the ghost that raises your kids

my panic attack taught me something terrifying: i wasn't parenting my children. my childhood was.

The floor is cold against my cheek. I can't breathe. The walls are closing in. My partner dials emergency services while I shake like a broken machine.

First coherent thought: Did I wake Jack? Did my two-year-old hear his dad crying?

The paramedics blamed stress. New job, new parent, lockdown madness. But lying on the floor, in cold sweat, I knew this breakdown had been brewing for thirty seven years, waiting for the right moment to explode.

I thought I was an extrovert. Someone who handled life's curveballs without breaking a sweat. Men don't talk about struggling. We drink beer and discuss anything except the screaming in our heads.

But there I was. A father. Supposed to be strong. Hyperventilating on the bedroom floor.

We hire coaches for everything. Golf swings. Business plans. Career moves. But nobody teaches us how to parent when our own childhood is a minefield.

Three therapists told me to manage my stress better. Breathe deeper. Think positive thoughts. Exercise more. Generic bullshit that missed the point entirely.

Therapist number four got it. "You're suffering from childhood trauma."

Something cracked open in my chest. Not surprise. Relief. Someone finally named the thing that had been hijacking my life.

That's when I understood why I'd freeze when Jack did normal kid things. Spill juice. Have meltdowns. Test boundaries like every healthy child does.

Deep in my nervous system, a different parent was shouting. Not my voice. The voice of whoever had shouted at me when I was small and scared.

My mind had protected me from the worst memories. But those fragments shaped every reflex. Every reaction. Every moment of fatherhood.

Trauma doesn't live in the past. It lives in the split second before you speak to your child.

Jack turns seven this week. I'm still learning to slow down when that familiar surge hits. The irritation. The impatience. The urge to parent from a place of fear and control.

I pause. Ask myself: Is this me responding, or is this the ghost?

Usually it's the ghost. The voice that thinks children should be seen and not heard. That mistakes developing minds for deliberate defiance.

But kids are kids. They need love, not perfection. They need us to show them what healthy adults look like when things get messy.

Every day with Jack and Lowri is magic. But it's also work. The work of catching myself before I react. The work of apologising when I screw up. The work of showing them that feelings are okay and vulnerability is strength.

If I could grab that man on the floor by the shoulders, here's what I'd say:

You're doing your best with broken knowledge. Those voices in your head about how to be a man? How to be a father? They're not yours. They belong to people who were hurt long before you were born. People who passed down their pain like a cursed family recipe.

Follow your instincts, not the voice that wants to parent how you were raised. You will have two incredible children. Every single day with them will be magic if you can stay present for it.

The panic attack isn't your breakdown. It's your breakthrough. Your body finally saying what your mind couldn't: you can't carry everyone else's trauma anymore.

Your children deserve a father who shows up as himself. Not as the ghost of his own childhood.

To the fathers reading this who recognise themselves in these words: you're not alone. Generational trauma affects most families. But every cycle can be broken. Every pattern can be interrupted.

It starts with awareness. Admitting that our childhood experiences shape how we parent, even when we swear we'll do things differently. It starts with getting help. Not just for us, but for the generations that come after.

To Jack and Lowri, if you're reading this someday: your dad is still learning. Still catching himself. Still working every day to be the father you deserve, not the father his wounds want him to be.

The most important thing I can teach you is that healing is possible. That cycles can be broken. That love is about showing up as your truest self, even when that self is scared and imperfect and figuring it out as he goes.

The ghost doesn't have to win. We can choose differently. We can choose better.

We can be the generation that breaks the cycle.