I grew up in China, but I'm raising my daughter in LA. A trip back to visit family made me rethink my parenting style.

My aunt chased her granddaughter around the living room with a spoon and a bowl of rice and vegetables.

My niece’s eyes stayed fixed on the TV as her mouth opened and closed automatically while my aunt slipped in bite after bite.

My daughter sat beside them, watching quietly.

I needed to say something. “You shouldn’t feed her like that,” I said. “It’s not good for her.” Before my aunt could respond, my mother shot me a look from across the room — the kind many Chinese mothers can give without saying a word.

After nearly a decade abroad, this was the first time I’d brought my daughter back to China.

We were in Qingdao, about halfway between Beijing and Shanghai, to celebrate Lunar New Year and spend time with my extended family.

I was relieved to step away from the constant demands of parenting, with no extended family nearby.

For the first time in years, I wandered around the city streets on my own, caught up with old college friends, and sat through dinner without reminding anyone to chew.

My parents happily took over with my daughter, a luxury my husband and I don’t have in the US.

Watching them with her transported me back to my own childhood in Shandong Province in the 1990s.

I was raised by a village of relatives.

My grandparents took turns living with us, someone was always waiting at the school gate, and every school holiday I stayed with them so my parents could focus on their careers.

I became a mother 3 years ago, thousands of miles away in Los Angeles.

With no family nearby, I leaned heavily on parenting books, expert advice, and plenty of trial and error.

Over time, I found my own approach.

Once my daughter turned 2, I encouraged her to feed herself.

I let her focus uninterrupted during independent play and reading, responded to tantrums with calm explanations instead of distractions, and limited her sugar intake.

We both loved being surrounded by family.

I slipped easily into the rhythm of having extra hands around.

Before I noticed my daughter was cold, someone had already found her another layer.

Before I realized she needed bedding for kindergarten — a local Chinese school she attended while we were there — my mother had packed everything and set it by the door.

But before long, I started feeling strangely displaced as a mother. “It’s only ice cream,” my mother would say whenever I tried to explain to my daughter why she shouldn’t eat too many sweets.

During quiet playtime, my father often interrupted to offer a puzzle or fruit.

At meals, my mother encouraged “just one more bite,” often feeding her herself.

Whenever my daughter argued with my niece over a toy, my mother quickly redirected her attention instead of letting her work through her emotions.

It wasn’t how I had learned to parent.

As a child in China, I never questioned those habits.

My grandparents raised me the same way.

Living in America changed how I think about parenting.

My husband and I carefully established routines around sleep, meals, screen time, and the boundaries we wanted to set.

Back in China, those routines gradually disappeared.

My family cared for my daughter with love, but their way of helping often left me feeling as though my role as her mother had quietly slipped into the background.

My daughter seemed happier than ever in China.

At family gatherings, she bounced from lap to lap, proudly shouted “Xin Nian Kuai Le” (“Happy New Year”) to relatives, and ate more than usual while competing with her cousin at mealtimes.

Watching her, I felt both overwhelmed and deeply comforted.

Back in the US, life quickly returned to normal.

Once again, it was just my husband and me.

One evening, I placed dinner in front of her as usual.

Instead of reaching for her spoon, she sat quietly. “Mommy, feed me,” she said.

I pointed to her utensils. “You can do it yourself.” “No,” she said more firmly. “Please feed me.” Without thinking, I picked up my spoon.

As I fed her, I caught myself doing the very thing I’d spent weeks resisting in China.

Part of it was the familiar worry that she wouldn’t eat enough if I didn’t help.

In that moment, I realized how easily old habits can resurface.

I had thought I’d left that style of parenting behind, but it was still part of me, shaped by the family who had raised me.

My daughter still asks when we can go back to China to see her grandparents.

She misses the constant attention and the feeling of being surrounded by family.

I still believe my husband and I should make the decisions about how we raise her.

But I no longer see my parents’ approach as simply something to resist.

It came from love, just as mine does.

Now I’m trying to figure out what parts of each I want to pass on to my daughter as we navigate motherhood — and childhood — together.

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