The Child Within the Parent: Why Parenting Conflicts Run So Deep

It was almost a year ago, during the month of Adar. A couple who had been in therapy with me arrived for a session and described a conflict that had erupted at home.

Their thirteen-year-old son wanted to get drunk, and the father was absolutely opposed. He insisted firmly that the boy was far too young and that under no circumstances would he give permission for such behavior.

The mother, however, saw the situation very differently. Not only did she fail to oppose the idea, she felt it was an opportunity that would be a shame to miss. In her view, a child should be allowed to enjoy himself, and as parents, it was their role to support that freedom.

The disagreement quickly escalated into a tense and unpleasant exchange. The couple could not reach any understanding. Each clung tightly to their position, unable to see the other’s perspective.

The Moment That Revealed Everything

Suddenly, in the middle of the session, the woman began experiencing involuntary movements in her hand. She repeatedly lifted her hand toward her shoulder in unconscious, rhythmic motions. Each time it happened, her husband became visibly agitated. He could not tolerate it.

In therapeutic terms, this is known as working in the “here and now.” The therapy room itself often becomes a place where unconscious defenses surface in real time, offering valuable insight into deeper emotional dynamics.

This moment illuminated far more than the argument at hand.

I asked the couple to share additional examples of similar conflicts they had experienced.

A Pattern Beneath the Arguments

They described how their teenage daughter wanted to sleep over at friends’ homes or spend time with them on Shabbat, something the father consistently refused to allow. Later, when the daughter, now eighteen, wanted to pursue a profession outside the seminar framework, the father again forbade it.

In fact, in nearly every situation that challenged educational or societal boundaries, the father refused to allow any deviation.

The mother, on the other hand, experienced these situations as positive opportunities. Even when school staff opposed birthday parties or sleepovers, she felt it was healthy to grant children independence and freedom, even when it came close to crossing established rules.

Strong emotions were clearly present. I sensed an opportunity to explore something deeper and began an in-depth process of uncovering the vulnerable places each had developed in childhood.

His Story: Longing for Boundaries

A surprising picture emerged.

The husband grew up in a very conservative Orthodox environment, but his home life was strikingly different from that of his peers. His parents were deeply invested in their work and personal growth, and the children largely raised themselves.

For his parents, almost any activity was permitted, even if it contradicted social norms, as long as it relieved them of the responsibility of parenting. He grew up independent and nearly without limits, yet deeply longing for an adult figure who would provide both authority and care.

To him, the neighbors’ children appeared happier. They had parents who said no, parents who set boundaries, parents who were present. Even though those children were allowed far less freedom, they seemed to have something he lacked.

As he grew older and reached marriageable age, his subconscious yearned for stability and structure. When he met his future wife, he immediately recognized those qualities in her.

During a familiar dating discussion about which newspapers should be brought into the home, she answered confidently, “What’s the question? Only Yated Ne’eman and Hamodia.” Her clarity and boundaries felt grounding to him.

She insisted their meetings end by midnight because she needed to return home. She knew exactly which hotels were appropriate and which were not. These limits provided him with the emotional anchor he had always sought.

Her Story: Longing for Freedom

Her background was almost the mirror opposite.

She grew up in a warm and devoted home, but one that was extremely strict. Rules were rules. Halacha was halacha. School regulations were not symbolic, they were absolute.

She was a good, obedient child, but internally she carried quiet resentment. She wanted to do what felt right to her. When friends invited her to outings, she felt embarrassed to admit her parents would not allow it, and often invented excuses to avoid explaining.

When she met her future husband, she quickly noticed his ease with freedom. For him, it was acceptable to bring a wider range of newspapers into the house. He was not afraid of considering neighborhoods with a less religious atmosphere.

She learned that he went on dates without his parents even checking a single reference, while she herself had only gone on her first date after her parents consulted nine different people.

What They Saw in Each Other

Each of them found in the other what had been missing in their own lives. Each experienced the other as strong, capable of compensating for their own vulnerabilities.

They married, and at first, everything felt harmonious.

Then real life began.

Gradually, it became clear that the very traits that had drawn them together were now becoming points of deep conflict.

When Old Wounds Become Parenting Styles

The husband, who had grown up with too much freedom and longed for limits, promised himself he would be a different father. Yet when faced with his own children, his instincts conflicted.

Part of him wanted to let go, but doing so felt terrifying. Allowing freedom made him feel as though he was repeating his own father’s emotional absence. To avoid that fear, he forced himself to impose boundaries in a rigid and absolute way. Not from strength, but from unresolved pain.

The wife, hearing these strict limitations, was instantly transported back to her own childhood shame. She could no longer see the situation objectively. All she felt was that children needed freedom. Boundaries triggered her old feelings of social isolation and embarrassment.

This was the deeper meaning behind the hand movements she experienced in the session.

I stopped them and named what was happening. We had returned to the same emotional fault line. She felt suffocated and controlled. He felt that control was the only thing protecting him from falling apart.

At that point, the question of whether to allow the child to drink became irrelevant.

When each partner understands their own inner story and embraces the pain beneath their reactions, space opens for empathy. Only then can they give room to one another and arrive at a shared, balanced decision.

Rabbi Aryeh Attinger is a counselor and founder of a school for training couples counselors.