When Discipline Becomes the Only Language of Love

Years ago, when I was still a church-going Christian, I found myself in a church where the pastor hosted Saturday breakfast meetings for men. The focus was fatherhood. He often spoke about the absence of present fathers in Ghanaian homes and his desire to challenge that pattern.

One particular Saturday has stayed with me for years.

Standing in front of the men gathered that morning, the pastor shared a personal account of his childhood. He came from a prominent family — a name that carried recognition and access. Yet his story made one thing painfully clear: resources do not shield a child from emotional harm.

His father worked away and was rarely home. When he did return, his role was singular — disciplinarian. The only physical contact he had with his children came in the form of punishment. Beatings were normal.

What struck me most was what happened when there was nothing to punish.

On those days, his father’s version of affection arrived disguised as humour. He would knock his sons on the head, laugh, insult them — comment on how big their heads were — then pull them close briefly to ask about school. That was it. Insult, hit, question, withdraw.

The pastor repeated the words his father used — *“Kobby, look at your head… your big head. Come here.”*

The room erupted in laughter. The pastor laughed too.

Then he moved on.

What stayed with me was not just the story, but what wasn’t explored. There was no pause to examine the damage such parenting inflicts. No space to ask what happens when humiliation and violence become the primary language of closeness. The meeting quickly shifted toward networking and conversations about “the next generation.”

But I remember thinking then — and even more clearly now — how does a traumatised generation raise a healthy one without first confronting its own wounds?

When Pain Becomes Love

That memory remained tucked away for almost two decades until recently, when I found myself in a heated TikTok live discussion. A woman confidently stated that love involves pain. I disagreed — strongly. I still do.

I left that live frustrated and unsettled.

The following day, sitting quietly at work, that Saturday morning resurfaced in my mind. And I realised something simple and uncomfortable: people define love by what they have lived, witnessed, and survived.

I had known that pastor and his family well. I had seen how close he was to his children. They were not afraid to hug him, joke with him, or climb onto him in public. Their affection was easy and unforced — the kind that cannot be faked. Whatever his childhood had been, he had clearly done the work not to pass it on.

That is when I understood the woman on the live more clearly.

If love has always been accompanied by pain, then pain becomes love.

Many of us are living proof of this.

We normalise what harms us. We defend it fiercely. We protect it with culture, humour, and phrases like *“I turned out fine.”* We resist questioning it because doing so would mean grieving what we never received.

Survival Is Not Evidence of Health

When I said on that live that much of what we call “discipline” in African households is actually abuse, the response was immediate. I was asked whether I had been beaten as a child — and whether it killed me.

It didn’t kill me.

But it gave me complex post-traumatic stress disorder (C-PTSD) and severe childhood trauma.

Survival is not evidence of health.

When discipline relies on shame, fear, and pain, it does not teach responsibility — it teaches compliance. And societies built on compliance struggle to challenge authority. We see this play out in our politics, our churches, our workplaces, and our homes.

In Ghanaian culture, children are not permitted to challenge adults — even when adults are wrong. Authority figures are rarely expected to apologise. These ideas are deeply entrenched. But tradition alone does not make something right or worth continuing.

Breaking the Chain of Command

I was recently listening to a conversation where men were asked what the role of a husband and father should be. Many spoke about provision, protection — often without clarity about what they were protecting their families from — and discipline.

What troubled me was how few spoke about presence, emotional safety, curiosity, or nurture.

Correctional officers are not father figures. Yet many men are comfortable describing fatherhood using the language of correction and control.

Yes, children need boundaries. They need guidance. They need accountability.

But correction that kills curiosity, reshapes personality through fear, and teaches silence is not guidance — it is harm.

We are not the generation before us. We have access to information, language, and tools our parents did not. That gives us responsibility. We can interrogate what we inherited and choose differently.

We can break the chain.

I’d love to hear your reflections — especially moments in your life where something once considered normal later revealed itself to be harmful, limiting, or untrue.

Change doesn’t happen in isolation. It happens when we allow our experiences to meet — honestly, gently, and without judgement.

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Note: If this piece brings up difficult memories for you, please take care of yourself. Healing from childhood trauma takes time, and seeking professional support is not weakness — it is an act of self-respect.