Tag: parenting

When Love Causes Harm Without Us Knowing

Unintended harm in parenting often arises from seemingly routine habits, like screen time, mistaken for care. While love is crucial, it doesn’t always shield children from underlying issues. Research indicates that fast-paced content can overstimulate young minds, leading to later attention problems. Parents must recognize and adjust these habits for healthier development.

Unintended harm in parenting rarely feels like harm. It looks like routine. It feels like care.

I remember one evening clearly. Raahima was sitting beside me, watching a cartoon. The room was quiet. For a moment, it felt like everything was under control.

That quiet should have told me something. It did not.

Unintended Harm in Parenting Starts with Ordinary Habits

We tend to believe that love protects children from harm. It does, to a point. However, love does not always reveal what is happening beneath the surface.

In my case, the habit was simple. A screen. A few minutes that turned into longer stretches. It helped pass time. It kept her calm.

My daughter Maryam Jamal questioned it early. She spoke with urgency, grounded in her medical training. Soon after, my elder daughter, Dr. Fareha Jamal, raised the same concern. She explained how repeated exposure to fast-paced content can affect attention patterns and emotional regulation.

I heard them. Still, I did not fully absorb it.

What the Evidence Actually Shows

This is where the discomfort begins to take shape.

Research from the University of East London shows that toddlers process visual information up to 10 times slower than adults. As a result, fast-moving content overwhelms their ability to process what they see.

The body reacts anyway. Heart rate increases, and the stress system activates. What appears calm on the outside may actually be internal overstimulation.

According to the World Health Organization screen time guidance,
very young children should have no sedentary screen exposure.

Similarly, the American Academy of Pediatrics media guidelines
recommend limiting screen use for children aged two to five to one hour per day with supervision.

In simple terms, the findings suggest this:

  • The brain is not built for the speed of modern content
  • Calm behavior does not always mean regulation

As a result, overstimulation often appears later as attention issues rather than during the moment of viewing.

How Unintended Harm in Parenting Goes Unnoticed

Then something shifted.

I watched a BBC report on early childhood screen exposure. It explained how a child can sit still while the body reacts as if it is under stress.

That idea stayed with me. I began to look at Raahima differently. The stillness. The focus. It no longer felt reassuring.

I had to admit something simple. I did not know the harm I might be causing.

This is how unintended harm in parenting quietly takes shape. Not through neglect, but through habits that feel normal.

Why This Is Hard for Parents to Accept

Still, admitting this is not easy. Parents are already under pressure. Daily routines are demanding.

Screens solve real problems. They create time. They reduce immediate stress. However, repeated patterns matter more than isolated moments.

The mind protects itself. It says:

  • “It’s just a cartoon.”
  • “Everyone does this.”
  • “It’s only for a little while.”

At the same time, these patterns accumulate quietly.

This is not about blame. It is about awareness.

What Can Be Done Differently

Once awareness comes, the next step becomes practical.

Small changes are more realistic than complete removal. In my case, even minor adjustments made a difference.

  • Reduce, don’t eliminate
    Cutting time reduces exposure patterns
  • Watch together
    Talking about content slows the experience
  • Avoid key moments
    No screens during meals or before sleep
  • Choose slower content
    Pacing matters more than subject
  • Replace with interaction
    Simple play or conversation works better

These steps are not perfect. However, they are manageable.

A Question Worth Asking

This leaves a quieter question.

👉 Could something that feels harmless today be shaping my child in ways I do not yet see?

And perhaps another:

👉 What happens when the screen is removed?

Curiosity matters more than certainty.

Conclusion

Unintended harm in parenting does not come from lack of love. It comes from habits that go unquestioned.

Love is essential. However, it is not sufficient on its own.

Children do not grow based on intention. They grow based on experience.

Some habits feel harmless when they begin. Their effects appear later.

Further readings: Screen Time for Toddlers Is Not Harmless. What I Learned Too Late

Why Denmark Reduced Screen Time in Schools and Why Parents Agree

For years, Denmark stood as a symbol of digital confidence. Schools embraced tablets. Textbooks faded. Screens promised efficiency, personalization, and progress. The debate over Denmark screen time schools became central as the nation reconsidered the role of technology in education. Then Denmark did something rare in public life. It stopped. It looked at the results. And it chose to change direction.

