They weren’t all bad times. There were many good times. But words like good and bad are usually judgments that come from more life experience. To a child, things are as they are—at least that was my experience growing up. My own children today seem to have a better grasp on self-advocacy than I ever did. Is today a school day? Are you coming to the family gathering? Will you watch this movie with me at the cinema? With questions like these, my kids have no trouble telling me yes or no (quite often no), and I smile that there is enough space around our words for them to express themselves and be their own person.
When I was young, the answer didn’t matter. Expectations were set. In fact, these weren’t questions at all. We were going to school. We would attend the family gathering. And we would (and happily) go to the cinema should the chance arise.
There is no good or bad, no right or wrong, in this remembrance. Times were different. I was different. What I want to convey is a certain felt powerlessness. As children, we endured. Sometimes we were happy; other times we were sad. In that small world, feeling unable to change anything, my attachment to the story grew stronger—for it was only in the future that I could obtain the life I sought, where I could finally change my circumstances. I looked out at the big, beautiful world with a quiet longing: to live the life I wanted instead of the roles laid out for me. That longing braided itself to the story—one that never satisfied and depended on I’ll be happy when… If anything was missing—validation, acceptance, and so on—I added it to the list titled Future and Elsewhere.
Seeking those things outside yourself is dangerous—not only for a child, but for anyone—because what you find there rarely satisfies, and whoever you seek it from cannot give it to you. Still, something felt missing, and I couldn’t help but seek. I began to define myself by a past I couldn’t control and to pin my hopes on a future that never arrived—looking to others for what they could not provide. And still I sought.
A few memories stand out from those early years, and sometimes I wonder if they are real. Your past—your story—is like a dream. It exists only in your mind. And, as in a dream, I cast my gaze back over it with wonder and awe. Why am I able to recall some moments so vividly while forgetting others—perhaps more poignant and meaningful ones? What would my story look like if I could remember those missing pieces? Would I be different?
Somehow, I know those moments are still there, buried deep in the unconscious, tugging at me from the shadows. Like a river wearing away stone year after year, they have carved tiny grooves across my mind in the form of unconscious conditioning—grooves formed by millions upon millions of neurons firing again and again with the same quiet verdict: you are not good enough.
To change conditioned thoughts, you must first recognize them. That requires both awareness and the ability to step outside the story you’ve been telling yourself — and that others have been telling you. Many people live their entire lives caught in the mire of those patterns, reacting to circumstances that are largely negative and problematic. How do I know this? Because everyone’s story is problematic. Until you can step beyond thought—beyond the pull of those repetitive patterns—you will continue to suffer. As a child, I had no way of making that distinction.
One of my earliest memories with my father was standing in line to watch the very first Star Wars movie. I had to look up its release date to know how old I was—1977. I was five. I remember standing outside the theater, the line winding around the parking lot in a twisting maze. We waited for what felt like hours before being admitted. I don’t remember if my father spoke to me; even now he’s not a man of many words, and back then even less so. When there is silence between a father and a son—or a child and a parent—the child is often left to fill in the story for themselves. Why my father never really talked to me easily becomes What’s wrong with me that my father never talks to me. I know now that he was struggling with his own inner darkness and unhappiness.
What I do remember from that time is the awe. The opening crawl, the music, the starships, the sound of blasters—it gripped me completely. That Christmas, Star Wars action figures began appearing in my small world, each one a new piece of magic.
When I was in fifth grade, we transferred to a new school and began taking the bus because our neighborhood school was being converted into a special needs facility. It was a big change. We went from walking about two miles each way through familiar neighborhood streets to riding a bus to a much larger, unfamiliar place. I say we, but I can’t recall my sister ever walking with me—perhaps we walked separately. I do know that in fourth grade I walked, if only because of a boy named Roy.
Roy was a student in my class. One day, on my way home, he decided he wanted to fight me. His allegation: I had stolen his seat during class. I didn’t recall doing that, though I admitted that if I had, it was unintentional. That was the closest thing to an apology I could muster. I was genuinely confused why someone would set themselves against me over something so trivial. He hadn’t mentioned anything during class.
Roy was a quirky kid—thin and wiry, with a close-cropped military-style haircut. We weren’t friends, but I had nothing against him. Looking back, I wonder what pain he carried that made him want to fight me. Pain that demanded an outlet. Perhaps my easygoing nature made me a safe target for his demons.
He planted himself in my path, his face gaunt and triangular, his stance unyielding. I tried reasoning with him: “I didn’t take your seat. Go home, Roy.” I attempted to walk around him more than once, but each time a scuffle broke out. At one point, a mother in a passing car stopped, rolled down her window, and shouted—at me. The audacity. I wasn’t the one who’d started this. All I wanted was to go home. Still, her interruption broke the tension long enough for me to slip past him.
I’d made it around the corner when Roy appeared again, blocking my way. This time, I’d had enough. I dropped my backpack—a big deal for a fourth grader—and we stood there in our own little western standoff. He raised his fists. At that moment, I no longer saw the boy in front of me, only the obstacle in my way. I was already an established soccer player, so without thinking, I stepped in and kicked him once in the side. I just wanted to go home.
He crumpled, crying, then told me I was really good at soccer.
“Go home, Roy,” I said, picking up my backpack and walking past him. I felt bad. I hadn’t wanted any of this. I don’t remember seeing him after that—not the next day at school, not ever again. But the memory is seared into my mind.
Looking back, I wish I’d been able to see Roy’s pain more clearly. I wish I’d said, “I’m sorry, Roy. I really didn’t mean to take your seat. If you felt I did, then I am sorry. Can you forgive me?” I don’t know if it would have made a difference. Part of me doubts that it would have. That day, Roy’s pain needed an outlet.
He didn’t follow me after that, and I didn’t look back. I had had my first fight. I had won. But the cost was high. Despite standing up for myself, I had hurt someone.