Have you ever caught yourself thinking:
How many times do I have to say the same thing?
Why do they get so upset when I’m just trying to help?
If so, you’re not alone. These moments often go beyond communication breakdowns; they’re signs you’ve entered a family pattern where emotions take over the message you genuinely want to share.
Let’s explore this together with a story many of us can relate to.
Take this scene.
After a family dinner, 19-year-old Chloe eagerly shares her “great idea”—a camping trip overseas with her high school mate, Tina, in a foreign place known for its beauty, but also its risks. She expressed it as an enthusiastic ideas sharer.
For a brief moment, her father (B) feels joy; his daughter is finally resting after a demanding year. But that joy is quickly overtaken by fear. Fear turns into disbelief and concern, then erupts as anger. Before he realises it, he’s reacting—the well-known knee-jerk response, that 12-millisecond amygdala spike. His face shifts, and he lashes out as the angry, loud critic: “How could you think of that stupid idea?” he asked. Was this really a question? No, it sounds like one, but it was a strong statement. The mood at the table has changed.
His emotions (red) have clouded the care and concern (green) that sit quietly underneath.
But that’s not what Chloe hears; she hears red. She doesn’t hear love. She doesn’t feel protected. She feels attacked, criticised and put down.
What land is judgment, what echoes in her mind is: “You’re a stupid idiot.”
Her amygdala fires—this is not a safe space. And it’s not the first time she’s felt this. It’s a familiar scene, replaying once again.
Without thinking, she moves to protect herself. But how?
Should she become the:
- A polite, fake accepter?
- A fearful Avoider?
- A disengaged withdrawer? Or
An angry retaliator?
What about you?
If you position yourself at point A, facing towards B, what do you notice first, Red or Green?
Most likely, it’s Red.
The amygdala instantly detects danger, overriding the rational part of the brain. The emotional brain takes the “hit,” hurting the ego. The outcome? A feeling of offence that often prompts a desire to retaliate.
What would be your default response to Red, based on the options shown in the picture? Would you add any others to the list?
In my case, I recognise that I tend to go straight to Red—as an angry retaliator. It’s something I’m actively working on: learning to respond rather than react, and resisting the urge to bite the hook of the stimulus.
When I slip into that reactive role, I’m actually giving the other person control over me—something we’ll explore further when we discuss Role Given – Role Taken dynamics.
Reflecting:
- How would you have responded?
- And what about the others in the room?
- How did they feel, and what did they do with it?
They’ve been there before.
Chances are, this isn’t the first time Chloe, or anyone else in the family, has heard her dad erupt like this. It’s likely part of a long-standing family rhythm; a sort of emotional choreography that repeats so often it begins to feel familiar and inevitable. In psychodrama, Moreno described this as the Cultural Conserve, or colloquially a vicious circle, referring to the deeply ingrained patterns in family life that shape how we speak, act, and relate, much like a script handed down without conscious permission, and often through generations.
A Cultural Conserve is hard to change, and we often wait for one person, in this case, the father, to change. But here’s the thing: anyone in that family system can be the catalyst for change.
But it only happens when we have the energy, spontaneity and creativity to shift the roles we play.
Back to the story
The father’s outburst wasn’t about wanting to hurt; it was an impulsive move to protect, a reflex born of love and fear tangled together. This is the gap between intention and action, an important theme expanded in a journal article, ‘Managing the Intention and Behavioural Gap’. See the article. Something we can all experience.
If the father and the whole family could pause for a moment, breathe, and name their feelings as they arise, they might have a chance to gain insight and step off that well-worn path. To create a new one.
A path where the family isn’t locked into a reaction but can open up to reflection. However, pausing and changing our ways of relating is not easy. Don’t feel bad if you can’t do it at the moment but be assured that you can participate in changing this dynamic. The frustrating and demanding thing would be if you continue repeating the same pattern without changing it. A process that may need the support of a wise friend or a professional companion.
What happened in Chloe’s family isn’t rare. It echoes in homes, workplaces, and friendships everywhere. I know, because I was that father.
A personal sharing I’ve seen myself in Chloe’s father.
I’ve been the one whose fear came out as frustration and was loud. However, through the honest feedback of my wife and children, the guidance of therapy, and my own ongoing, albeit fumbling, search for better ways to respond, I’ve learned, slowly, and not without setbacks, to choose differently.
And when I do slip back into old patterns, as we all do, I’m more able to notice, pause, and if I miss the moment, to circle back later and say, “I’m sorry.”
As you read this, I wonder if you can see yourself in any of these roles. Are you a:
- Chloe?
- Her father?
- A sibling?
- The mother?
- Or perhaps the quiet observer on the sidelines?
So, what is the way forward?
It’s evident that the father’s energy is high, but what if, instead of letting that energy fuel the fire covering the essence of his message (yellow), he could harness it to ground and support his message in love and care?
What if, rather than covering his fear with anger, he could shift into the role of a loving, supportive, concerned sharer?
(When we respond from a grounded place, we create space for connection. But when we’re on shaky ground led by fear or judgment, we often provoke the same in return.
When disagreement is held with care, something powerful happens: the system shifts. The energy flows differently. What once was a pattern of conflict might become a dance of dialogue.
The message of concern could stay the same, but with a different tone:
“Chloe, what a fantastic idea to celebrate your effort!
May we discuss your plans? I have to admit, I’m feeling a bit scared.” This message conveys his excitement, care and concern. And in that space, perhaps, just perhaps, Chloe wouldn’t feel the need to defend or shut down. Maybe she could remain open, curious, and listening. Alternatively, if she reacts in the moment, she might consider the message later and reflect on it.
What if, instead of masking his fear with anger, he could embrace the role of a loving, supportive, concerned sharer?
