MENTAL HEALTH

Writers, Social Media, and The Trap of Late Recognition

We are living in a world of social media. Any profession requires a social presence here. You must have at least an Instagram profile if you can’t have a TikTok or Snapchat account. Have you ever wondered how it influences the life of a writer? Not recently a few years ago, a friend of mine asked for a suggestion. She wanted to know how to build a blog as a side hustle. The first question I asked her was if she was interested in writing. She replied that she would be OK with writing if she could monetize it. It was what I said about math when I was in high school. Writing a book isn’t just about writing a book anymore. It is about writing guest posts, blogs, microblogs, social media content, and more. My three-year-younger version took the attitude of people like my friend toward writing offensively. Now I know better. All we want is to look for a way that makes better money. At the end of the day, we want to pay bills. Nevertheless, I can’t help but be disappointed in how social media influences writers. As far as I know, writers are the textbook definition of narcissists. How could a writer who doesn’t write for himself/herself relate or connect with others? All writers begin with memoirs- tales of first love, pets, broken hearts, long-lost friendships- to write those words they didn’t have the chance to spend. Today, with the limited, fast-paced limelight called social media presence, writers have the need to become content creators. So, what is the difference between a writer and a content creator? While both create content for the audience, writers can choose different styles, niches, and tones while writing. Marketing is essential for the writers-but how much time can a writer afford to think of marketing without affecting his/her writing? Writing a book isn’t just about writing a book anymore. It is about writing guest posts, blogs, microblogs, social media content, and more. Writers must boost their social media presence and increase engagement and traffic to sell more books. The freedom writers enjoy while writing essays or novels has been sufficiently reduced. To pay bills and monetize the writing, writers look at numbers and analytics to understand the audience’s pulse. Does it mean that the writers never wrote for readers before? No. Definitely not. All past, present, and future writers wrote and will write for the readers. Without readers, there is no need for the writers. Even the Creator needs us, humans, to admire and enjoy his creation.  Books became audiobooks. Essays became microblogs. Flash fiction became quotes.  Nevertheless, the writers had yet to feel compelled to create something tailor-made for the audience. They did not strive hard to please a particular set of people. Every artist knows that they cannot please everyone with what they do. Unfortunately, with the competitiveness in the media today, writers had to up their game by delivering copies that ‘sell.’ Today, the world depends on audio-visual stimulation more. Therefore, a writer, with words and more words in his/her hands, is forced to find a way to fight with the audience’s needs. Books became audiobooks. Essays became microblogs. Flash fiction became quotes.  In a guest post, Amber Sparks says, “People who aren’t writers hate Flash. Which is most of the people who you want to buy your book.” I have known people who rejected a book because it was too big to finish; spoiler alert: it was 236 pages long. Some friends choose stories one to two pages long because they are in a rush. Despite everything, there is one indisputable advantage of social media: a good writer with knowledge in marketing need not wait for posthumous glory anymore. With marketing, the writer would avoid falling into the trap of late recognition and appreciation. However, suppose a writer has a good knowledge of social media and algorithms- in that case, they have a chance to shine when they are healthy and alive.

