Watching My Son Grow While Healing My Own Inner Child
Watching my five-year-old son grow is like watching pieces of my own heart walk around outside my body. He is so much like me; it’s like watching myself grow up all over again.
He’s so sweet and caring, feeling everything so deeply it almost spills over.
He notices when someone is sad before they can even say a word.
He carries emotions that were never meant for his small shoulders and somehow still worries about letting others down if he puts them down for a moment.
I know that weight.
I know the anxiety that creeps in quietly and then suddenly feels overwhelming. The racing thoughts that don’t switch off when the world goes to sleep. The tears that come during Disney films because you ache for happy endings, not just for the characters but for everyone who deserves one in real life, too.
I recognise it all because I have lived it. I spent years masking who I was, trying to fit into spaces that never quite fit me back. Smiling when I was exhausted and pretending I understood rules that never made sense. I hid so many parts of myself just to feel like I belonged somewhere, anywhere. I learned how to shrink myself to survive in a world that I didn’t think I deserved a place in.
But he doesn’t have to do that.
He gets to just be—no apologies, just him.
He is loud when he’s excited, and he dances without any fear of being judged. He’s different without any shame of being less.
I’ve fought hard to make sure he grows up knowing that who he is is never something he has to hide. But as his parent, my heart breaks in ways I never expected.
It happens every time I see the worry flicker across his face. I see the moments where the world already feels too big, too loud, too much for him. I wish more than anything I could reach inside his mind and take away the anxiety, carry it for him instead.
I don’t want him to fear life.
I don’t want him to stand on the sidelines the way I still do, watching opportunities pass because being brave feels so much heavier than fear.
I want him to swing on a swing as high as he can without thinking about falling. I want him to laugh without ever overthinking who’s watching him.
Most of all, I want him to be just five years old, carefree and untouched by the worries that come far too early for a child with a sensitive soul. I hope he never inherits the belief that he has to change himself to be loved because he’s perfect, exactly as he is. I will make sure that every single day he knows that he is already enough.
He doesn’t know it, but he makes me brave; he makes me want to be better because I am so in awe of him.
And quietly,
ever so quietly,
he has healed parts of my inner child that I didn’t realise could ever be fixed just by being him.
