A Moment I Couldn’t Explain
I remember a time in college when I really liked someone.
When we weren’t close, everything felt normal. I could think clearly, speak naturally, and just be myself. But as we started getting closer, something inside me began to change.
Sometimes I would talk too much, say things I didn’t need to say, almost as if I was trying to be understood immediately. Other times, I would go completely quiet, unsure of what to say or how to behave.
It felt like I was switching between two different versions of myself.
And later, when I was alone, I would ask myself: Why did I act like that?
It didn’t feel like me—the version of me I experienced when I was calm, clear, and by myself.
But this wasn’t just one situation.
It kept happening—in relationships, in conversations, in professional settings.
And I had no idea why.
Something Was Off
At first, I thought these were just isolated moments.
But over time, I started noticing a pattern.
In relationships, I would feel unsure once things became real. In professional settings, I would either try too hard to please or hold myself back.
What confused me the most was this: I knew how I should behave. But in the moment, I couldn’t.
It felt like something else was taking over. And only later—when I was alone—I could see it clearly.
That gap between awareness and action started bothering me. Because it wasn’t about not knowing better. It was about not being able to do better when it mattered.
That’s when I realized—
This wasn’t random.
Two Extremes — Oversharing vs. Shutdown
As I started observing myself more closely, a clearer pattern emerged.
On one side, I would overshare. I would explain more than necessary, reveal things too quickly, and try to create connection before it had naturally formed. It felt like I needed to be understood immediately. There were times I shared my inner struggles with people I had just met—people who hadn’t earned that trust.
On the other side, I would shut down. In certain situations, especially when I felt unsure or under pressure, I would withdraw completely. I would hold back my thoughts and stay silent, even when I had something important to say. In professional settings, I would go quiet at the wrong moments. In conversations that mattered, I would disappear.
I didn’t know how to stay in the middle. I was either expressing too much… or not expressing at all.
Only later did I understand that both were two sides of the same coin—responses to the same inner discomfort. One part of me tried to reach out too quickly, desperate to be seen. Another part tried to disappear, terrified of being hurt.
The Hidden Dynamic — When the Inner Child Hijacks
As I reflected further, I realized that the issue wasn’t just how I behaved—it was who was showing up.
When I was alone, I felt clear, capable, and grounded. I could think and respond like an adult. But in real interactions, especially emotional ones, that version of me often didn’t lead.
In close relationships, I wasn’t always showing up as an equal. There was a subtle pull toward seeking reassurance or emotional safety. In professional settings, I would either try too hard to please or reduce myself around authority.
This contradiction was confusing. Because I knew I was capable. But in those moments, a different part of me was in control—a younger, unprocessed part that I now call my inner child.
That child had learned to survive in an environment where safety didn’t feel guaranteed. And in moments of stress, uncertainty, or emotional intensity, he would take over. He would hijack my behavior—sometimes making me talk too much, sometimes making me disappear completely. And only afterward, when I was alone again, my adult self would return, confused and ashamed.
The pattern wasn’t just a lack of maturity—it was an unhealed child running the show. And over time, I could see how this quietly affected different areas of my life
Understanding the Root
To understand why this was happening, I had to look deeper. And I realized that these patterns had roots—roots that went deep into my childhood.
In many ways, my emotional development had not kept pace with my age. While I had grown intellectually, certain parts of me were still operating from an earlier stage. This often comes from early environments where healthy development is not supported.
On one hand, I was controlled and suffocated—my independence was discouraged because it threatened the control others wanted to maintain. On the other hand, I was also invisible and neglected—my emotional needs were not seen, not tended to, not held.
It was a confusing combination. I was both watched too closely and not truly seen at all. I was both told what to do and left to figure out my inner world alone.
As children, we adapt to whatever environment we are given. I learned to stay quiet when silence felt safer. I learned to please when that seemed to keep the peace. I learned to express excessively when I was desperate to be noticed. At times, I also carried a quiet anger—an anger I didn’t know how to process or express in a healthy way. It would surface unexpectedly, especially when something felt unfair or overwhelming. These were not flaws. They were survival strategies—ways of coping with an environment that did not provide the safety, guidance, and space needed to grow.