Unlocking the Wonders of Stoicism to the Modern World

The ultimate goal of most humans is to achieve happiness in life. Over time, false ideas of how to attain that happiness have remained. Many believe happiness is attainable through certain milestones,  such as building a career, owning a big house, getting married, having kids, or buying a new car. Though a fundamental need, the real meaning of joy eludes us, and the good Stoics would say that we are searching for it in the wrong places. The Stoics characterize happiness as “the end, for the sake of which everything is done, but which is not itself done for the sake of anything” (Durand et al., 2023). Stoics are confident that absolute joy does not emanate from external sources. If happiness does not derive from wealth, achievements, or good health, how could one achieve it? In what ways do the Stoics prescribe a happy, suffering-free life to the modern world? Imagine an archer whose task is to shoot an arrow at a target. With the aim in mind, the archer takes a shot with utmost sincerity and concentration. Nevertheless, it is not sure that the archer’s arrow will hit the bull’s eye. Even if the archer is skilled and did everything right, they do not have control over the arrow once released from the bowstring. The archer loses control over the success or failure of their action the moment the arrow is released. Sudden changes in wind and the direction of the arrow are external factors that could change the outcome of the archer’s action. A Stoic wouldn’t measure their happiness depending on the outcome of their action but instead on the accuracy of their performance. A Stoic archer wouldn’t concern themselves with victory or failure as long as they performed to their best. This approach would save them from anger, distress, and false suffering. Amidst the crowded and bustling community center, where people gathered for business, social, and artistic life, Zeno of Citium began teaching Stoicism in 300 B.C. Chrysippus, the third head of the Stoic school and the inventor of the Stoic logic, Diogenes and Antipater, concluded the early Stoa period. Stoicism found its way to Rome through Panaetius and Posidonius, whose works featured a comprehensive shade of Stoicism. The most familiar Stoics, Seneca, Epictetus, Rufus, and Marcus Aurelius, instructed Stoicism through their nuanced and inclusive writings. The timeline of Stoicism can create a false impression of out-of-date and archaic philosophy in the minds of those who hear Stoicism for the first time. Nothing can be further from the truth. The familiarity and usefulness of the philosophy can be found in modern-day CEOs, businesspeople, entrepreneurs, engineers of Silicon Valley, and everyone affected by bustling life. They find solace and wisdom in the words of Seneca and Marcus. The popularity and reach of Stoicism soared through the pandemic times. The sales of Stoic Books like Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations and Seneca’s Letters from the Stoic have increased, thanks to the young people searching for peaceful living and happiness in modern times. These ancient texts are exceptionally relevant and up-to-date. Over the recent years, Stoicism has become more than a teaching or a philosophy. It has become a practical guide, followed by the masses, to achieve tranquility and true happiness.

Final Moments Of Justice, Mercy And Hope With Julie

I have been thinking about where it all went south between me and my parents. My mind conjured up a long list that goes back thirty years. We don’t have what other families call “normal” conversations anymore. From the list made up in my mind, one name popped up so much that I couldn’t avoid it. Julie. After they confronted me with what was in the sack for Julie, I knew we couldn’t be a family any more. It wasn’t like we were a family before, anyway. One fine morning, when the Sun shone brightly through the broad windows of the porch- it was summer in my mind- I found my parents in the living room sitting cosily with a coffee cup. It wasn’t an unusual sight in other families. However, it was a sight that you can’t forget in ours. My parents did not believe in expressing love, at least the kind of love portrayed by movies. Nevertheless, I had no misunderstanding about their relationship. They stood as a team, always in front of me and Julie. Our extended families knew they were a match made in heaven because they seldom fought or sulked at each other. My dad was pursing his lips while my mom wore the it-is-not-easy-but-it-is-right look on her face. I glanced at Julie, and like me, she had no idea what was going on. Yet, we shared the same fright and uneasiness in our hearts. ‘Sit, we need to talk,’ my mom called me. My mom was always the executioner, even though she never wrote the judgements. Decision-making is a man’s job at home. The next ten minutes shook all the beliefs and values I contracted from my family. I stopped believing everything without questioning. ‘No!’ I ran with tears obscuring my vision past Julie and upstairs to the terrace. I spent the entire day in the store room crying and wiping my nose on my sleeve. When my tears were exhausted, I slowly found my way back down. The porch looked empty and clean. The heavy fragrance of floor cleaner filled my nostrils. Mom must have wiped the blood stains on the wall. It looked like modern art with grey blotches scattered all around. I searched in all directions with desperation. But Julie was gone. I muffled the screams that originated at the back of my throat. Good girls don’t scream, I told myself one hundred times. A low wail escaped my throat instead. If anyone asked me in the future, ‘What is anger?’ I told them that it was the door of escape for the suppressed pain. My parents were sitting together with their evening tea. It was always coffee in the morning and tea in the evening. Our house functioned well because of unshakeable routines. ‘Why?’ I asked, gritting my teeth harder that it hurt my jaw for the next two days. ‘Because it is the right thing to do,’ answered my mom. The judge doesn’t have to explain his judgements. It was a chore of an executioner to support the judge with his judgements. ‘Why now? Julie was struggling for a long time,’ I told her. It was true that Julie was struggling with Cancer. She was feeling sick to her stomach, puking blood everywhere. Her legs and eyes gave up on her. We all knew that she wouldn’t last long. My parents, out of the goodness in their hearts- so they tell me, decided to end Julie’s suffering. I hope Julie didn’t understand what they were doing to her. I wish Julie didn’t think we gave up on her, too. ‘Your sister is visiting us with the baby next week. They might probably stay for a few weeks,’ she said, not meeting my eyes. ‘So?’ I asked. ‘Julie…’ she paused, choosing the words carefully. That’s what people pretending to be good do. ‘Julie could spread the infection to the baby.’ She urgently added. ‘Doctors told us that Julie cannot stay near any new-borns. Also, we have to think what’s best for Julie.’ ‘It wasn’t the right thing to do. It was easy,’ I told my mom. For the first and last time, my dad stared at me with shock and disbelief. Where was his good girl? She was probably buried deep with Julie in the forest behind our backyard. ‘What?’ my dad asked. ‘What if Julie wasn’t a dog? What if Julie was a human? Would you still put her to sleep this way?’ I asked. ‘How did it feel to play God?’

