Mike White’s The White Lotus is a perfect modern mirror. To me, all three seasons reflect the quiet absurdities that can oftentimes distort our sense of inner power and self-worth. Though surrounded by beauty and privilege, his characters always seem trapped in a hiss of existential unease. Season 3 again exposes how this feeling of inadequacy is a constant hum beneath our surface, especially in our closest relationships. 

And Yes, I watched and laughed, identifying all too well the cosmic joke of it all: the trap is self-made. But I wasn’t laughing when I found myself trapped in the same hisssss. Somehow, somewhere along the way, I’d relinquished my power, and handed it over to my daughter. Suddenly, like Princess-and-the-Pea, I found myself hypersensitive, easily bruised, and constantly reacting to the subtlest shifts in her behavior towards me and my husband. And then it was clear. She’d gone from being the tug-of-war rope between two jealous parents to the authority figure in the room—and she took a rascal’s delight in it.

I tried not to make it personal, but it pinned me to the ground, halting every bit of enthusiasm I had for life. There were days when she’d tell me to stay at home while she and Papa went for cupcakes. Or when she’d let him give her kisses but blatantly reject mine (although I do admit, my smothering overkissing tendencies might be to blame for this). Let’s be honest—it’s not something we talk much about, but I am certain most parents feel it from time to life-pinning time. More than anything, the jealousy rubbed my face down into the shame of wobbly desperation. I felt I was losing something I never thought I’d have to compete for.

I was reading too much into her actions and words. And without realizing it, I was reinforcing a story, one that I was wrongly teaching both her and myself: that self-worth hinges on being wanted or chosen.

Most parents place themselves above their children—I was putting myself right underneath. I wasn’t leading. Instead, I was “awarding” her negative behavior towards me with magnifying-glass attention—making that what was important, and allowing that to fiddle with my sanity. My obsessiveness disallowed me to remember my strength and step into my rightful place—not above her, but as a rooted reliable mum. And before I knew it, I was training her to think how she spoke to me at any moment could make or break my happiness. And that tantrums yield power and affection can be used as a tool. 

At only 5 years old, my daughter was surely just mirroring what she saw and felt—not from calculation, but instinct. They say, children don’t analyze, they emulate. She was trying to please dad by emulating him, while I—in my jello-like uncenteredness—was teaching her how to treat me.

This was my White Lotus. Beneath the surface, my husband and I were actively choreographing a covert emotional dynamic of moves and countermoves, past wounds, and a vicious calculation of who was winning.

Yes it’s shameful. But even more shameful, I was waiting for my daughter to fix it. I’d made her responsible for my feelings. I’d given her (and my husband) the power to change my mood. And irreverently abandoned my center.

But NOT FOR LONG. I flipt it on a dime. Like I said, behavior is learned—but it can be unlearned.

I was tired of being insecure. I have a life to live. Of morning Tom Kha broth, bright wind-kissed walks, creative ???, and the occasional surprise cuddles. I reclaimed my dignity from this self-spun haunt, and refused to continue letting pain and self-pity be my only allies. 

Instead, I now try to meet my daughter as a mother reclaiming the peaceful but firm leadership a parent is meant to offer, and exemplify. When necessary, I withdraw myself from the emotional triangle (i.e. useless game) and plonk myself back into my lotus. In the right moments, I remind her to use that bright brain and kind heart I know she has, and I explain that instead of game-playing or acting out, we talk about our feelings without lying or being hurtful. I make sure to let her know I love her. And when the roiling tide comes rolling in again, I hold the line and hold the love—through a strategic but emotionally complete and grounded withdrawal from the drama. 

Although things may never fully be in order, I’ll always remember the cosmic joke: there is no need to audition for a role I already have.