Picture an old tome, sitting in some deep, dank storage room of a library, buried deep under other books and a thick layer of dust. Within the fragile, cracking pages of this ancient tome are all of the rules and regulations, and behavioural expectations placed upon us from centuries of social conditioning. Nobody remembers where it sits, or even that it exists, it just…does. It tells us how to act, how to behave, how to stay true to gender norms, it sets us up to experience a lifetime of failure – failure to achieve, failure to reach the impressively high standard of perfectionism.

Thankfully, we have progressed from the idea that it’s a woman’s job to raise a family, to feed her husband and keep a clean and tidy home and it’s a man’s job to be the breadwinner. But we still experience external pressure to conform to the invisible set of rules, buried deep underneath the dust of years gone by.

One thing that I have found difficult to navigate this week, is the unwritten expectations set down by my family. I’ve navigated comments like, “don’t sit like that, it’s not ladylike,” and “it’s not even 8.30 pm, it’s too early for you to go to bed,” and “you might want to buy clothes that fit you next time, instead of two sizes to big.” I’ve watched my Mum change my niece’s clothing, because she doesn’t look well dressed enough to take out in public. And I can’t help but remember moments like these from my childhood. They were every day occurrences, underneath which a sense of frustration and anger grew and manifested. I wanted my family too see ‘me,’ not the version they were trying to shape me into. I was enrolled in dancing, in gymnastics, in little Athletics. I won show girl ribbons. I was trussed up and made to look adorable, then paraded about on stage to strut my stuff and win their hearts. My bedroom was littered with porcelain dolls, which by the way, I absolutely hated, with their perfect dresses and stoney-faced stares reminding me of what I needed to be in order to be considered feminine and pretty. I was dressed in gorgeous dresses, and forced to wear pink. I was even made to believe that being too emotional was a bad thing, a thing to get in trouble for, a thing my parents had little patience for. I’ve had people from my life tell me that I’m too fat, and when I lost weight, I was too thin. I lifted weights and built a body that was muscular and “unfeminine.” The list goes on and I’m sure I’m not the only one who remembers moments like these.

I’m not saying that my parents were doing wrong by me, or that they had every intention of snuffing out the ferocious spark of rebellious wild child that was a flame within me, but I acknowledge their expectations were too big…too heavy and too stifling for me to fit into. I tried. I tried to be who they were shaping me to be; I think, because deep down, we all fear the rejection and the disapproval of our loved ones. As children, we try to do our upmost to make them happy. I liken it to the feeling of trying on a new dress in the store. You choose something you think you might love and better yet, it looks to be your size. With an air of excitement, you take it up to the change rooms, you lock the door, step out of your old clothes and work the new dress over your head. It’s only when you try to thread your arms through the holes that you realise…there is no way you are getting this past your shoulders and over your chest. It doesn’t fit and now a sense of sheer and utter panic fills your chest – you’re well and truly stuck, one arm in the air, unable to shimmy the dress down towards your hips, or to wiggle it upwards and back over your head.

This week, through two different sources – one a podcast, the other an audio book – I’ve been introduced to the concept of Little T’s, or little traumas we experience during childhood that leave wounds and scars. They aren’t inflicted with any kind of intentionality, they happen because one of more of our needs as children are not met. Dr Gabor Maté speaks of the need for a child to be seen, to be heard and to be acknowledged for who they are. The wounding occurs when the parents, or those close to the child tries to place their own expectations or social norms on them. The wounding occurs when children try to live up to the standards and expectations of their loved ones, they bury the bits of themselves that don’t match with those standards and expectations and soon realise that it’s all unattainable. They then get a sense of themselves as being a disappointment, as being not good enough and this buries deep within their psyche and creates adults who hide the parts of themselves that don’t conform, who don’t really have a sense of who they are, adults who, often without realising it, continuously seek the approval of others and feel rejection so keenly.

I see the impacts within myself. I often feel like I don’t live up to other people’s expectations of me and so I scramble to change, to do things, to be things that don’t feel true to me and to who I am. I bite my lip so fiercely to quash the voice that rises inside – to snuff that small spark of rebellion – because I’m reminded of what it feels like to not be enough. I fall into line because it’s easier than dealing with the rise in anxiety and self-doubt, when I don’t. I bury my emotions, for a number of reasons, but also because I’m aware that they are a little too loud, a little too much to be acceptable to those around me. I think back to my time in Queensland, where I tried hard to fit the expectations of others, even ignoring my own beliefs, even to the point of shrinking myself to fit, only to realise those expectations were too heavy, too stifling and required far too much of a sacrifice of my own individuality and authenticity. Trying to fit into a space that was too small for me, was doing more damage to my own well-being than was worth it. The thing is, I still blame myself for not being able to make it work, for not being able to change, adapt and conform.

I have to admit, that my little flame of rebellion hasn’t been fully extinguished though. It’s the driving force behind why I ignored absolutely everyone in my life and had my hair dread locked. My brother told me not to, in his words I was committing cultural appropriation and “Mum will kill you, if you do that.” My parents just looked at me as if I was some strange alien from another planet and tried to talk me out of it. But that little spark inside of me demanded I listen and paid attention to it, rather than to other people’s attempts at social conditioning. I also haven’t worn a dress since my High School Leaver’s dinner. I hate wearing dresses; they feel so uncomfortably ‘not me.’ I played women’s AFL for two seasons, in a sport that was distinctly not feminine. I also sit in a way that makes me comfortable, and not in a way that portrays a lady like air of grace.

My point is, the rule book that tells you who to be, how to behave and think and express yourself, doesn’t really exist. It’s social conditioning handed down through generations, and people will try to make you fit into it, but there’s nothing to say you are required to blindly follow those rules. If you feel like they don’t apply to you, or fit you, then allow that little spark of rebellion to guide you instead. That spark of rebellion is your younger self, finally taking the space to share her voice. Just because someone tells you it’s true, tells you it’s a hard, fast rule set down in an old rule book that disappeared a long time ago – doesn’t mean you have to pick it up and try to fit yourself into it to the point where you’re stuck. You do you, let go of how others have told you it should be, and see how a little bit of self-acceptance fits instead.