The Quiet Child
Some children learn early the words the world expects them to use.
They learn to say the right things.
To answer when they are asked.
To repeat what adults explain.
But some children also notice something else.
They notice when the words around them do not quite match what is felt.
When adults say everything is fine, but the body senses unease.
When systems say this is right, but something within the child quietly withdraws.
Then something very quiet often happens.
The child does not necessarily stop speaking.
But something in the child begins to observe.
The words are heard.
The feelings are felt.
But the two do not fully align.
And then something quiet happens.
The child withdraws.
Not because it has nothing to say.
But because there is not yet a language that can hold what the child is experiencing.
In the silence, the child begins to develop another form of understanding.
It listens to atmospheres.
To faces.
To what is not being said.
And perhaps it is precisely there that something important begins.
Because when a person later in life begins to sort through their inner world, they often meet this child again.
The child who sensed that words did not always tell the whole truth.
The child who learned to observe before reacting.
The child who understood something about the world long before having the words to explain it.
Perhaps this child is not weak.
Perhaps it is, in fact, one of our most important teachers.
Because it reminds us of something we easily forget as we grow older:
That not all truths first exist in words.
Sometimes, they first exist in feeling.
And only when we dare to listen to that again, can the words begin to find their place.
Warmly, Rita 🌿💛
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