Phones were removed from classrooms during school hours. Printed textbooks returned. Screen use declined not only in schools, but also in youth centers and sports clubs. The decision arrived without drama. There were no grand announcements. Instead, there was a quiet acknowledgment that something had gone wrong.

What followed mattered just as much as the policy itself.

The Reaction Was Not Anger — It Was Relief

Across comment sections under news reports and videos, the response sounded strikingly similar. Teachers, parents, and even students shared their own experiences. Many did not cite research. Instead, they described what daily life had already shown them.

Teachers in the United States wrote that students concentrate better on paper. Finnish educators admitted that replacing pen and paper in mathematics weakened foundational thinking. Parents from Australia to Ireland described children who remembered less after years of screen-heavy learning.

Most tellingly, outrage was almost absent. Few people protested. Many simply said, finally.

This pattern suggests something important. Denmark did not introduce a radical idea. It gave public recognition to a private realization already spreading quietly.

Screens Did Not Fail Because of Technology

The comments reveal another shared insight. People are not rejecting technology itself. They are rejecting the belief that more technology automatically produces better learning.

Many teachers noted that students complete assignments faster on screens, yet understand less. Others observed that digital platforms make distraction constant and cheating easier. Artificial intelligence tools, in particular, complicate assessment when learning happens primarily online.

Education, however, does not exist to generate polished outputs. It exists to build attention, judgment, and memory. Those qualities develop slowly. Screens often move too quickly for that process to take hold.

What This Looks Like Inside My Own Family

This tension between speed and understanding appears clearly in my own home.

My daughter-in-law, who holds a PhD in Human Resources, reads aloud to Raahima regularly. She does so without turning it into a lesson or task. She slows down. She repeats lines. She lets the rhythm guide the moment. Raahima responds not with excitement, but with focus.

Her aunt, Dr. Maryam, does the same. Another voice. Another cadence. The effect remains consistent. Raahima listens. She remembers. She connects sounds with meaning.

A similar pattern appears with Salar.

My elder daughter, a researcher and Doctor of Pharmacy, reads to him patiently. When he interrupts, she allows it. When he hesitates over a word, she waits. Learning unfolds without pressure to move on quickly.

None of this happens by accident. People trained to study systems tend to respect how slowly human understanding develops.

My Own Blind Spot Took Time to Notice

For a while, I assumed occasional screen time was harmless. Convenience often disguises itself as care. A bright screen keeps a child occupied. Silence feels productive. Fatigue makes the choice easier.

Maryam disagreed with me more than once. She never argued emotionally. She simply repeated one sentence: this is not neutral. I listened politely, yet I did not fully absorb the point.

Then I watched a short video on children’s brain development. It listed small habits rather than dramatic warnings. That restraint made it harder to dismiss.

Recognition followed. I saw how easily screens had replaced moments that required patience. I also noticed the difference between a child quietly absorbed by a screen and one listening attentively to a story. One state invites engagement. The other asks nothing.

Why Memory Works Differently on Paper

When children read with adults, several things happen at once. They hear language. They watch expressions. They feel pauses. Meaning settles gradually.

Screens rarely allow that process. They stimulate constantly. They advance quickly. Information appears before the previous idea has time to settle.

Parents commenting on Denmark’s decision repeatedly mention memory. Children remember stories read aloud weeks later. They struggle to recall material consumed digitally hours earlier. That difference matters.

Memory forms through friction. Writing, reading, and listening introduce productive resistance. Screens remove much of it.

Denmark’s Choice Reflects a Wider Pattern

Denmark treated evidence seriously and acted without embarrassment. Many governments collect data. Few admit misjudgment publicly.

This matters because families with education and professional exposure already adjusted quietly. They used technology selectively. Books and conversation remained central. Denmark’s decision now aligns public practice with what many families practiced privately.

That alignment explains the global response.

Progress Sometimes Means Slowing Down

Denmark did not reject the future. It redefined progress. Technology still has a place. It no longer occupies every moment.