The problem is that these strategies don’t update automatically. They continue into adulthood, even when they no longer serve us.
Understanding this didn’t solve everything. But it changed how I saw myself. This wasn’t a flaw in who I was. It was conditioning. And if it was learned, it could be unlearned.
The Turning Point
For a long time, these patterns operated automatically—like a program running in the background that I didn’t even know was there.
But slowly, something began to shift. It didn’t happen in the middle of conversations or chaos—it happened in quiet moments, when I was alone with myself. In those moments, I reflected on my interactions and tried to understand what was happening within me. It was then that I started noticing the pattern more clearly.
That awareness didn’t stop the behavior instantly. But it created something crucial: distance. I was no longer completely identified with my reactions. I could observe them instead of being consumed by them.
And once you can see something clearly, it starts losing its control over you. That was the turning point.
Going Back to Move Forward
Awareness led me deeper. I realized that managing the symptoms wasn’t enough—I had to address what was driving them.
I began revisiting moments from my past—situations where I had felt unsupported, confused, afraid, or alone. I went back, not to dwell, but to understand. I asked myself: What did I feel in that moment? What did I need? What was missing?
And slowly, something began to shift. I wasn’t just remembering the past—I was reprocessing it. I was showing up for that child in a way no one had before.
I would sit with those memories and silently say to that younger version of myself: I see you. You’re safe now. You didn’t deserve that. And you don’t have to carry this alone anymore.
In a way, I began giving myself what I hadn’t received—not perfectly, not all at once, but gradually. It felt like building a relationship with myself that I didn’t fully have before.
This process took time. It took months of sitting with emotions I had spent decades running from. But it was the deepest work I have ever done—and the most liberating.
Staying Grounded in the Present
One thing I had to learn was how to visit the past without getting trapped there.
As I did this deeper work, I made sure to anchor myself in the present. I reminded myself: I am not that person anymore. I have awareness now. I have the ability to support myself. The past is over.
This created a sense of stability.
I learned to hold both: the willingness to go back and heal, and the anchor that kept me rooted in who I am now. The past became something I could learn from. The present became where I stood.
What Actually Helped
Change didn’t come through one big breakthrough. It came through consistent, patient practice over time.
Here’s what actually helped:
🌿Understanding the root cause. I spent time reading, exploring, and trying to make sense of what I was experiencing. The work of John Bradshaw, especially on the inner child, gave me a deep and practical understanding of how these patterns are formed and carried into adulthood. It helped me see that what I was dealing with was not random—it had structure, history, and meaning.
Reading further—especially Carl Jung’s ideas around individuation and the unconscious—added another layer of depth. It helped me see that the child within wasn’t something to eliminate, but something to understand and integrate.
🌿Pausing before reacting. I started creating a small gap between the urge and the action. Even a few seconds of pause created space for a different response to emerge.
🌿Meditation and breathwork. These helped me become aware of my inner state and regulate my emotions when old patterns surfaced.
🌿Reparenting myself. The deepest change came from going back into my past and giving myself what I hadn’t received—validation, safety, and presence.
🌿Being conscious about sharing. I learned that healthy connection doesn’t require immediate transparency—it builds gradually, through trust.
I didn’t try to be perfect. But over time, awareness increased—and the intensity of old patterns reduced.
If You See Yourself in This
If you see yourself in this, you are not alone.
These patterns have roots. They are not entirely your fault. You did not choose them—they were adaptations.
But working through them is your responsibility. Not because you are to blame, but because you are the only one who can do this work for yourself.
You don’t need to fix everything at once.
You can start by simply noticing.
Closing Reflection
Growing up is not just about age. It is about awareness.
At some point, life reflects your patterns back to you—not to punish you, but to show you what needs attention. The confusion, the repeated cycles, the feeling of not being able to act the way you want to—these are not signs that you are broken. They are invitations to look deeper.
And when that happens, you have a choice. To repeat the same cycles. Or to pause, understand, and grow.
It takes time. It takes patience. It takes the willingness to face what you have avoided.
But it is possible.
And when it happens, growth becomes quieter, more grounded, and more real. You stop trying to prove who you are. You start simply being who you are—present, aware, and finally at home within yourself.
Musings of a Warrior Buddha 
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