Imagine the internal struggle with the commandment, “Honor thy father and thy mother.”
At face value, the instruction seems straightforward. But what happens when the thought of honoring them leaves you feeling over-exposed, vulnerable, forsaken?
It isn’t wrong to honor one’s parents—unless you’ve been subjugated to abuse. I had to sit with that contradiction and think deeply. The commandment isn’t always meant to be taken literally. Sometimes it demands something subtler: a quiet unraveling, a deeper understanding of its original intent.
My mother once traveled to visit me as an adult. Throughout her stay, she continually asserted her authority, as though the past still governed the present. At one point, during a brief phone call with a friend, she tried to hang up the phone, declaring, “I’m still your mother,” as she vied for my attention.
She ended the visit early, her emotions in disarray. There was simply no pleasing her—no way to give her what she demanded, needed.
For a long time, I tried to earn my way into “good graces” by doing what I thought would please her. But that effort quickly began to unravel when the choice became clear: placate her, or honor my own boundaries. Most of our adult interactions left me fractured, drained, and questioning what was wrong with me that I just couldn’t “get along.”
And still, despite the seeming madness, I searched…for explanation, for reconciliation, for truth.
Over time, I began to see the commandment differently. Perhaps it wasn’t a directive to obey at all costs, but an invitation to reflect—to move beyond literal interpretation and into spiritual understanding.
Maybe “honor” means acknowledging reality rather than pretending or suppressing what happened. Maybe it means holding space for grief and healing, rather than perpetuating the harm passed down through generations.
What if “honor” isn’t an action to take, but a sacred entity to be understood?
I don’t believe the commandment was given lightly. Surely the divine messenger understood the complexity of human relationships, and that not every child would walk away unscathed.
So, what does it mean to honor our parents when they’ve caused harm? Perhaps it means honoring the archetypes they represent, not necessarily the individuals they weren’t capable of being. The masculine and feminine—protector and nurturer, guide and comforter—form an energetic structure, an ideal blueprint meant to sustain and nurture the next generation.
Masculine – protector, provider
Feminine – nurturer, comforter, life-giver
In that light, there is something soft and complete in the idea of “honoring thy father and thy mother.” It evokes the ultimate cocoon—the safety that many long for, but not all receive.
Yet the story doesn’t end with unmet longing. The ancestral lineage is long. Within your DNA lives the history of parents, grandparents, and countless others before them—their hopes, wounds, dreams, and regrets.
In honoring our parents, can we also honor the lineage that shaped them? The roads they couldn’t take? The dreams dashed by interference or fear, whether intentional or not? Your struggles are an echo of theirs. Your joys, a continuation.
When we grieve what we didn’t receive from our parents, we also grieve what they never got to give. That grief is sacred. It is the soul’s way of saying something divine was meant to happen—but didn’t.
Grief, then, can be a form of honor. That longing testifies to love’s original design.
So in the end, “Honor thy father and thy mother” doesn’t always mean inviting them in. It may mean releasing them from judgment—so that you can be free.
Maybe that’s what the commandment was always pointing to—not submission, but liberation. Not blind reverence, but deep, generational healing.