Watching Raahima listen to a story or Salar work through a sentence makes one point clear. Learning is built, not absorbed. It develops unevenly. It needs time.

The response to Denmark suggests many people already knew this. They were simply waiting for someone to say it out loud.

Sometimes the most responsible decision is not acceleration, but restraint. Children need attention more than speed. They need presence more than screens.

Denmark noticed. Parents recognized themselves in the decision. And the relief was immediate.

The Last Flight: My Mother’s Journey Through a Country That Had Stopped Loving Us”

The year was 1974. The borders were closed, the war was long over, and the sky was about to shut too.

By then, East Pakistan had become Bangladesh. The slogans had faded, but the resentment lingered. For people like us—Urdu-speaking, marked by history—we were suddenly aliens in the only home we had ever known.

My father worked for the Red Cross and chose to stay behind in Chittagong. His reasons were quiet, maybe painful—maybe he felt duty-bound to help, or maybe he simply didn’t want to abandon the soil where his life had taken root.

But one thing he knew: his children had to get out.

The last Red Cross humanitarian flight was leaving from Dhaka. After that, no one knew what would happen. No more evacuations. No more airlifts. Just silence.

So my mother did what history rarely remembers: she gathered three children and walked us across the edge of a falling world.

From Chittagong to Dhaka, she made the journey alone.
No escort. No certainty. No man beside her. Just three young children and a bag of essentials packed like lifelines.

The country was tense. Angry. Raw. Even train stations were dangerous places for those who didn’t speak Bengali or belonged to the wrong community. A look, an accent, a name—any of it could turn fatal.

And yet, my mother moved like a shadow through all of it. Calm. Focused. Terrified, I know now—but never showing it.

She held us close on the train. She covered my baby sister in cloth, hushed my brother when he asked too many questions. I was old enough to feel the fear but too young to understand the full weight of it.

Dhaka was a waiting room of last chances.

When we finally reached the Red Cross camp, we saw families like ours—tired, stranded, scared. Some had missed earlier flights. Some didn’t know if they were even on the list.

But we were. Somehow, we were.

They called our names. They checked our papers. They told my mother it was time.

She looked back only once.

She was leaving behind her husband, her home, everything that had once been her life. But she didn’t let her voice crack. She didn’t let her grip loosen on our hands. She walked us up to that Red Cross plane like she was walking through fire—with dignity, with purpose, and with no guarantee of what waited on the other side.

There were no headlines. No medals. Just a mother who saved her children.

We took off. My brother looked out the window, searching for our father. My baby sister slept in my mother’s lap. I watched her face the entire flight.

She didn’t blink.
Didn’t sigh.
Didn’t cry.

She just stared ahead, as if flying between two countries meant holding your breath for hours.

I tell this story not because war made us heroes. But because love did.

The world remembers soldiers and treaties.

But I remember a woman on a train, holding three passports in one hand and her baby in the other.

She didn’t speak at the rallies. She wasn’t quoted in the papers. But she did what history rarely credits: she got us out.

And that was everything.

More Than a Babysitter: The Grandmothers Who Raise Us

More Than a Babysitter: The Grandmothers Who Raise Us
Some women don’t just help—they hold the whole beginning.

Raahima is only 15 months old.
She doesn’t know many words. But she knows who to call when she’s hungry.
When she’s sleepy.
When her little world feels too loud or too bright.

She calls for Dadi.

Not because someone told her to.
Because since the day she was born, Dadi has been her everything.

The First Arms That Held Her

Raahima’s mother was recovering from a tough surgery when she arrived.
There was no skin-to-skin contact. No soft mother-baby hour.
But Dadi was there.

She was the one who cradled Raahima’s fragile body,
fed her,
rocked her,
bathed her,
whispered blessings into her soft, folding ears.

Not once. Not just for a week.

Every single day, since birth.

She’s the one who knows Raahima’s different cries—
the hungry one, the bored one, the tired one masked as a tantrum.
She’s the one who sits cross-legged on the floor, patiently feeding her mashed bananas while humming a tune from her own childhood.

