How Can Parents Use Inner Peace Quotes With Anxious Teens?

Mom and Dad have given me all their love. They've decorated a princess bedroom for me, where unlimited Barbie dolls await me there. Since I love bathing a lot, they've also sunk in a huge amount of money just to custom-make a bathtub for me. They keep telling my younger sister, Olivia Grant, to protect me forever. But when Olivia and I are taking a bath together, she accidentally chokes on the bathwater. That's when Mom goes nuts. She strangles me violently while roaring at me, "We thought you'd learn to love your sister as long as we treated you well! Who would've thought that you're an ingrate who tried to drown her?" I can only shake my head in alarm. But Mom quickly shoves me into the washing machine. "You like bathing that much, don't you? Well, you can bathe to your heart's content!" After that, Mom and Dad take Olivia out to play. What they fail to notice is that they've accidentally turned on the washing machine. Water soon fills the chamber, and yet I can't climb out of the washing machine at all. As I feel myself tumbling around with the dirty laundry, I can only open my eyes with great difficulty as I look at my parents, who have returned home once again. I don't want to take a bath anymore. Can Mom and Dad please stop getting mad at me?

Two individuals with different stories, different emotions and different problems... They meet in a high school, one as a student, the other as an intern... How can they balance their views?

My mom is terrified of being laughed at by others the most. Whenever the holidays are here, she will keep repeating one sentence to me—"Don't go around embarrassing me." When my relatives gather around and chat with each other, I accidentally knock a fruit platter over. Mom drags me over and slaps me on the spot. At the holiday feast, I grab extra pieces of steak for myself. Mom responds by kicking my chair over. When it's time for the holiday gifts to be distributed, my aunt, Gabriella Hall, has miscalculated the number of children present among the family. So, she has prepared one less gift for the occasion. Mom doesn't hesitate to kick me out of the apartment, leaving me shivering in the cold corridor in just my indoor clothes. The icy winds chill me to the bone. I keep slamming my palms on the front door while screaming and crying my apologies at Mom, and yet she remains unmoved and silent. Instead, she turns to face Aunt Gabriella with an apologetic smile on her face. "I'm really sorry. I didn't raise my daughter well. It's only fair that you ridicule me." What Mom doesn't know is that I get triggered whenever I hear the word "ridicule" thanks to her so-called parenting lessons. Whenever I hear that word, I want nothing more than to hurt myself uncontrollably. So when I hear the word "ridicule" coming out of Mom's mouth through the front door, I turn on my heel quietly and begin making my way toward the bridge next to the neighborhood that's plunged into darkness. The moment I jump from the bridge, the only thought I have is, "Mom, no one will ridicule you because of me this time."

My younger sister’s wolf was unstable from birth. The pack healers called it frenzy sickness. Loud noises, blood scent, anger, fear, even a sudden shock could push her into a violent episode. So my whole life was put on silent mode. I could not laugh too loud. I could not cry where she could smell it. I could not even scream when I was hurt, because pain had a scent, too. My parents always held me with guilty eyes. “Nova, your sister’s wolf needs the whole family to stay calm. You are strong. You are steady. You can handle more than she can. Just this once, okay?” But “just this once” became my entire life. That day, I accidentally knocked over a tray of metal parts in my father’s forge. The crash echoed through the house. Iris screamed at once. Her eyes flashed red, and her claws tore through her palms. Father shoved me aside and rushed over to protect her; I hit the edge of the forge table so hard that something cracked deep beneath my ribs. There was no blood on my clothes. No wound they could see. I curled up on the cold floor and whispered, “Mom, it hurts.” My mother looked at me. For one second, I thought she would come. Then Iris screamed louder. Everyone ran to my sister. They thought the quiet daughter could wait. They did not know my broken rib had torn through my liver. They did not know I was bleeding where no one could see. By the time they finally remembered me, I had already died alone on the floor.

To encourage overall development, the kindergarten had asked each student to create a hand-drawn poster. My daughter Holly refused my help and insisted on doing it all on her own. Little did I know, most of the other children had their parents do the artwork for them. In comparison, Holly's delicate strokes were quickly dismissed. Not only was her work discarded into the trash, but her teacher also called her out in the parent group, criticizing her for being careless with the assignment. As I racked my brain trying to figure out how to help Holly regain her confidence in drawing, I was surprised to see Holly's artwork among the winning entries in the state-level children's art competition. But the signature wasn't hers—it belonged to another student from her class.

In the madness of life, we find the madness of life in ourselves. We are a reflection of the madness of life. We are the embodiment of a crazy life.