At first, nothing needed permission.

A baby doesn’t hesitate.

If it’s hungry, it cries. If something hurts, it reacts. If it’s curious, it reaches. There’s no pause to check whether the reaction makes sense or fits the room. Whatever is felt moves straight into the body.

That doesn’t last.

At some point, something small happens. A cry that doesn’t get picked up right away. A laugh that’s ignored. A reaction that makes the room tense instead of warm. Nothing dramatic. Just enough for the body to notice.

Next time, the response comes a second later.

That delay grows quietly. A child learns when to lower their voice. When to stop asking. When to smile instead of explaining. None of this feels like hiding. It feels like learning how things work.

Years later, the pattern looks ordinary. Laughing at jokes you don’t find funny. Saying “it’s fine” when it isn’t worth the friction. Swallowing irritation because it’s easier than dealing with the reaction. You still feel things. You just don’t let them all through.

The rule forms without being named.
If I want to stay connected, I can’t show everything

It doesn’t feel like dishonesty. It feels like being normal.

The emotions don’t disappear. Sadness, fear, guilt. They just stop being expressed in real time. They wait. They settle underneath.

You notice them in small gaps. Sitting in the car after turning the engine off. Standing in the kitchen before starting the next task. Lying in bed with nothing playing. There’s no crisis. Just a dull pressure, like something wants attention but doesn’t know how to ask for it anymore.

Most days, that pressure gets covered quickly. Noise helps. Busyness helps. A screen helps. Anything that fills the pause before it turns into a feeling.

Then, occasionally, the noise drops.

You forget your phone. You’re too tired to distract yourself. You sit still because there’s nowhere else to go. What comes up isn’t dramatic. It’s awkward. Vague. A mix of sadness and irritation without a clear story.

That’s when the second rule shows itself.
If I let this be felt, I might lose control

So you go back to being fine.

Once you notice this, it’s hard to unsee. You start catching the edits as they happen. The smile that arrives too fast. The feeling that gets softened before it’s even clear. The way “fine” fills space where something truer almost appeared.

Nothing falls apart.

But it becomes harder to pretend that the distance between who you feel yourself to be and who you present is accidental.

You weren’t born with that gap.

You learned it.

And once you see when it started, staying adjusted begins to feel like a choice, not just a trait.

You didn’t lose yourself. You learned when not to show up.