We Call It “Helping” but It’s Really Holding

In many South Asian homes, grandmothers are called “helpers” in the family story.

But that’s a small word for such a vast role.

Dadi doesn’t “assist.” She leads.

She is the default.
The fallback.
The routine.
The rhythm of the day.

She knows which tiny sock belongs to which tiny foot.
She knows how to warm milk to just the right temperature.
She knows how to coax a baby into sleep without fuss, just by placing her palm on her chest.

And Raahima?
She doesn’t yet know the word “grateful.”
But she reaches for Dadi’s dupatta like it’s a lifeline.

Because for her, it is.

The Woman Behind the Baby’s Calm

This isn’t a temporary setup.
It’s the architecture of a babyhood held together by a grandmother’s hands.

When people compliment Raahima’s calm nature, her cheerful giggles, her early understanding of comfort—they rarely think of the quiet woman behind the scenes.

But Dadi is the reason.

Her patience.
Her repetition.
Her unwavering, bone-deep love.

No salary. No leave. No applause.

Just devotion.

Maybe We Should Rewrite the Story

Maybe we need to stop calling grandmothers like Dadi “secondary caregivers.”

They’re not backup. They’re primary.
They’re not optional. They’re essential.

And maybe, when Raahima is older—
when she learns to say full sentences, when she runs instead of waddles,
when she forgets how often Dadi rocked her through a fever or chased her through the house with a bowl of kichdi—
she’ll still remember the feeling of being safe.

Not because anyone told her.

But because Dadi gave her that memory in her body.

Some grandmothers raise mothers.
Some grandmothers raise children.
And some, like Dadi—
raise the whole world around them.

Her First Word Wasn’t Mama—It Was Immi

Her First Word Wasn’t Mama—It Was Immi
Some loves are so early, they feel like memory itself.

The first time Raahima said a word, it wasn’t “Ammi.”
It was “Immi.”

Soft. Certain. Like her heart already knew where it belonged.

Her mother, recovering from a complicated surgery, was resting in silence when Raahima was born. But Raahima didn’t wait. She entered the world with a full head of hair. There was a quiet urgency about her. She landed straight into her grandmother’s waiting arms.

That first night, it was grandma who walked the floor with her. Grandma who whispered lullabies older than language. Grandma warmed the water. She massaged her tiny limbs. She offered her body—milk, warmth, rhythm—naturally.

Raahima never had to ask. Grandma was already there.

The Invisible Bond That Starts Before Memory

They say infants don’t remember their early days. But what if the body remembers?

Raahima’s little fingers would instinctively curl around her grandma’s duppata edge before sleep. She wouldn’t settle until she heard that soft hum from the kitchen—part song, part prayer. And by the time she learned to talk, “Immi” wasn’t just her word for grandma.

It was her word for comfort. For safety. For love.

And when she cried, it was grandma who knew the difference between hunger and fear. Between tiredness and teeth.

No one else had to ask. But grandma always knew.

Love That Doesn’t Make Headlines—But Shapes Whole Lives

You won’t find Raahima’s grandma on Instagram. She doesn’t write parenting blogs. She never read a thing about attachment theory.

But she lives it.

She was the first skin Raahima touched. The first heartbeat she lay against. Now her mother’s healed. Raahima’s world grows wider. Still, the first name she whispers when she wakes in the night is “Dadi.”

Not because her mother isn’t enough.

But because her grandma was there first.

We Don’t Count These Stories—But Maybe We Should

How many children out there owe their gentleness to a grandmother’s lap?

How many mothers were able to become mothers—because their own mothers stepped in, quietly, fiercely, without a fuss?

We don’t write songs for them. We don’t give them medals. But they keep showing up anyway.

Like Raahima’s Immi.
Who never asked to be a hero.
She just became one.

And maybe, when Raahima grows up, she’ll carry that same quiet strength in her arms. She will be rocking another child. She will sing an old tune. She will remember a woman who once saved her life just by holding her close.

But hey, what do I know?
I’m just listening to the love between a child and her Dadi.

