Rebellion as an Adult
When being the 'good girl' comes at a cost to authenticity
I have this one memory from my childhood that has stuck with me for almost 25 years, a memory that seems innocuous on the surface. I’m about 5 or 6, and I’m with my dad at his friend’s house. He’s chatting in the kitchen, and I’m sitting on the couch in the living room while a baby meanders about. The mother of this baby comes and brings us both vanilla wafer cookies. The baby happily takes the cookie and walks around with it in their mouth, an unpleasant amount of drool being transferred to toys, the couch, the carpet. The mother asks me if I would like a cookie, and I freeze. I don’t know what to say. Do I want the cookie? Do I not want it? I don’t know. So she gives me the cookie, and I sit with it just dangling from my hand until the baby comes over and claims it as their own.
It really doesn’t sound like a big deal, but what really strikes me is wondering why I didn’t know whether I wanted a cookie. Why was such a simple question so hard for me to answer? Did I want the cookie, but felt like I couldn’t be a burden by saying yes? Did I not want the cookie, but felt like I couldn’t hurt her feelings by saying no? I think this memory sticks with me because the inability to access my own inner knowing, the tendency to make decisions based on other people’s comfort rather than what I want or need, has been a theme throughout my life.
As I’ve uncovered more and more pieces of my personal puzzle, fitting together the answer to the question “Why am I the way that I am,” I’ve found that the tools I’ve used throughout my life to cope are actually irreconcilable with my authenticity. Perfectionism, people-pleasing, and emotional management are just a few of these coping strategies: if I never get anything wrong, then I won’t be punished or given the silent treatment; if I never make anyone feel disappointed, I will be worthy of attention and love; if I take responsibility for everyone’s emotions, I can avoid conflict.
I feel so much sadness for that version of myself—the one that felt completely ashamed whenever she sensed the slightest hint of rejection; that had to make everything perfect, make herself perfect, in order to be worthy; that used personal growth as a way to leave her brokenness behind so that she would finally be lovable. Of course, that version of me is still in here, but I have a new sense of gentleness and kindness for her. After hearing about the term parentification from some of my friends, I’m starting to understand more why Little Aleesha did what she did. It’s been the catalyst in uncovering a whole new layer of my healing and helping me understand that this way of being is a trauma response.
For several weeks as I probed further into this area, I felt untethered, like the puzzle pieces of my life just kind of got tossed into the air. I always knew that my childhood wasn’t ideal, but I never would have described it as traumatic. “It’s not the objective circumstances that determine whether an event is traumatic, but your subjective emotional experience of the event. The more frightened and helpless you feel, the more likely you are to be traumatized.” (find this quote in the article here). As children, when our big people aren’t available or capable of walking us through difficult experiences, or are actually responsible for those experiences, there can be a level of trauma under the surface that’s challenging to acknowledge, let alone heal from.
These puzzle pieces are slowly falling back into my hands, and as I examine each one, I realize that there’s so many that don’t actually belong to me: I’m not responsible for my mother’s wellness; I don’t need to protect my dad from the pain of people choosing not to be in his life; I don’t have to save my family when they are experiencing the consequences of their choices. Taking these pieces on as part of my own puzzle has meant that it’s been distorted, things crammed into spots that they don’t fit, with me anxiously trying to line everything up perfectly and wondering why I can’t do it.
Ironically, the difficult part has been letting those pieces go. Taking them on was a way that I felt a sense of safety and control, regardless of how skewed my perception was. Giving them back to their rightful owners is totally terrifying, because it means that they may be disappointed in me, feel hurt, or even downright angry. They may blame me or guilt me into keeping them, unwilling to accept that it’s their work to sort out their own puzzle—I can’t do it for them. I’ve tried for 30+ years, and I’m finally done.
Letting go of being the ‘good girl’ means that some people may not accept my new boundaries, and I may have a hard time fitting in to those circles, but it also means that I can discover what feels authentic to me and find new circles in which I truly belong.
I’ve felt deeply challenged recently, trying to decide how we want to celebrate our little girl’s first birthday. So much of me feels this obligation to invite people who have barely been part of this first year with her, solely because I knew they would be angry and hurt if they weren’t. But I also knew that they would not be overly welcoming to a few of the people who’ve actually been journeying with us, and I would feel tension rather than joy at having the two worlds collide. So I followed my inner knowing to invite a few close families that we feel supported by, knowing that I can’t control how everyone else will feel about it.
Once I made this decision, it became clear to me that by protecting other people from their feelings, I’m also taking away an opportunity for growth. When faced with conflict and difficulties in relationships, we can choose to do the work to make amends, pretend it never happened and continue on in the same way, or stay stuck in our own position and let the relationship suffer or die. But if I never allow the conflict to show, there will never be that opportunity. If I constantly try to save them from their own feelings by not showing how much the dynamics affect me, they’ll never know how important it is to make a shift.
It is completely vulnerable; I want nothing more for this to be like the end of the movie where both parties acknowledge how they were wrong in a teary display of regret, promising to do the work to make the relationship one of belonging and safety in the future. But I can’t control that outcome. All I can do is ask myself which puzzle pieces are my responsibility, and practice handing back the ones that aren’t. It doesn’t feel good, by any means…but it does feel right.
What areas in your life have you had to build stronger boundaries? Did others accept them the way you hoped, or was a wedge put between you?
How did younger you learn to keep themselves safe and loved? Is it a pattern that works today?
Do you have any memories that seem quite random, but still stick out to you today?
I know we keep saying this to each other, but I feel like I could've written so much of this myself. I'm very much still working on boundaries with my family, even as they seem to come so naturally with many of my friends, who have done similar work and are in similar places. What you write about your coping strategies and parentification, and the difficulty of letting those things go, strikes so deep.
A memory that popped into my head just now is when I was little - maybe 4? - and my parents and older sibling pulled a prank on me that made me really scared and upset. I ran to my room crying, and my mom came to comfort me, but my body stiffened when she tried to hug me because I felt betrayed, and instead of giving me time, or even gently giving me space, she responded with anger, and then I was left alone; I don't remember any follow-up repair or apology. It's likely none of them remember it now, but I've thought about it kind of often over the years, and I think it speaks to how sensitive I was, and how there often wasn't room for that growing up, as well as how I came to expect to have to process everything on my own.