The Grace to Let Others Get It Wrong

Writer: Lisa Del Rey

A Moment of Withdrawal

Last week, I went on a retreat with a community of mindful parents. The setting was perfect—soft mornings, shared meals, kind eyes. I was surrounded by women who were my elders, mothers who had walked this road before me.

During one of our circles, I shared something tender about my baby—one of those raw, unguarded moments that asks to be held with care. I waited for resonance, for that gentle “I know that place too.”

Instead came a kind, well-meaning comment that skimmed across the surface of what I had offered. And in that instant, something in me shifted. My chest tightened, my breath caught, and a quiet thought rose: They don’t get me.

At first, I thought the ache was only about my baby. But beneath it, another layer stirred—grief for my own childhood. Sitting among wiser women, I felt the echo of all the times my mother couldn’t quite meet me, couldn’t see what I needed her to see. The misattunement in that moment became a mirror, reflecting both the tenderness of parenting my child and the lingering sorrow of having once been a child myself, longing for the same kind of understanding I now try to give.

“It wasn’t judgment. It was a withdrawal.”

That moment—the sudden contraction in a loving space—has always been confusing. But lately I’ve begun to understand: this ache isn’t about the moment itself. It’s about everything that moment touches.

🪶 The Body Remembers Misattunement

When our parents were emotionally absent, our nervous system learned early that connection could vanish without warning. We became experts at scanning rooms, anticipating needs, and reading moods.

Psychiatrist Dan Siegel calls this a template of misattunement. We bring that template into adulthood: longing for perfect mirrors, bracing for misunderstanding. So when someone “gets it wrong,” our body reacts as if love has disappeared again.

💔 The Longing for Perfect Mirrors

Those who grew up unseen often carry a deep, wordless hope:

“If someone could finally understand me completely, maybe the ache would stop.”

But no one can meet us with the precision we once needed from a parent. When others miss, it can reawaken the grief of childhood silence or distraction. Healing isn’t about finding flawless empathy—it’s about grieving the absence and learning to stay when others fall short.

🌿 Learning to Stay

In moments of misattunement, try pausing instead of retreating. Place a hand on your heart and whisper:

“This hurts, and that makes sense. You wanted to be met. You can stay.”

Each repetition re-parents the part of you that once disappeared to survive. Staying doesn’t silence your need for understanding—it keeps you anchored while it’s unmet.

🌙 Belonging After Emotional Absence

If you grew up emotionally unseen, belonging can feel both like hunger and threat. You want closeness, but your body flinches when it arrives. That’s not brokenness—it’s memory.

True belonging begins with connection to yourself when others can’t meet you fully.

“Even if they don’t understand me, I understand me." “Even if they can’t hold me, I can hold me.”

Tara Brach calls this true refuge—a homecoming within the body.

Each time you feel misunderstood and choose curiosity over closure, you rewrite an old narrative:

“Connection isn’t safe” becomes “I can be misunderstood and still belong”

This is earned secure attachment—safety built slowly through self-attunement and grace.

💗 Practicing Grace

It’s easy to idealize empathy, to want people who meet us perfectly. Grace begins when we accept that no one can. Everyone is shaped by their own absences, their own longing to be met.

“Between what is said and what is heard lies the possibility of relationship.” — Esther Perel

When I remember that, something loosens. Misunderstanding becomes what it always was: a chance to practice staying.

🌕 A Blessing for Those Who Felt Unseen

May you know that your longing makes sense. May you offer yourself the tenderness you once needed. May you find safety not in perfect attunement, but in your ability to stay open when connection falters. May you know: you belong, even here.

✨ Reflection Prompts

1. What does “staying” look like for me when I feel misunderstood?

2. How did emotional absence in my childhood teach me to protect myself?

3. What helps me feel safe enough to stay open now?

4. Whose presence—imperfect yet real—feels healing to me?

🕊️ Author’s Note

Writing this piece was a way of holding both the mother I once needed and the mother I’m becoming. As I revisit this story, I find another layer of forgiveness—both for my mom and for the part of me that still reaches for her reflection in others. This essay is part of my Belonging series on Luna Moth, where I explore the quiet work of staying open—to grief, to love, to life itself.