The Truth About Modern Parenting: What We’re Getting Wrong

We Told Them Nothing Would Change”: The Quiet Lie at the Heart of Modern Parenting


A woman told me once—calmly, clearly—that she stopped sleep-training her baby after he gave himself a nosebleed. Just sat outside the room while he cried himself raw. She thought she was doing the right thing.

And maybe that’s the problem.
We keep telling new parents: “Nothing will change.” But everything does. Everything must. When we refuse to admit that, not only does our sanity suffer. It’s also the very architecture of our children’s emotional world that suffers.

Babies Are Breaking—and We’re Still Talking GDP

In a society obsessed with economic productivity, the greatest tragedy may be how quickly we forget babies aren’t spreadsheets. They’re not resilient by default. They’re fragile, neurologically immature, born needing regulation—emotional co-pilots to help them survive the storm of existence.

Erica Komisar, a psychoanalyst and author of Being There, doesn’t mince words: daycare for infants under three disrupts brain development. Babies separated from their primary attachment figures don’t just “miss” them—they biologically panic. Their cortisol spikes. Their oxytocin dips. Their stress-response systems—meant to stay offline—light up like a battlefield.

And then we wonder why Gen Z is riddled with anxiety, ADHD, and depression.

You ever notice how so many of today’s 20-somethings can’t regulate basic feelings without screens or meds?
Maybe they were never given the chance to learn.

The Myth of “Having It All” Was Always a Con

Let’s talk about the lie sold to women—and it was sold. Glossy, aspirational, softly condescending. You can be a CEO and a perfect mom. Just freeze your eggs. Lean in. Maximize. Outsource love.

But here’s Komisar again: the first three years of life are sacred. The right-brain—the emotional brain—develops by 85% before age three. You cannot “quality time” your way out of that. And yet, women are told that staying home is regressive. They hear that caregiving is menial. They are informed that ambition must look a certain way to matter.

What if we just said it?
That it’s okay to pause. That careers can wait, but your baby’s brain can’t. That missing a promotion is hard—but missing your child’s emotional wiring window is harder.

And yes, that might mean sacrifices. Smaller houses. Fewer vacations. Less Instagram-ready glamour. But what are we chasing anyway?

Where Are the Fathers—and Why It Matters

It’s not just moms we’ve sidelined. Fathers are now struggling under another lie: that as long as they bring home the paycheck, they’ve done their part.

But dads regulate a child’s aggression and impulsivity, particularly in boys. They teach how to channel anger, how to handle risk, how to leave the safe harbor of mom without crashing. When dad is absent—physically or emotionally—what fills the void?

Behavioral disorders. School suspensions. Early diagnoses.
And then: medication. Labels. Marginalization.

We’ve educated boys like they’re girls. Told them to sit still. Punished their energy. Ignored their neuro-fragility. And now? Now they’re angry, underachieving, and unloved—by schools, by society, sometimes even by themselves.

Lies We Whisper to Ourselves in the Dark

Here are a few lies worth burying for good:

  • “Your baby will be fine in daycare.” Maybe. Maybe not.
  • “You can freeze your fertility.” Sometimes. But not always.
  • “You can parent and stay the same.” No. You shouldn’t.
  • “Mental illness is mostly genetic.” Not really. Trauma and absence matter more.

And perhaps the cruelest of all:
“Someone else can raise your child just as well.”

No. They can’t. And deep down, we all know it.

You Build the House or the Storm Will

There’s a reason Komisar calls the early years the brick-laying stage. A child raised with safety, attunement, presence—builds a self. A resilient emotional core. A nervous system that doesn’t collapse at every setback.

Miss that window, and the cost shows up later: in addiction, in rage, in numb scrolling, in suicidal ideation. Or worse—borderline personality disorder. A rising epidemic among young people. Kids without strategies. Without anchors.

And yes, sometimes these children grow up. But they never feel grown.

ENDING (Loose but Impactful):

Maybe we just need to start telling the truth.

That parenting is Everest. That it will strip you bare and rebuild you. That it demands more than money, more than hustle, more than your best intentions. It needs you. Fully. Present. Human. Messy.

You don’t get to outsource the bricks and then complain when the house crumbles.

But hey—what do I know? Maybe silence says enough.