I Stopped Pretending I Got It Right. I Started Coming Back.

I will yell sometimes. I'll say things I wish I hadn't. I'll definitely regret my behaviour from time to time because I'm human. More than one PDA nervous system in one house means rupture is inevitable, no matter how much we love each other. The goal isn't to be perfect. It's to always come back.

That took me a long time to learn because I grew up in a world where rupture was the end of the conversation. Nobody came back. Nobody named what happened. The silence after the explosion was just the way things were, and I carried that into my own parenting for longer than I'd like to admit.

When I got it wrong with my kids, I didn't know how to go back. I didn't have a template for it. So I'd either pretend it didn't happen, or I'd over explain, or I'd collapse into shame, and none of those things were repair.

So I had to learn what repair actually looks like, and what I've found is that it's much simpler and much harder than I expected.

Naming what happened

"I wasn't at my best earlier. That wasn't cool."

That's it. No long explanation. No defending. No blaming the day. Just naming it gives the moment sincerity my children can hold.

I used to think repair meant a big conversation. I thought I had to explain why I lost it, what was going on for me, how stressed I was, how many things had built up. But all of that centres me and my experience, and my child doesn't need to understand my reasons. They need to know that what happened wasn't okay and that I see it. The shorter and more honest the acknowledgment, the safer it lands. Because a long explanation can feel like another demand to listen, process, and respond, and after a rupture their nervous system is already in overdrive.

When I'm regulated

Repair doesn't happen in the storm. It happens after. If I try to apologise while still activated, my body can still read the room wrong. Sometimes that means an hour later. Sometimes the next day. The timing is important.

I've tried to repair while I'm still dysregulated and it's never gone well. My voice might say the right words but my body is still carrying the tension and my children can feel that. PDA children are incredibly attuned to what's happening beneath the surface, and if my nervous system is still activated, the repair doesn't feel safe to receive. So I've learned to wait. To regulate first, properly, not just push it down but actually let my body come back to a place where I can be present and genuine. And then I go back.

No "but you..."

A real repair doesn't include their part in causing it. "I'm sorry I yelled, but you were..." isn't an apology. It's a justification. Their part is theirs to name if and when they're ready. Mine is mine to own now, and it isn't conditional on a return apology.

This was one of the hardest things for me to hold because in the moment it can feel so unfair. I can see what they did that contributed to the rupture, and the urge to name it is strong. But the moment I add "but you were..." I've undone the entire repair. I've told my child that my accountability comes with conditions, and that my apology is actually a negotiation. And for a PDA child, that reads as another form of control. My repair needs to be clean. Just mine. Whatever they need to own, they'll get to in their own time, and it's not my job to make sure that happens in the same conversation.

Trying again

"What I wish I'd said is..."

I get to redo the moment, out loud, in front of them. It gives them a different version of the interaction to remember alongside the first.

This one has been really powerful for us. Because it's not just an apology, it's a demonstration of what I wanted to happen versus what actually happened. It shows my children that I've thought about it, that I know what went wrong, and that I have a different response available to me. It also models something they rarely see in the world, which is an adult going back and saying "I could have done that better, and here's what I wish I'd done instead." That is incredibly normalising for a child who lives with the constant pressure to get things right themselves.

Honouring the "not now"

Sometimes my child doesn't want the repair when I'm ready to offer it. That's not rejection. It's their nervous system still needing time, and them being attuned to that. It's also great self-awareness and self-advocacy.

I move away. I come back later. The door stays open.

This one took me a while because my instinct when I'm ready to repair is to do it now, to relieve the tension, to fix it. But that's about my comfort, not theirs. And when my child says "not now" or pulls away or doesn't want to engage with the repair yet, they're actually doing something remarkable. They're telling me what they need and they're trusting that I'll still be there when they're ready. That trust is everything, and I protect it by honouring the no without making it about me.

The repair is the safety

Children with parents who never apologise learn that rupture is the end of the story. Children with parents who come back learn that rupture is just a chapter and that they're worth coming back to.

Repair, not perfection, is what builds relational safety. And I think about that a lot, because the narrative I grew up with was that good parents don't lose it, good parents stay calm, good parents get it right. But that's not real. Real parents rupture. What matters is whether they come back.

I come back. Always.

It isn't the rupture that hurts most. It's the silence that follows it. And my children will never sit in that silence wondering whether I'm coming back, because I always do. Even when it's hard. Even when I'm embarrassed. Even when I wish I could just pretend it didn't happen. I come back, and I name it, and I try again. And that is the safety.

Kristy Forbes
inTune Pathways