McRenett, my daughter, and Obel Tower in the City Centre

Happiest memory, in my opinion, tends to be replaceable with every passing year. Fifteen years ago, my happiest memory was walking with my mum home from school. The delicious fragrance of cake from the McRenett bakery filled my senses. Later that evening, when my dad returned home after work, I hugged him, twining my arms around his neck. I smell the famous McRenett cake in his laptop bag. He was always good at surprises. Five years ago, my happiest memory was giving birth to my daughter. It was the best experience of my life, hands down! I knew she was the love of my life from the moment I met her. She wrapped her tiny hand around my index finger and pulled it into her mouth. I knew that every parent would die for their child. However, at that moment, I swore I would live for her to the fullest. Happiest memory, in my opinion, tends to be replaceable with every passing year. Today, when asked about my happiest memory, I recalled my recent trip to Belfast. Before the flight landed, I knew I would love the city. Of course, the weather was to my taste. I had an opportunity to stay on the 19th floor of a high-rise building in the city centre. The living room had floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides, while a L-shaped sofa was set against the wall. A bird’s eye view of the city brought an unexplainable thrill and nourishment. When the city slept with the moon on the horizon, I stayed awake watching the thousand street lights twinkling like stars. The long, dark Lagan flew gently under Queen’s bridge on its way to a purple spot where the famous RMS Titanic was built once. When the dawn broke, my heart squealed with happiness on seeing the most beautiful sunrise in my life. I lost sleep, but it was worth it. The next day, I wandered alone on the streets of Belfast. In the evening, I watched my favourite movie, Titanic, on the anniversary of twenty-five years. It was one of the most remarkable experiences of my life.

I conquered life- if only it was as easy as that…

I have walked through one of the darkest times of my life. I dreaded those couple of years when the cumulus clouds stuffed my sky, blocking clear thoughts and feelings. Unfortunately, the lockdown period of Covid-19 coincided with the years I felt imprisoned by my mind. It was when I felt utterly alone and upset. The clouds dissipated finally, letting the sun shine through the sky, and all was well in the end if only it were as simple as that… If a man survives for days in a stranded boat in the ocean, he doesn’t become alive and happy when rescued. He would need attention for hypothermia, anxiety, panic attacks and much more. In a way, my survival attempts to get out of that darkest phase involved a lot of necessary and unnecessary tactics. Those unnecessary steps were also essential to deceive my mind that all is not lost and there is still hope. One of those tactics was to start a blog. The decision was impulsive at its best. In a twisted way, I thought a blog could improve my then-current state of mind. I am grateful for those who supported my idea, even when they had no idea how I was barely keeping my head above the water. Since the blog was designed at a time when I needed motivation and purpose to hang on to life, it became overly ambitious. Unattainable and unrealistic goals were set. I pushed myself harder to achieve them, but it wasn’t possible. The failures shoved me back into the water. It was a vicious circle. This setback rippled in all areas of my life. I couldn’t help but wonder if I would get out of it alive. More desperation led to more impulsive decisions to kickstart something new in my life. When my old circle of friends couldn’t understand what I was going through, I made another spontaneous decision to find new friends. The blog was deserted at last. I had no energy to keep up with the pretences of my mind. How could I prove myself when I could barely keep myself alive? How do I know what I want when my mind is foggy and self-destructive? Don’t ask me how because there is no handbook to get out of this, but one morning, I woke up with clouds dissipating and the sun peeking through several of those holes- like those movies where they show the depiction of heaven in the sky. It was a result of hundreds of tiny efforts over two years. I was glad that it was finally over. I was happy to be finally freed from a disordered, chaotic mind. I was excited that I could return to my happy-go-lucky life. It wasn’t that simple either! Now, with an unobscured mind, I could see the past couple of years clearly with a fresh perspective. I noticed the actions that needed to be undone- my fragile attempts at making friendships, oversharing disguised as reflection, and… BLOG! Though this blog was a hasty decision, I didn’t dislike it. I always had an affinity for writing blogs. It was a huge blow when I saw the state of it. It was as if I messed up before I started a relationship with someone special. “I started off on the wrong foot!” This dialogue echoed inside my mind without control. I knew that if I didn’t control this thought, I might have to go back to the place of total darkness again. No, it wasn’t even an option. As a result, I struggled to salvage and restore the blog’s status. After writing dozens of SEO-ranked and keyword-researched posts, my opinions and voice cramped themselves into the boot. All those posts were enriched with research and facts. Nevertheless, where is my style? My voice? My opinion that should matter? I began hating the process soon, too. I am a storyteller. That’s how I see myself. How can the blog of a self-proclaimed storyteller be void of stories? With a clear mind, I decided to revamp the blog. I removed everything unnecessary, keeping the page to a bare minimum. If Google wouldn’t rank my blog, then so be it. Life is not a movie. There is no end card after you survive the brutal war with your mind. Enjoy a clear mind for a while before setting yourself new goals to follow. You never know what others are going through. So, be kind, no matter what…

