The Things We Learn Too Young

There are things we learn as children that no one ever actually teaches us.

No one sits us down and says:

Read the room before you speak.

Make sure everyone else is okay first.

Don’t ask for too much.

Be easy.

Stay quiet.

Keep the peace.

And yet somehow, some of us learn those lessons anyway.

We learn them through glances.

Through silence.

Through changes in someone’s voice.

Through the energy of a room before we are old enough to understand what energy even means.

Children are remarkable observers.

We notice far more than adults sometimes realize.

We may not understand why something is happening, but we understand that something has changed.

So we adapt.

That is what children do.

We become little scientists of our surroundings, gathering information and creating rules about how the world works.

If I do this, everything stays calm.

If I don’t say that, nobody gets upset.

If I can make everyone happy, maybe everything will be okay.

Those rules can become so familiar that eventually we stop recognizing them as rules.

They simply become part of who we think we are.

I have been thinking about this a lot lately as I write and revisit earlier versions of myself.

There are pieces of my childhood that I understand very differently now than I did while I was living them.

Back then, I was simply being me.

Or at least the version of me I believed I needed to be.

I didn’t have the language to explain why I noticed everything.

Why I sometimes kept things to myself.

Why being adaptable felt important.

Why I became comfortable figuring things out.

Why I learned to carry certain things quietly.

I just knew how to do it.

And for a long time, some of those childhood skills looked like personality.

Independent.

Observant.

Responsible.

Strong.

Easygoing.

Able to handle just about anything.

And maybe they are part of my personality.

But I have also started wondering where personality ends and adaptation begins.

That is an interesting question to ask ourselves.

Who were we before we learned how we needed to behave in order to feel safe, loved, accepted, or understood?

And perhaps even more importantly:

Which of those old rules are we still following?

Because children make decisions with the information available to them.

Adult us gets more information.

We get more choices.

We get to look at some of those rules and say:

Thank you.

You helped me once.

But I don’t need you anymore.

There is something beautiful about that.

Healing does not always have to mean tearing everything apart and analyzing every memory until it becomes dust.

Sometimes healing is much quieter.

Sometimes it is noticing.

Sometimes it is catching yourself in an old reaction and becoming curious instead of critical.

Why did that make me uncomfortable?

Why am I afraid to ask for what I need?

Why do I feel responsible for everyone else’s feelings?

Why does saying no feel harder than saying yes?

Why do I feel like I need permission to rest?

Those questions are not accusations.

They are invitations.

Little doors.

And behind some of them may be a younger version of us who was simply trying to understand the world.

I don’t want to judge her.

I don’t want to look backward and tell her she did everything wrong.

She didn’t.

She worked with what she knew.

She noticed.

She adapted.

She kept moving.

I think there is something incredibly tender about realizing that.

We can appreciate the child who learned those lessons without requiring the adult to live by them forever.

Maybe growing up isn’t only about learning more.

Maybe part of growing up is unlearning.

Unlearning that love has to be earned.

Unlearning that peace means silence.

Unlearning that being strong means never needing anyone.

Unlearning that saying no makes us difficult.

Unlearning that our worth increases when we become useful to everyone around us.

And perhaps replacing those old lessons with new ones.

I can speak and still be loved.

I can have needs and still be kind.

I can say no and still be a good person.

I can let someone else carry something.

I can take up space.

I can change my mind.

I can choose differently now.

There is so much freedom tucked inside those words.

I can choose differently now.

Not because the younger version of me failed.

Because she got me here.

And now I get to take it from here.

Maybe that is what becoming really looks like.

Not abandoning who we were.

Not pretending the past did not happen.

Not trying to turn every difficult thing into some glitter-covered life lesson.

Just understanding ourselves a little more deeply.

And choosing which pieces still belong.

We can keep the curiosity.

Keep the resilience.

Keep the imagination.

Keep the parts that helped us find sunshine in strange places.

And perhaps gently set down a few things we were never supposed to carry forever.

One lesson at a time.

One choice at a time.

One little wing unfolding after another.

Sunshine, rainbows, and butterflies,

Skye Mari