The purest love is that of a child yet “unscathed by a bitter world.” Children, before they begin adapting to attune to their parents’ dysfunction, are bundles of love and joy. Children who grow up emotionally safe are like watermills of love, endlessly pouring out that which they are full of. Children have the freest access to the wells of love that make up the human soul. They know no fear, shame, or social conditioning. They only know that which has been impressed upon them by adults, which either blocks or protects the flow of love through them.
During my time as a teacher’s aide I met so many wonderful, special, beautiful children. I fell in love with every child that called me Miss Isabel, or Missabella, or Miss Bella. I would’ve thrown myself in front of a bus for any one of them, and I still would. I would have given anything to protect their innocence. If I had the strength I would always say yes to picking them up and holding them in my arms. I would let them sit in my lap, and I would hold their little knees, and I would listen to their little stories and observations. Children are the most precious creatures in the universe. I was blessed to witness and hold them for even a moment.
However, I always noticed how these children would transform in front of their parents. Some incredibly well-behaved students became terribly misbehaved sons and daughters. Some moody, rebellious or anxious toddlers became smiley and happy when mommy or daddy arrived. The loud ones would get quiet at pickup time, and so on. Apparently at school they received the permission to be what their parents would not allow them to be at home.
I did what I could to protect and validate them while they were at school. But since I am not God, I could not stop certain things from happening. I could not stop other teachers from shaming them. I could not stop their parents from mistreating, abandoning or parentifying them. I could not stop their pain or take it away. In many ways it was like reliving my own childhood and finally facing the powerlessness and grief it left me with.
Part of the reason I find the inner child exercise so powerful is because of the divinity inherent in children. They are innocent, impressionable, needy, and totally dependent. Nothing is their fault. Therefore the only valid, emotionally healthy response to a child is love and compassion. If I feel anything else, I am projecting a wound in my heart onto them. My inner child is completely innocent and undeserving of pain and suffering. It is easy to feel compassionate when I am connected to her, curious about her. It is easy to heal when I learn how to love her.
when love begins
When I wasn’t wrangling giggly preschoolers, I spent time in the nursery with the most helpless creatures on earth: infants. Babies are almost blank slates; they only carry what they inherited in the womb. They are constantly searching for connection and attunement. They are the most freely expressive humans because their survival depends on it. Babies are not malicious; they are not capable of malice. Yet some parents think their babies play games or manipulate. But babies do nothing without being taught. Babies are also incapable of love. They only know attachment; they connect as a means of maintaining survival and safety.
It is only when a child gains the ability to say no that he or she becomes capable of love. This happens during the “terrible twos” or rather between ages 2 and 3, when children can finally communicate with words, and those words can either be respected or ignored. No is an inconvenience to most parents. Up until then, the parent can force their child into pretty much anything without much pushback. The worst thing that will happen is crying, and even that can be easily silenced with distractions, comforts, etc. But when a child gains speech and learns that they can have boundaries, most parents don’t handle the loss of control well. The child is not malicious; they are simply realizing that they have the power and strength to be an individual, to use autonomy. They start wandering off, exploring new environments, and learning new words. Words are a form of power; they enable us to communicate, to connect, and to command respect. The most powerful word a child will ever learn is no. When a parent does not respect a child’s right to say no and have boundaries, a deep and heavy sense of powerlessness is instilled in the child. That powerlessness stays with them, sometimes forever.
There can be no love without choice, without free will. If I must love you, I can’t really know if I love you at all. I simply say that I do love you, because it’s what I’m told I must do. Only if I have the choice to love your or not can I decide if I really do. Children need choices; when a parent seeks to control, they prevent their child from understanding love. There is no love in control; there is only obedience, submission, fear, and self-preservation. Attachment is a survival instinct. Love is a choice that can only be made when survival is not at stake.
People who had controlling parents grow up using relationships as a means of survival. They stay with abusers because even though it hurts sometimes, they genuinely do not want to leave. They do not love the abuser. What a victim feels for their abuser is not love at all. You stayed with your abusive parents because you needed them to survive; you could not leave, so you convinced yourself what you felt was love. But you never even had the chance to love them. Now, you stay with your abusive partner because you still feel that you need them to survive. You don’t love them; you’ve never known how to love. Love can only happen when your free will is protected. For children who are abused, who can’t say no, free will is not something they can fully access. They become adults who surrender their free will and unknowingly make harmful relationship choices.
I have been thinking a lot about my former students lately. This week marks two years since they first came into my life and I into theirs. I still remember their names, their faces, their expressions, their voices. I still carry them around in my heart. They are older, and they no longer remember me, or our classroom, or who they were back then. But I doubt I will ever forget.
It’s easy to romanticize the past. The job was not perfect; it had its issues like any other job. And sometimes I felt overwhelmed and overstimulated surrounded by two dozen loud and expressive toddlers. But I have never felt happier than when I was connected to those individual girls and boys. One of the happiest moments of my life was when I returned from Christmas break and first entered the classroom; immediately all of the preschoolers who’d sat quietly on the rug jumped up, shouted my name, and ran to embrace me. The lead teacher said jokingly, “you would think it was Santa himself.”
I will never forget greeting and holding each of them again. They healed me in ways I can’t quite explain. And I experienced greater wholeness by loving them in my own way. They exposed me to a purer form of love, one that does not bargain or beg. One that is present, and grounded, and free. One that says no because it can, because it is love. Love says no, often, and love also respects no.
While in many ways I’m figuring out how to be an adult, I am also still learning how to be a child. I am still trying to get back to the experience of being love by saying no. As I do, I begin to feel freer and more alive, just as they were.
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