Lachlan Brown
I never expected the hardest part of parenting to be the mirror it would hold up to my own emotional life. I thought I was prepared—financially, mentally, spiritually. I had meditated for years, studied psychology, even written a book on Buddhist wisdom. But none of that stopped me from losing my temper when my toddler wouldn’t eat, withdrawing when I felt overwhelmed, or shutting down emotionally when my partner needed me most.
It took me longer than I’d like to admit to see what was happening. I wasn’t just tired or stressed or adjusting to fatherhood. I was being emotionally immature. And it was quietly shaping the way my child experienced the world.
The identity I clung to was part of the problem
One of the more painful realizations came when I recognized how much of my emotional immaturity stemmed from a need to preserve a fixed identity: the calm, wise, grounded father. I didn’t want to admit that I was struggling. I didn’t want my child—or my partner—to see me as inconsistent or overwhelmed.
In Buddhist philosophy, there’s a concept called anattā, or non‑self, which teaches that what we call “me” is a fluid process, not a possession. Remembering that teaching on the living‑room floor, with Duplo blocks scattered around me, I felt a strange relief: if the self is fluid, I’m allowed to flow too—anger, softness, and all.
My emotional immaturity wasn’t just about outbursts. It was the subtle need to control, to be seen a certain way, to avoid discomfort. And it was precisely that self-image—the one I couldn’t let go of—that kept me stuck.
Patterns that looked a lot like my past
When I started to really observe myself, I saw patterns I recognized from childhood: the silent treatment, the subtle guilt-tripping, the emotional shutdowns. I wasn’t doing these things maliciously. In fact, I wasn’t even fully aware I was doing them. But when my daughter cried and I felt powerless, I would sometimes shut down instead of leaning in. When she resisted me, I’d take it personally, as if her emotions were an attack on my authority.
In psychology, this difficulty is linked to low emotional differentiation—the capacity to stay present with another person’s feelings without fusing or over‑reacting. I first came across the term while doing a midnight literature search after one particularly rough bedtime. It was eerie reading my own behavior in black and white.
I began asking myself questions that changed everything: Where did I learn this pattern? What part of me is trying to protect itself right now? Am I reacting to the present moment, or to something much older?
The answers were never easy. But they were freeing.
Why self-awareness without compassion isn’t enough
At one point, I remember reading an article that said emotionally immature parents often blame their children for their own discomfort. Lindsay Gibson’s landmark book Adult Children of Emotionally Immature Parents describes this dynamic in painful detail, noting that such parents “externalize” their anxiety by demanding emotional regulation from the child. I flinched. That was me. I wanted my child to be calm so that I could feel calm. I wanted her behavior to reassure me that I was doing a good job. That’s not love—that’s conditional acceptance, dressed up in parental concern.
And as soon as I saw that, I wanted to fix it. Immediately. But here’s something else I learned: research on self‑compassion shows that people who replace self‑criticism with kindness are better able to regulate emotions and break reactive cycles. Trying to grow out of emotional immaturity through shame or perfectionism only reinforces it.
Self‑awareness alone can become another weapon of the ego. I started saying things like, “There I go again, failing as a father,” or “Why can’t I just be more mindful?” But that internal harshness only deepened my reactivity. These days, when I feel the inner critic warming up, I put a hand on my heart—literally, hand‑on‑chest in the kitchen—and whisper, “Okay, mate, this is hard. Let’s breathe and try again.”
When my child became my greatest teacher
Children don’t care much for our self-image. They see us as we are. And they mirror us back to ourselves with a clarity that can be both painful and beautiful.
My daughter would sometimes tell me, with heartbreaking precision, “You’re not really listening.” Or, “You’re angry, Daddy.” It stung. But over time, I started to welcome her feedback as a form of grace. She wasn’t judging me—she was inviting me to be more present. More real.
I once believed that being a good parent meant always being calm. Now I think it means being willing to repair, to apologize, and to show our children what growth looks like in real time. Emotional maturity, I’ve come to understand, isn’t about never losing your temper. It’s about recognizing when you do, taking responsibility, and learning from it.
Questions that changed my fatherhood—and my life
The deeper I went into this journey, the more I began to live by questions rather than fixed ideals:
What does love look like right now, even if it’s messy?
Am I acting from fear or connection?
What would I do in this moment if I wasn’t trying to prove anything?
What part of my identity am I clinging to, and what would happen if I let it soften?
These aren’t questions with one-time answers. They are living inquiries. And they have become the quiet compass points that help me navigate not just parenting, but partnership, work, and my inner life.
Buddhism taught me that the self is a process, not a possession. Psychology helped me see how emotional patterns take root. But it was parenting that forced me to live these truths, not just study them.
What I’d say to the parent I used to be
If I could sit down with the version of me who was stuck in emotional immaturity, I wouldn’t give him a list of parenting techniques. I’d put a hand on his shoulder and say: It’s okay to not have it all together. Your worth isn’t in your performance. Let go of who you think you’re supposed to be, and show up as who you are. That’s what your child needs most.
And to any parent reading this who sees themselves in my story, I offer the same message: You are not broken. You are growing. Let your imperfections be a doorway, not a dead end. Your willingness to see yourself clearly is already a sign of maturity.
And sometimes, the most grown-up thing we can do is admit that we’re still growing up.
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