What Survives from Our Childhood in the Adults We Become?

This article is written from two perspectives. Mine, as the author, and that of a young woman.

The best way to begin a story that reaches back into childhood is always to attempt to create an immersive experience, one that revisits the events that marked us and, in subtle or decisive ways, shaped the person we eventually became. To do that, I must go far back, to the emergence of a situation that had a real and lasting impact on who I was later on, and who I am today.

My father passed away when I was one year old. I have no real memories of him, only photographs and stories about the man he was, stories I grew up hearing and imagining, trying to give a voice and a presence to someone I never truly knew. I do not know what his voice sounded like, and I never will. While the weight carried by a child who loses a parent cannot be measured, I know with certainty that for those who lose someone so essential after a lifetime filled with memories, the shock and the internal transformation are irreversible. Something shifts permanently inside.

Despite this loss at the very beginning of my life, my mother managed to lay every possible foundation so that the daily absence that would accompany me for the rest of my life was softened by her presence. She was a woman willing to do everything, and she made a promise, to herself and to us, that neither my sister nor I would ever lack anything. And I grew up that way. With a mother who never let anything be missing. Not affection. Not the goodnight kisses. Not my favorite cake. Not the sneakers everyone talked about during recess. Not the game console everyone wanted. Nothing.

That is how I was shaped.

In the first phase of my life, when I started primary school, I was a very reserved child. I slept in a doll’s crib because I was small enough to fit. My first two years surrounded by other children were almost nonexistent in terms of social connection. What I enjoyed most was going home and watching movies, still on VHS tapes or DVDs at the time. Daily interaction with other children became more harmonious later, especially in third and fourth grade. I formed groups of friends, and from that point on, I never really stopped. I had, and still have, deep friendships, people who have known me for more than ten years and who belong to that golden period of childhood.

Looking back, I believe that what remains with me from fifteen years ago are my dreams.

At twenty two years old, almost a pre adult in my own eyes, what still lives inside me is the daily dream of freedom. When I was asked what I wanted to be, I always gave three answers. An airplane pilot, a businessman without knowing exactly what that meant at such a young age, and a football player. Today, at twenty two, I can say that I had opportunities. And that brings me peace. In a world where so many people with potential never have access to chances that could change their lives, I had, and still have, a mother who, against the odds of a life that was not gentle from the start, gave me the structure to fight for my dreams.

I played football for many years, and I was quite good. But to become a professional athlete at the highest level, consistency matters as much as talent. I was never truly consistent over the long term. I had strong moments, but not continuity. Aviation was always a passion, but today it lives more as admiration than as a calling to practice. That left me with the vaguest option of all. Businessman. Only recently did I realize that what the version of me from fifteen years ago truly wanted was to be an entrepreneur. To create ideas, give them life, benefit from their success, and above all, to be free.

To take care of my own. To go to bed each night with the feeling that I earned the sunset at the end of the day.

In short, who I am today exists largely because of what was given to me long ago. I want freedom. And above all, I want my mother to be proud of me, and at peace. Because I hope I never truly understand what it means to go through what she went through, and still goes through every day. But I know that my happiness, and my sister’s happiness, make her the happiest person in the world. And in that way, we honor our father’s memory.

And what about the person we mentioned at the beginning of this article? The girl who also deserves a hypothetical introspection into her childhood, and a balance of what remains of that child?

Let’s call her Bruna. Note that this is a heteronym.

When asked for three words, better yet, adjectives, that describe her, she said. Authentic, fun, and stubborn. We will return to these later. In the most literal sense of the word, she is the personification of a classic from Elton John’s Candle in the Wind.

And it seems to me you lived your life
Like a candle in the wind
Never knowing who to cling to
When the rain set in

This excerpt deserves a form of adaptation, since she is, thankfully, very much alive, and I hope she remains so for a long time. Still, the almost daily and uninterrupted coexistence we have had recently made me realize the clear difference between the dreams that live inside us, the motivations that drive us, and above all, why the children within us exist the way they do, and why they manifest so differently.

From a third person perspective, after observing Bruna closely, it becomes evident that she struggled deeply with feeling heard during her childhood. She longed for more from her parents. The most tender bond she seems to have is with her grandmother, someone I indirectly know and find incredibly gentle.

How can a girl who grew up with her parents, lacking nothing materially, from essential goods to even the most superficial comforts, still feel such absence?

She gives me the impression that she needs nothing to be happy, and that everything she has is simply a biological consequence of being born to the parents she has. She does not speak of them with visible resentment, nor does she attack them with words. But there is a clear undertone of disappointment.

We have all had moments when we felt the urge to scream, wildly, freely, without restraint. Bruna is the kind of person who does that anywhere, without fear of judgment, always with a smile. Difficult to read, she seems afraid of attachment, to people, to things. And that reveals stories to me. Old wounds that have yet to heal.

I feel that the family environment she grew up in was like a beautifully designed cover of a romance novel, which, in reality, concealed a bestseller about toxic love, or perhaps the absence of love altogether. Either way, she is undoubtedly someone who cares deeply about others. She does not give second chances. That is part of who she is. Perhaps I am similar in that way, though not as absolute.

Bruna is, without question, a box of surprises, full of nuances that few people notice, and that she herself does not try to display. I believe that the child still alive inside her is the fire behind certain behaviors that make me think, wow, you are crazy. But in truth, she never felt that acts of childishness, or simple freedom, were viewed in a healthy, light, or accepted way by the people she most wanted validation from. That child wanted, above all else, to be noticed. To be heard.

Earlier, I mentioned the adjectives she chose to describe herself. Of the three, authenticity is the one that most accurately reflects her reality. She refuses to follow trends or to be ordinary. She simply lives. She says what she believes should be said, and she repeats only those actions that do not invade her comfort zone.

She functions almost like a mirror, reflecting actions back, expecting both good and bad from people in equal measure. She lives on the edge of disappearing from view and being happy far away from everything she feels adds nothing to her life. That is something we share.

When she was younger, she said she wanted to be a model, an esthetician, or a hairdresser. She did not end up following any of those dreams. Today, what it seems to me is that the dreams have faded, and the child inside her wants to escape the reality she lives with every day.

And yet, when these two stories meet, mine and hers, what remains is not loss, but meaning.

Childhood does not disappear. It transforms. Sometimes it becomes ambition. Sometimes it becomes silence. Sometimes it becomes rebellion, or distance, or the refusal to settle. But it is still there. Breathing quietly beneath who we are.

Perhaps growing up is not about killing the child within us, but about learning how to protect it. To listen to it. To let it dream again, without fear, without shame, without permission.

If there is hope in these two stories, it lies in this. That no matter how different our beginnings were, we can still choose not to let that child die. Because as long as it lives, so does the possibility of freedom, healing, and becoming more than what the world expected of us.