Choosing Inner Peace When Everything Outside Is Boiling

The Day I Lost It (And Found Something Deeper)

It was just a Monday. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing dramatic. At least, not at first. But the way ordinary moments unfold into something unforgettable, that is the beauty and brutality of parenting.

We had just finished school. I brought the boys, Aden, Eann and Evan, for a swim. We parked at the basement. They were changing in the car. And like many parents trying to add some humour into a long day, I gently braked to make them laugh. But I didn’t notice Eann was standing on the seat, off balance. He fell. And he hit the back of his head.

There was blood from his nose.

That one moment undid me. From the outside, I was calm. I told him it’s okay. I handed him tissues. I said it like it was nothing. But inside, I was broken. Absolutely broken.

Because there’s nothing that cuts deeper than the pain you unintentionally cause the ones you love most. I realised again, painfully, how much I love my sons. More than myself. And yet, that kind of love, if unanchored, is dangerous. Without self-love, without awareness, we end up hurting the very ones we’re trying to protect.

But I kept going. We went ahead with swimming. I tried to act normal. Smiled. Chatted. Went through the routine. But the wound stayed under the surface.

Bleeding Noses, Broken Patience, Unspoken Love

We reached home around 6:15 p.m. Dinner wasn’t ready, which wasn’t a big deal. Except that it overlapped with Chinese tuition we had forgotten about. I told my wife maybe we cancel tuition and just eat as a family. And so we did.

That dinner was rare. Sitting at the table with Aden and Eann, watching NAS Daily together while I explained the Israel–Iran conflict. Trying to open their minds, show them the world. Teach them peace. Make sense of senseless violence. And I thought, “This is it. This is how we should live. Purposeful. Present.”

But peace, I’m learning, doesn’t just come from external order. It must be held together on the inside.

Later that night, things unraveled.

The boys still had homework. Chinese spelling and maths. I was already halfway into changing the aquarium water, but I went upstairs. One on my left. One on my right. Both demanding full attention. Eann was stuck on a Chinese character. I repeated it to him over a hundred times. I’m not exaggerating. A hundred. Still no progress.

Aden was melting down too. He forgot multiplication tables I taught him at age six. He’s nine now. And he froze. Tears flowed. He shut down.

I knew what I was supposed to do. Emotion first, then logic. Comfort first, then correction. But I had nothing left in me. I snapped.

I threw the note. I flung the pencil. I told Aden to leave the house.

It wasn’t anger. It was desperation. I knew the night air would calm him. I knew the silence outside would help him reset. I hoped he’d remember the joy of cycling under the moonlight. After five minutes, I opened the door and asked him to come back in. I didn’t want him to feel abandoned. But I needed him to breathe.

Back inside, both boys were still crying. Eann looked at me and said, “I’m trying my best.”

I said nothing. Because sometimes silence is the most honest answer we have.

I looked at the clock. It was late. I told them to let go of the work. I didn’t want that night to become a memory of failure and raising voice. I just wanted them to sleep peacefully. Before they went to bed, I prayed with them.

Thermostat or Thermometer? The Leadership Question I Didn’t Expect to Ask

Later that night, I remembered something I read:

“When a parent loses their temper, the child doesn’t stop loving the parent. They stop loving themselves.”

That hit me in the chest.

It’s not the yelling that damages them. It’s the silence after, when we don’t explain. It’s the unresolved tension. The questions they’re left alone to answer. “Did I deserve that? Am I not good enough?”

But that night, in our prayer, I asked the boys to thank Jesus for one thing. Aden said, “I thank Jesus for a great dad.”

I broke. Again.

We ended the night lying on the bed, talking about age and time. Aden asked me if I ever wished I could go back to my younger days. No commitment. Less stress. More freedom. I told him I used to. But now? I’d never trade the present. I’m afraid if I go back, I might lose the chance to be his dad. And I love being his dad. I love being Eann’s dad. Even on the days I mess it all up.

That was when the deeper realisation came.

Parenting is not about staying calm all the time. It’s about repairing quickly. Returning sooner. Regulating, not reacting.

That’s when I saw it. The thermostat vs thermometer.

A thermometer reacts to the room. A thermostat regulates it.

Back in university, I drove an old manual van with a broken air-con system. During hot days, it barely worked. During cold days, it would freeze us. No regulation. Just extremes. That’s how many of us live. Especially in Southeast Asian families, where “emotional regulation” wasn’t even a term. Our parents loved us, deeply. But they didn’t always model calm. They modeled reaction. And we internalised it.

But love without maturity becomes volatility. And leadership, true leadership, starts with self-regulation.

Teach With Life, Not Just Words

You can’t command peace into your children. You have to live it.

Science backs this. A child’s prefrontal cortex, the part of the brain that controls logic and impulse, doesn’t fully develop until around 25. When they can’t remember spelling or they break down doing maths, they’re not lazy. Their brain literally hasn’t caught up yet. And our reactions become their environment.

If I yell when they forget, I teach them fear. If I explain, if I return, if I apologise, I teach them resilience. I teach them safety.

That night, I told Aden why I asked him to step outside. He looked at me and asked, “How did you know I’d feel better?”

He was surprised. But that was the trust talking. The relationship we built over time. I told him I could sense it. And we laughed. Hugged. I apologised to both of them. Again. For the blood. For the yelling. For the impatience. And they forgave me fully. Just like that. Children are like that. They reset fast, if we don’t damage their reset system.

During MCO, we had our best times. I told them I enjoyed it too. They remembered the simplicity. The closeness. The joy. Now that life has resumed its pace, it’s easy to forget we can still choose that slowness. That presence. That calm.

And maybe that’s what it means to raise future-ready children. Not filling their schedule. But forming their soul.

The Reverse That Redefines It All

I used to think peace meant the absence of chaos. But that’s not true.

The opposite of peace isn’t chaos. It’s the illusion of control.

We try to control every emotion, every outcome, every moment. But life, especially parenting, doesn’t work that way. The more you cling, the more it slips. The tighter your grip, the more pain you cause.

True peace is not passive. It’s chosen. Over and over.

It’s showing up after you’ve messed up.

It’s apologising first.

It’s creating an atmosphere where growth is more important than perfection.

I don’t just want to be a good dad. I want to be a thermostat.

I want to regulate the temperature of my home, not based on how I feel, but based on what my children need to grow.

Because in the end, they won’t remember every lesson I taught.

They’ll remember how I made them feel in the storm.

And if I do it right, they’ll learn to carry peace with them, wherever they go.