmute suffering and expand our capacity for ourselves and others.

Judgment is Not the Problem—Comparison Is

In the process of reparenting—whether ourselves or others—we’re bound to encounter judgment. It’s a natural part of discernment.

As Hal so wisely taught, judgment itself is not the problem—comparison is. Judgment is what helps us see clearly. It shows us where something is a no for us, where there’s a misalignment, or where we simply no longer have the capacity to stay loving or regulated. It’s an internal signal that invites reflection, boundaries, or change.

But when judgment turns into comparison—when we make ourselves or others “better” or “worse,” when we elevate or diminish—we step back into the same patterns of conditional acceptance we’re trying to heal.

Discernment sounds like:

• This dynamic isn’t aligned anymore.

• I don’t have the capacity to meet this with love right now.

• Something here feels like it’s asking me to abandon myself—and I can’t do that anymore.

Comparison sounds like:

• They’re too much.

• I’ve outgrown them.

• I’m better than this.

Part of reparenting is learning to honor judgment without shame, and to let it guide us without hardening our hearts. Sometimes love means staying. Sometimes love means letting go. But clarity, when held with compassion, is never cruel.

Not every relationship will grow with you. That doesn’t make anyone bad. It just makes the truth sacred.

Becoming the Parent We Needed—Together

Reparenting is not about becoming hyper-resilient, stoic, or “above” our wounds. It’s about becoming more human—more compassionate, more integrated, more trustworthy.

To reparent yourself means:

• Protecting the child within you without overidentifying with them

• Naming your needs without shame

• Learning to trust your own inner voice again

• Allowing others to support you when you're hurting

• Learning how to hold yourself when others can't

To reparent others (with consent and awareness) means:

• Being a safe person for someone to fall apart with

• Mirroring reality without cruelty

• Encouraging their growth even when it’s slow or awkward

• Trusting their process even when it doesn't look how you would do it

• Having clear, spoken boundaries

Closing: A Blessing for the Journey

Take a quiet moment. Ask yourself:

Where am I still waiting for someone to come back and meet me? And who, in my life right now, might be asking the same of me?

May we become the mothers and fathers we longed for. May our friendships be altars of growth, not performance. May the child within us feel safe to grow up—slowly, gently, and not because they had to survive, but because they are finally safe to thrive.