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I think I’ve been acting out projections from my childhood for most of my life without realizing it.

Not in some dramatic, obvious way — but in the everyday moments where I shrink, apologize too much, or feel like I’ve made some unforgivable mistake just by being human.

Today it hit me: I’m still carrying the belief that if I mess up, I’ll be mocked, abandoned, or punished.

That belief wasn’t born from nowhere. It came from the home I grew up in — where mistakes weren’t met with warmth or curiosity, but with shame. Where I had to keep the adults emotionally regulated just so I wouldn’t be targeted. Where my own emotional reality never really existed in the room.

So now, even when something completely ordinary happens — like calling the garage and needing to double-check a delivery — my whole body flips. I brace for the worst. I fawn. I thank them too much. I act like I’ve committed some great sin, when all I’ve done is ask a reasonable question.

It’s not about them. It’s about what they represent in my psyche.

The guy on the phone isn’t a threat. He’s just a man doing his job. But the second my nervous system perceives him as someone with authority, I’m not 35 anymore. I’m 8. And I’m terrified of getting it wrong.

I’ve started to see this pattern more clearly lately. And it’s not just in practical situations — it’s in my relationships, too.

I’ve often coaxed vulnerability out of others — made them feel safe enough to share — not just because I care (though I do), but because it means I don’t have to share myself.

If they’re open, I can stay hidden.

And then I resent them for not asking about me — even though I’ve unconsciously trained them not to.
It’s a loop I didn’t know I was in.

I think the biggest shift is this: I finally feel safe enough in my body to start seeing my role in these dynamics — not with blame, but with compassion.

Yes, I’ve been keeping people at arm’s length.
Yes, I’ve fawned in the face of perceived authority.
Yes, I’ve projected old fears onto present-day situations.

But I’m also waking up to the fact that I don’t have to keep doing that. I’m not a child anymore.

My neighbour — the one who’s taken advantage of my fawning nature more than once — I won’t stand for that anymore. And with strangers who resemble old authority figures, I’m learning to pause, to breathe, to choose how I respond instead of collapsing into shame.

It’s not perfect. It still feels almost uncontrollable at times. But I’m noticing. I’m interrupting. And that alone is powerful.

I don’t want to keep talking about how bad my childhood was. But the truth is, it still affects my day-to-day life.

And the more I reflect, the more I realize just how much I lost — not just in terms of emotional safety, but in terms of relationships that never had a chance to grow, because I didn’t know how to be seen.

It’s a painful realization. But it’s also a doorway.

Because now, I do want to be seen.
Not for performance, not for trauma — but for who I really am, in all my ordinary humanness.

I’m not trying to fix it all at once. But I am trying to show up differently — even if that starts with something as small as holding my ground in a conversation, or noticing when I start to fawn.

My body still believes I’m a child.
But I’m not.
And that knowing is where it starts to shift.