(When we respond from a grounded place, we create space for connection. But when we’re on shaky ground led by fear or judgment, we often provoke the same in return.
When disagreement is handled with care, something powerful happens: the system shifts. The energy flows differently. What once was a pattern of conflict might become a dance of dialogue.
The message of concern could remain the same, but with a different tone:
“Chloe, what a fantastic idea to celebrate your effort! May we discuss your plans? I have to admit, I’m feeling a bit scared.”
This message conveys his excitement, care, and concern. And in that space, perhaps, just perhaps, Chloe wouldn’t feel the need to defend or shut down. Maybe she could stay open, curious, and attentive. Alternatively, if she reacts in the moment, she might consider the message later and reflect on it.
And from there, the conversation can become a place where ideas and concerns meet, not necessarily to agree, but to feel heard. That’s the kind of space where family patterns can change, one choice, one moment at a time.
How do we start to change these patterns? First, we need to feel enough dissatisfaction with the situation to gather the energy for change. Many of us stay stuck in vicious cycles of behaviour, not because we enjoy it, but because we’ve learned to cope, justify, and survive within them, or because we think there’s no way out.
Like a shrimp shedding its shell when it’s too tight, when it’s a matter of life or death, we too must recognise when the structures we live in have become too small for us. But unlike shrimp, humans often develop survival mechanisms so strong that we learn to endure the unbearable and tolerate what should never be tolerated. Chloe’s example, chosen for its simplicity as a sample, might seem to have a minor effect on any family or be very common among family members, but other situations need serious attention.
As we’ve discussed before, everyone in a family shares some responsibility or, rather, the opportunity to engage with the system in which they live. And as Viktor Frankl said, when we cannot change the circumstances, we need to change ourselves.
Yet, in Chloe’s home, as in many families and social environments, power isn’t evenly distributed. It’s not easy for Chloe, her mum, or her siblings to stand steady in the face of their father’s anger, outbursts, or harsh judgment, and it’s even harder if that man is a good provider and supportive in other circumstances.
Ideally, change begins when a father realises the impact of his behaviour—not just the roots of it, but the way it ripples through the lives of those around him. Often, though, he has no idea. Like so many of us, he may reflect on his actions through the lens of his intentions—well-meaning, loving, protective—and yet remain unaware of how his ways of going about it may wound or confuse.
Focusing on our intentions feeds the ego: Look at how good I am. It can delay self-awareness, sidestep vulnerability, and keep us stuck in patterns we can’t even see. True insight, the kind that opens the door to change, demands humility—and that’s no easy task. It depends on personality, emotional stability, and a hard-won self-awareness that takes time and honest reflection to build.
Even for those of us in helping professions—therapists, counsellors, coaches, mentors—it’s a lifelong challenge. We’re trained to observe others, to guide and support, but turning that gaze inward is another matter entirely. Many of us, me included, struggle to see our own blind spots, often without even realising it.
It’s a sobering truth: you can spend your life studying human behaviour and still miss what’s right in front of you. As the saying goes, the shoemaker’s children go barefoot.
This is where Feelings Allowed steps in, championing open-hearted conversations about emotions and gently guiding families toward connection, rather than conflict.
A way forward
The way forward rarely shows itself in the heat of the moment. It often emerges later, when the dust has settled and the nervous system has had time to recover. Maybe Chloe’s mum could gently approach the father and share what that interaction meant to her. One of the most touching confrontations I experienced was with my daughter, Stephanie, when she was seven. I dismissed her without realising it, and she confronted me through her art. I’m not surprised she is now an artist therapist. Read more about the experience.
Learning to confront someone is no easy task; it’s one of the most challenging constructive roles we can undertake. We often confuse confrontation with conflict, but they are different concepts. To confront is to gently stand in front of the other, like a mirror, offering reflections of what we see, feel, and experience in response to their behaviour.
This is where a wise friend or professional companion could help Chloe’s mother learn strategies to mirror her partner.
Perhaps the family could sit down together with the father, finding a quiet moment when no one is exhausted or on the verge of losing control. Wisdom lies in choosing the right time and place when hearts are open and the nervous system is calm.
Of course, this process is not easy. It can evoke emotions long suppressed, and many families find it too raw or confronting. As a society, we’re still learning how to hold space for such openness. But if the family feels ready to talk, the key is to start gently, with love at the centre.
Starting with the positive
A gentle and enriching way to start is by recognising the good in one another: the qualities we admire, the virtues quietly noticed but rarely voiced. This simple act softens the limbic system, our emotional brain, easing tension and allowing the rational brain to re-engage. It’s like watering the roots before tending the branches. With this emotional ground nourished, the family is better equipped to explore more challenging areas. The goal isn’t criticism; it’s connection.
And, not But
After sharing the good, it’s vital to avoid a sharp “but” that can undermine everything just said, such as “Dad, you’re a good father BUT!” The father, or anyone, will put the emotional shutters up, not treasuring what was said.
Instead, a gentle pause, followed by an “and…” signals the shift:
“And there’s something about the way we’re relating that we’d like to talk about.”
Then, with gentleness and clarity, a person shares from their heart, using “I” statements:
“Dad, when you spoke to Chloe like that, this is how “I” felt…”
They’re not talking about him; they’re offering their lived experience, their hopes, and their hurt.
Beneath the words, what they’re saying is:
We love you deeply.
This way of speaking is pulling us apart.
We want to enjoy a better way of relating.
Reflection
- In Chloe’s place: How do I speak my truth when I already know it might be met with anger or dismissal?
- As the father: What am I really trying to say beneath my tone or reaction?
- As another family member: How can I, and how can we, step out of the old script and create space for a new kind of connection?
I hope you’ve enjoyed this topic; we’d like to hear your feedback, comments or questions.
Feel free to share it with your family and friends.
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