Dolores Claiborne- A victim, survivor and a great mother

In all senses, Stephen King’s novel, Dolores Claiborne, published in 1992- the year I was born- is an unconventional horror story. The author did not follow any traditional route for this novel- from the writing style to the horror elements, everything was different and out of the box. First things first, the uncouth language… There is no King’s novel without a foul vocabulary. When asked why he uses it, King explained that he intends to keep it ‘real’. That’s how the people in those parts spoke. Perhaps, he was right. The words that I don’t use in everyday life, made it easy for me to travel to those parts where the story was happening. I think that’s all there is to say about the swear words King use. You can’t tell a writer what to write; else, it won’t be authentic. Next comes, the writing style… The story, written in the first person’s point of view, has one more speciality: the whole story feels like a transcribed version of Dolores’s confession. It is possible to feel like sitting in a room with Dolores when she is confessing to the sheriff. King, in my opinion, can develop a well-rounded personality for every character. In this story, he purposefully projects Joe St. George as a miserable alcoholic, abuser, racist and sexual harasser. The result of this projection is a natural sympathy towards Dolores. Dolores comes across as a strong woman and a great mother since we do not have any other side of Joe, her abusive husband. I was supporting and rooting for Dolores halfway through the book. The hardest part of reading must be reading the book in dialogue style. Horror elements… After reading Pet Semetary and the Mist, I formed an opinion about Stephen King’s horror elements. All of his horror stories start with a human first. The darkness within each one of us is far more horrific and powerful than the supernatural elements. Dolores Claiborne has a tiny supernatural horror element- when she connects with a small girl, who was sexually assaulted by her father- in the story. Otherwise, the horror element of this novel entirely depends upon the crude actions of humans. Few points that I couldn’t miss… Stephen King does a fantastic job, as he did in Pet Semetary, in narrating the difficulties of a caretaker. It is definitely not an easy job to take care of someone. King takes extra care in not making that role just selfless and kind. He makes it real by writing about the practical difficulties involved in that role. By writing a strong female character, King alters the meaning of ‘bitch’. ‘Sometimes a woman has to be a bitch to survive.’ In the epilogue, a few magazine articles suggest that Dolores is patching her relationship with her daughter. King, though did not elaborate on this part but made a quick and accurate point about kids raised in highly dysfunctional families. In my opinion… I had a fair outline of what had happened in the story when I read the line ‘But it wasn’t his hands on me that brought him to grief…’ I knew who killed Joe St. George (which Dolores said that she did at the start of her confession). However, I had successfully guessed why she did it. Anyway, that wasn’t an obstacle to my curiosity in any way. I wanted to know ‘how’ she did it, and King knew how to keep that curiosity intact in the reader’s mind. I ain’t gonna lie, but towards the end of the book, it was dry and lengthy- especially after the death of Joe. It was anticlimactic, though I was happy about the ending. Neither Dolores nor Vera Donovan (the house owner), seemed like a bitch to me. Both of them were victims and survivors. Rating: 4.5/5

Is A Degree REALLY Essential To Become An Author?

