the things our children learn in our shadows

author’s note: this piece grew from the quiet moments where I found myself watching my child watch the world. it’s a reflection on the habits we pass down without meaning to, the things our children learn in the spaces we forget to tend. I wrote it as a reminder to myself first — to slow down, to look inward, and to choose presence over escape. if it meets you somewhere familiar, I hope it does so gently.

“me time” is spoken so casually now —
a phrase tossed into the air
without much thought,
without much intention.
yet children hear it,
and they watch what we do with it.

one day on the tram,
my daughter looked at a “no vaping” sign
and whispered,
“I can’t wait to be a teenager so I can use that.”
her innocence brushed against a truth
I wasn’t ready to face:
the world is raising her alongside me.

children learn quietly.
they learn from the way we breathe,
the way we avoid,
the way we soothe ourselves
when life feels heavy.

we call it “me time,”
but often it becomes
a soft escape —
scrolling,
drinking,
smoking,
talking away the hours
instead of meeting ourselves gently
in the quiet.

and our children absorb this.
they learn that discomfort is something to outrun,
that emotions are something to mute,
that screens can fill the spaces
where presence should live.

by the time they reach teenagehood,
the noise no longer comforts them.
so they reach for what they’ve seen —
vapes,
alcohol,
numbing in small, familiar ways.

and the places meant to support families
are stretched thin,
filled with people who know theory
but not always the tenderness
a child requires.

so perhaps the beginning of healing
is simply this:
adults learning to sit with themselves
so their children can learn to sit with life.
choosing presence over distraction,
truth over avoidance,
softness over escape.

because children grow into the shape
of the adults around them —
not the words we speak,
but the lives we live
when we think no one is watching.
and they are always watching.