“…But I had a good childhood.”
That’s what I hear many of my clients say.
I had a good childhood, too, and yet…
My parents did the best they could AND my needs weren’t met. Both can be true at the same time.
I am number 8 in a family of 9 children, with parents who have been married for 54 years this year. My parents loved (and still love!) me. I know that.
Our parents provided for us. Dad worked hard as a farmer, entrepreneur, farm-product salesman his whole life. Mom worked hard at caring for all of us, the large yard and large garden, while also working in the chicken barn, gathering, grading, and delivering eggs…and somehow found time to make full, nutritious meals to feed all of us daily.
We had a roof over our heads and a warm place to sleep. Our house was small for that many people; space was a luxury. We all shared rooms - except my one brother, the oldest, who got his own. Lucky guy! We had 1 small cubicle shower, which was an organizational miracle that we’d all have homework done and the chicken barn smell off of us by bedtime each night.
We did things together. Meals were crowded with everyone sitting in their “spot” around the dining room table. Dishes, yard work, barn work…any work was done together. As soon as you were old enough to hold a broom, you were sweeping. Everyone had their jobs. If someone couldn’t do their job for whatever reason, the others would cover.
What we did mattered. School was important. We were pushed to excel, achieve, accomplish. And thanks to our parents and our hard work, we did.
Yes, I had a good childhood. I know I was loved. I belonged. I succeeded.
…and yet I didn’t always feel it.
Dad was often out of the house and I don’t remember him ever tucking me in at night, let alone be around when I went to bed. Although he was always in for meals, except when he was on the field, he was often talking on the phone for business. Mom was understandably overloaded with daily child care, housekeeping, and chores, with very little time to spare on things ‘just for fun’.
It felt like there was always work to be done. It never stopped. As a little kid, I can remember playing barbies, hide and seek in the basement, and a type of dodgeball in a narrow hallway (which was more like try-to-move-out-of-the-way-of-this-tiny-rubber-ball-I-whip-at-you-in-complete-darkness game), but overall, there was this feeling of “there’s work to be done” and guilt for not doing it.
We may have all been sitting around a table but the conversation wasn’t always the healthiest. When I look back, I think my family built belonging through judgment of others. It seemed to be our way of finding similarities among ourselves and differences between us and ‘them’, fortifying the strength of our bonds.
But I think by being one of the younger ones, listening more than participating, I seemed to have gotten the subtle message of “be ‘this way’ or else you don’t belong with us.” I developed the sense that belonging was conditional - ‘this way’ became unspoken ‘rules’ for belonging. Have short hair. Be physically strong. Don’t live in town. Don’t chew gum like that. Don’t wear shorts, especially on a farm - they are not practical. You don’t need friends. Don’t have animals in the house. Don’t go away for holidays. Don’t take holidays, period.
I did my best in school, but I didn’t always feel it was enough. I’d come home with report cards of 94% - 99% across the board, reflecting my hard work. But, with the best of intentions from my parents, it was met with, “What’s wrong with 100%?”
Yes, I know my childhood was good AND it taught my nervous system a few things that don’t feel good: There’s no space for me. There’s no time for me. Belonging is conditional. My best is not enough. Resting is not okay.
The lessons my nervous system learned have shaped my behaviour: I stay small. I don’t ask for help. I change who I am to fit in. I push myself really hard. I don’t give myself a break.
My nervous system has learned that these behaviours are how I stay “safe”. Simply stopping these behaviours is not going to work because these behaviours were strategies for survival, and survival is the primary concern of the nervous system. Just “letting them go” isn’t possible. Safety trumps everything. Without helping my nervous system feel safe enough to change, it won’t.
The more I learn about the nervous system, the more I understand that it doesn’t respond only to whether we were loved. It responds to how safe we felt being ourselves.
You can have a good childhood AND still carry patterns of overwhelm, perfectionism, people-pleasing, overworking, self-criticism, or difficulty resting.
Not because something is “wrong” with you. But because your nervous system adapted to the environment it grew up in.
Maybe your nervous system learned:
- I have to work hard to be valued.
- I need to stay small to stay connected.
- I shouldn't need too much.
- Rest is lazy.
- My feelings are too much.
- Belonging depends on performance.
These patterns often become automatic. They can look like personality traits, but many are actually protective strategies your nervous system learned long ago.
And that’s why change can feel so hard.
We can’t simply think our way out of nervous-system patterns that were built around survival and safety. Lasting change happens when the nervous system begins to feel safe enough to loosen those old protections.
This is one of the reasons I use Emotional Freedom Techniques (EFT) in my work. EFT helps the nervous system process stored stress and emotional patterns gently, allowing beliefs and behaviours to shift without forcing or fighting ourselves.
It’s NOT about blame. It’s NOT about rewriting our childhood.
It’s about awareness: noticing what our nervous system learned, how those patterns continue to show up today, and recognizing that change is possible and safe.
If some of this resonates with you, you’re welcome to book a free discovery call to learn more about how EFT and nervous system work may help.
Here’s to calming stress at the source.
With heart,
Louise
The Stress Experts
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