I came across this podcast ‘Tiffin Inn’ where in the first episode, Tim and Art discussed about the importance of procuring a degree in writing. The gist revolved around the essentiality of the degree for a novelist (or any kind of writer). Here are my two cents, as a writer and a wanna-be novelist: On days like today, I procrastinate more and write less. Ask any writer, and they might tell you that their procrastination is not limited to Netflix or Instagram. If you must get a PhD in procrastination, sign up yourself under a writer’s program. We have a creative list of side things to do when we want to avoid doing the job- to write that goddamned novel or blog! When I started writing for the first time (as a ghostwriter), I found it hard to introduce myself as a writer. Whenever someone asks me, ‘What do you do?’ I said, ‘I write articles as a freelancer.’ I could have simply said, ‘I am a writer.’ However, those four words were challenging to speak. When I quit working as a freelancer, it became more difficult. I do not have a profession. Writing does not pay my bills. I am here (procrastinating often and writing less), claiming I would write a book. When you publish, you become an author in a natural order. What happens when you write a book (which may or may not be complete)? What do you call yourself when you are doing it? ‘Can I call myself a writer?’ – this question has itched my mind for so long- longer than my pride would admit. For a newbie writer who came out of engineering college and worked in a Telecom job- claiming the identity of a writer was hard. That’s when I found this definition for a writer- ‘One who cannot not write.’ The only sentence where a double negative doesn’t infuriate me. I fell in love with this line. Sol Stein’s definition of writing simplified the whole ‘who am I?’ for me. Also, it made me love writing more- if I could put someone’s mind at ease or stir the comfortable mind with words and nothing more- isn’t it a beautiful win? A win that almost sounds like poetry. However- and there are lots of however-s in this post- process of writing isn’t easy either- because writing IS an unconventional job/profession. Growing up, I knew I liked writing- putting my experiences on paper to form a connection with someone else. I am talking about 20 years ago. It was when you were required to choose a job that ‘pays’. ‘Of course, authors get paid. Music directors get paid. Artists get paid. What are you talking about? How is art an unpaid job?’ Well, I am talking about the other 90 per cent who fail. You have to be ridiculously good to survive and make it to the 10 per cent who gets paid. That’s exactly why these jobs are unconventional. Sometimes, it doesn’t pay your bills. Seeing the established authors, singers, and directors generates a dangerous hope in the hearts of those who aspire to flourish in art. Speaking of hope, I find it dangerous to an extent always. It might be because of the trauma I am yet to find and heal. That’s right. It’s me. I am the problem. It’s me. Keeping in mind the volatility of success in these jobs, pursuing it as a mainstream education is naturally frowned upon. The result- engineering- and I have this internal joke about engineering- it is a purgatory for young adults when they have no idea what to do with their life. I signed up for classes and workshops, learning technique after technique from the authors who made it in the real world. One problem with this kind of ‘self-learning’ is you don’t know which technique you need and which you can discard. TMI kills the eagerness for learning. Another is you would use it as a method of procrastination. When I find myself in ‘writer’s block (which happens to everyone at some point), I think that I lack creative skills- voila, another workshop or class on Skillshare. I wouldn’t say that ‘self-learning’ is altogether bad. It is a necessary evil. You may as well not write if you are going to write terribly until the end of your life. The trick is to know when to stop. Without a structure for proper writing, I found that my first hurdle is inconsistency and lack of discipline. Looking up at every successful author’s writing routine, you might be surprised to find them writing at least 1000 words every day. Not the kind we write in a diary. But the kind that makes sense and contributes something to the story we are writing. Anyone can have a creative flair for telling stories. You can be incredibly creative, but if you don’t have the discipline to sit down and write for at least 3 hours every day, your story will only exist inside your mind. It is easier said than done. I made up my mind that I would finish the book in 3 months- however, the real process was daunting and energy-consuming. That’s where the real community comes in- a tribe that can relate to your fear and struggles. As a writer, you must have a backbone community, who can collaborate on your journey. What’s more fun than sharing the love you have for a similar thing? Having someone who does the same kind of thing you do will bring additional benefits like new techniques, solving writer’s block by collaborating on prompts, being a constant reader for each other, and more. There is a chance you could find your first editor in your community. You get honest feedback- not the brutal ones that amplify the imposter syndrome in you. Having a degree in arts really helps. You don’t pass the degree without writing a certain number of words (your thesis would be a novel-length, I suppose). When studying the art of writing, you realise the seriousness of your goal. Grammar, vocabulary and writing techniques can be self-taught. It would take a long time to achieve discipline and form a community. A degree in arts is an acceleration. However, it is not something to regret about. The readers in your circle might be another reason for your imposter syndrome to resurface. I often hear my family and friends telling me that my vocabulary is too hard. They think that they need a dictionary for my writing to make sense. The redundancy of this feedback confused me. On one hand, reading Kafka and Murakami, I knew I am lacking a lot and had to improve more- in terms of vocabulary, voice and style. On the other hand, I am a posh writer, who uses ridiculously big words that makes the reader’s life difficult. The presence of a community that reads the same standard of books that you read makes a big difference in a writer’s life. You can never avoid the question ‘Where do I start?’ when you follow your passion. The job of a proper education in arts is to make you face that question first and clear it. If you are self-learning like me, you must knock on a lot of walls that look like doors, and sigh when it does not open. It is something inevitable. I don’t think a degree is what you need if you want to become a blogger or novelist. An AI is trying to do our job, as I write this. Any ‘unconventional’ job in arts needs passion and talent, and that’s all. Do I wish I had a degree in Literature? Yes, I do. However, do I regret not having it? Absolutely not.

