Make a Promise to Little You

When I say “little you,” you know exactly who I mean.

The girl who was the adult in the room long before she should have been. The one monitoring the mood, making sure everyone was okay, keeping her cool so she could keep herself safe. A lot of the women I work with were her. I was her.

The job she took on

Kids who grow up reading the room get very good at it. They notice the shift in someone’s voice before anyone else does. They learn which version of themselves keeps the peace, and they become that version, fast.

It works. That’s the problem. A strategy that keeps a child safe tends to stick around long after the danger is gone, and it shows up in grown-woman clothes: the over-preparing, the apologizing first, the inability to relax until everyone else is comfortable.

None of that is a character flaw. It’s a job a little girl took on because somebody had to.

She was never supposed to be in charge of everyone’s feelings.

A pinky promise

So here’s the question I keep coming back to. If you made a pinky promise to little you right now, what would it be?

Would it be to let her off duty, and tell her she doesn’t have to monitor anything today? Would it be to give her a chance to play, to make something badly and enjoy it anyway, to be a kid again for an afternoon? Would it be to give her a big hug, tell her she’s loved, and let her know everything’s going to be okay?

There isn’t a right answer. But there’s usually one that makes your throat tighten a little when you read it. That’s the one.

Keeping it

A promise to little you only means something if grown-up you keeps it, and keeping it looks smaller than you’d think. It looks like not answering the text that can wait. Leaving the room when the mood shifts instead of fixing it. Doing one thing this week purely because it’s fun.

Write your promise down somewhere you’ll see it. Then give yourself one chance this week to keep it.

If you recognize her and want to understand the pattern she left you, start with the free Pattern Read. Six questions, about three minutes.

Liz