You always had a mind of your own

My dad frequently said I was stubborn when I was a kid. “You always had a mind of your own.”

Which is interesting, because I (mostly) did what I was told. ;)

I did my best to be a “good” girl. I tried not to ruffle any feathers. I tip-toed through the delicate eggshells. I was mindful of what to say, when to say it, what not to say, where not to step…all so that I wouldn’t set off any landmines.

I learned how to read a room before I knew that’s what I was doing.

I learned how to be what other people needed me to be so they could be happy, because if they were happy, things went easier for me and for them. If things went easier, I could feel safer, and if I was good enough, agreeable enough, pleasing enough, maybe I could be loved.

Or approved of…or at least, not be a problem.

But I was never fully convinced.

I was never fully convinced that making myself easier for other people was the same as being loved.

I was never fully convinced that their version of me was more true than mine.

Something in me stayed awake.

I could do what I was told, but I could not always make myself believe what felt false.

There was a pulse there. A signal. A golden thread I didn’t have language for yet.

What my dad called stubborn, I now recognize as my inner compass.

And that mind of my own he saw?

That was the part of me that still belonged to me. The part of me that could perform, but not fully disappear. The part of me that could adapt, but not fully surrender. The part of me that could be shaped, but not fully tamed.

I suspect you may know some version of this.

We learn to perform based on the people around us. Not because anyone is trying to harm us, but because people want what they want. They have their own needs, their own expectations, their own moods, their own rules, their own version of what makes life easier.

And when you behave in a way that makes life easier for them, they may come to believe things are better that way.

And honestly?

Sometimes they are.

At least on the surface.

The room stays calmer, the conflict stays lower, the approval stays closer, and the love feels a little less at risk.

So you adapt. You become good. You become easy. You become helpful. You become low-maintenance and you become acceptable. You learn where to tuck parts of yourself away. You learn which parts get applause and which parts get labeled.

Too much. Too sensitive. Too strong. Too opinionated. Too difficult.

Stubborn.

But what if stubborn was never the whole truth?

What if what they were really seeing was the part of you that still knew? The part of you that didn’t fully buy into the performance. The part of you that could behave, but not betray yourself all the way.

The part of you that kept flashing.

Not to make your life harder, not to make you difficult, but to keep you connected to what’s real.

It may show up as discomfort or as a no you keep trying to talk yourself out of,  

or as the sentence you don’t say. 

It could show up as the life you keep circling, the desire you keep making unreasonable or as the knowing that interrupts the performance.

…to return you to your life, not ruin it. 

Maybe today, you don’t need to become more disciplined, more polished, more palatable, or more “healed.” Maybe today, you just listen for the golden thread.

The part of you that stayed true — even when you didn’t know how to live from it yet.

This is part of the Untamed body of work. Not becoming someone new. Remembering the part of you that never fully left.

Private work is opening in a limited, intimate way. If this is the thread you’re following now, you’re welcome to start the conversation.