Reflections from a Therapistâs Chair
âThe propensity to make strong emotional bonds to particular individuals is a basic component of human nature.â
â John Bowlby
I grew up in the firm, unbending hands of a mother whose voice was law in our home. In those days of my youth, back in the 1990s, when discipline was virtue and emotions were second to duty, I lived under her stern gaze. She ruled with love, yes, but it was the kind of love that wore iron shoes.
One afternoon, she had called me to the kitchen and told me to chop the chicken. She had taught me the art of jointing a bird, and now the time had come to show that I had learned. By then, I was young, my hands still clumsy with such grown-up tasks. I took the knife and laid the chicken on the wooden board. I knew the bones were hard, so I had to strike them, not gently, but with weight. So, I did...and the wicked knife slipped and slashed my hand! Blood flowed!
I squealed, as I looked for something, anything, to stop the red flow. She only walked into the kitchen and shot me a look. âNyathini!â, loosely translated as âYou, foolish child!â, she snapped, as if the pain was a ploy to avoid the chore.
Like I said, in her world, emotions had no place, only duty. The word cut deeper than the knife. It was our neighbour, a retired nurse, who cleaned and bandaged my wound. That evening, something had changed in my mother. Her demeanour no longer stung. She spoke not a word, but her silence was warm, full of meaning. Also, on my plate at dinner, the fattest piece of chicken lay waiting, glistening in oil, as if it had known it was chosen to speak the apology her pride would not let her voice aloud.
Now, years later, I look at the scar - faint, but still there - and I remember not the pain, but the lesson. My mother, for all her sharp words and iron ways, loved me with a depth she did not always show in soft touches. She was not perfect. But she was present, fierce and good. Mama, you were an angel of your own making, and I see you clearly now.
As a therapist, I now recognize what I couldnât name back then. My motherâs love was filtered through the lens of authoritarian parenting, rigid, duty-bound, emotionally distant. Psychologist Diana Baumrind defined this style as one high in control and low in warmth. It was never about cruelty. It was about survival.
The scar on my hand has long faded, but what lingers is the emotional residue of avoidant attachment, a concept from John Bowlbyâs attachment theory, which describes a pattern where a child learns to suppress emotions because expressing them rarely led to comfort or connection. In homes like mine, children learn quickly that emotion is weakness, that expressing hurt makes you lesser. We become experts at staying strong. So strong, in fact, that we forget how to be soft.
Years later, I begin to notice how those early lessons have quietly taken root in me. I find myself apologizing for needing help, as if my vulnerability is an inconvenience. I downplay my own pain, convincing myself it isnât serious enough to deserve attention. I wear emotional independence like a badge of honour, not realizing it has become a barrier. Even rest feels like guilt, softness, comfort, being cared for, they all make me uneasy, as though I havenât earned them. These arenât just habits. They are echoes of a childhood shaped more by rules than tenderness, where silence was mistaken for strength.
We carry patterns that were never ours to choose. My mother, daughter of Kadimo, didnât raise me in emotional neglect out of malice. She raised me with the tools she had been given. Tools forged in scarcity, duty, and cultural silence.
Todayâs parents, many of whose children now sit across from me in therapy, stand at a complex, courageous crossroads. These adolescents and young adults arrive carrying more than just their own pain. As we peel back the layers, familiar patterns begin to surface: homes where love was present but unspoken, where emotions were dismissed or misunderstood, and where being strong meant not feeling too much.
This generation is doing something remarkable. They are the bridge, spanning the emotional silence of the past and the healing hope of the future. Many are learning, sometimes for the first time, how to name their feelings, set boundaries, and speak their truths without guilt or fear.
Healing, in this space, is not about blame. Itâs about understanding the emotional legacies we inherit and making conscious choices about what we carry forward. The young people I sit with in therapy are reshaping what love and strength mean. They are learning to say, âYes, I need helpâ, words that may never have been safe to speak in their childhood homes.
Healing doesnât mean turning against our parents. It means understanding them, and understanding ourselves. It means grieving what we didnât receive, honouring what we did, and choosing, intentionally and gently, what parts of our story we want to pass on. It is saying âI honour you. I understand now, but I choose differentlyâ.
Working with adolescents and young adults often means addressing emotional pain that began long before the client could name it. Therapy offers a safe space to explore how past experiences have influenced current relationships, self-worth, and emotional expression.
A gentle, reflective process helps clients unpack old narratives and begin constructing new ones. This may involve reparenting the inner child, cultivating self-compassion, challenging internal criticism, and developing practical tools for managing anxiety and emotional disconnection.
While the approach is warm and person-centered, it is grounded in evidence-based practices, drawing from attachment theory, trauma-informed care, emotion-focused therapy, and narrative work.
About the Author
Dr. Pauline Adhiambo is a licensed therapist, specializing in youth and adolescent mental health.