Screwing Up as a Parent is the Most Important Lesson

I can’t believe I am writing this, but hear me out. Screwing up as a parent is an important lesson. Growing up, I saw my parents as two perfect humans who never made any mistake. The benchmark set by them was unattainable and unrealistic. Each one of us has a different definition of parenting. For me, parenting is similar to an orchestra. As a parent, I must orchestrate (carefully and consciously) the different stages of my kid’s life with a grand scheme in mind. Usually, people would say that journey is more important than the destination. Sometimes, the journey is all that matters. When you stand on the Himalayas, 26000 ft above sea level, looking at the grey-scale mountains stretched all around- the destination seems to make sense lesser and lesser. However, parenting must consider destiny as an integral part of a journey. When you don’t pick a path, finding a way becomes difficult. Why are mistakes significant? As human beings, we make mistakes and learn from them. But, once we become a parent, we assume we cannot make any mistakes. We try and avoid making any mess. Of course, it is impractical to avoid mistakes. So, we make them anyway and hide behind ‘parents are heroes’ images. The number one mistake of a ‘perfect’ parent is hiding their mistakes from their child. They think no mistakes mean a perfect benchmark for morality and good values. Instead, this approach backfires on the parents. It alienates the kids from the parents. Instead of pretending to be the perfect parents, where the kids feel threatened to satisfy us- try to be the parent who makes mistakes and owns them. That would send a clear message to the kids – ‘Mistakes don’t define me’. When parents aren’t some exemplary aliens, the kids feel free to communicate. By making mistakes, you teach the kids that perfection is a hoax. It is the way of relationships. Screwing up, learning from mistakes and growing up is the best way of interpersonal development. What comes next? We all know that an apology follows a mistake, though we don’t follow the process. In intimate relationships, we skip apology as an unnecessary step. Especially in a parent-child relationship, we think an apology would undermine our authority. Nothing can be farther from the truth. Refusing to apologize for a mistake would create a bad role model for your kid. It also makes us look like a hypocrite when we demand an apology. The kids find it easier to follow by example than to learn something theoretically. The apology also creates connection and trust when used right and appropriately. It helps to let go of hurt and embrace the most important part of any relationship-the people themselves. How to do it right? A proper apology always has three parts: 1. Apologizing for your mistake 2. Own up without blame or justification 3. Show the change in behaviour. A lot of us stop with the first part of an apology. We usually blame the other person or the situation to cover our bad behaviour. It renders the apology useless and invalid. A good apology should start with ‘I am sorry’ and stop there. Without making a behaviour change, repetitive apologies create distrust and disconnection in any relationship. Why does it feel difficult? When asked to apologize to their children, most parents struggle to find the right words. One way to avoid uneasiness is by apologizing frequently. When it becomes a habit, an apology won’t cause any discomfort. Apologize when you are calm. Take a time out and cool yourself before talking about the mistakes with the kid. Do not invalidate the kid’s feelings by justifying your actions with an excuse. Own your mistake without blaming it on someone else. Talk about how your behaviour made the kid feel. Speaking about emotions would create a space for compassion- to let go of the pain and embrace understanding. Last but not least… Never expect the kids to forgive you instantly. Forgiveness must happen at one’s own pace. Seeking instant forgiveness shows that your apology was an emotional manipulation- to feel good about yourself. Give them the space and time they need to process your apology. It would teach them to take real accountability for hurting someone and not find a quick way to find a loophole through an apology.

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