I Made Myself Into a Serious Adult

I made myself into a serious adult.

The Manager convinced me that being responsible meant being proper. Controlled. Serious.

Never silly. Never playful. Always managing.

I realized a couple of months ago: I've rarely let myself laugh.

Somewhere along the way, I buried the part of me that knew how to play.

The Practice: "What Would She Do?"

My new practice: asking "What would she do?"

Not what would The Manager do. Not what would the responsible, serious, proper adult do.

What would my true self—the one buried under all the shoulds—actually want to do?

I'm discovering she's so different from The Manager.

She's playful. Creative. Honest. Present.

She doesn't take everything so seriously. She doesn't care what strangers think. She can admit when she doesn't have the answers.

And when I let her emerge—when I ask what she would do and actually listen—life becomes so much more alive.

The Dog Walk

One morning last week. Time for the dog walk.

My daughter didn't want to go. Whining. Dragging her feet. Stopping every five steps.

The Manager immediately started:

This is unacceptable. She needs to just do what she's told. Stop whining. Walk properly.

I could feel the familiar tightness. The urge to yell. To pull her along. To make her comply.

Old me—Manager me—would have been furious. Sharp voice. "Stop whining. Walk faster. You're being ridiculous."

Forcing her to move at my pace. Taking her resistance personally. Making it a battle.

Instead, I paused and listened inwards. What would she do?

Keep walking. Slowly. Enjoy the sunshine. Let her be. So I did just that.

She followed at a distance, still dragging her feet. Still stopping. Still whining occasionally.

I didn't comment on it. Didn't try to fix it. Didn't make it mean something about my parenting.

I just said, once: "It would be nice to walk together."

She refused.

Okay. I kept walking. She kept following, ten steps behind.

Then I noticed a woodpecker on a tree nearby.

"Look," I said. Quietly. Not demanding she look. Just sharing. She came closer. Watched with me.

We stood there together for maybe two minutes. Just watching the woodpecker. The whining completely forgotten.

When we got home, I said: "You're such a great pet owner. I saw that you didn't want to go on that walk, but you did it anyway. The dog needed it, and you took care of her."

No comment about the whining. No mention of how slow she went. No lecture about attitude or behavior.

Just acknowledgment: You didn't want to do this, but you did it anyway.

She beamed.

What changed?

I stopped taking her resistance personally. I stopped believing that her whining meant I was failing. I stopped trying to force her into acting like a compliant, serious, well-behaved small adult.

I let her be four. With all the feelings that come with being four.

And I stayed connected instead of making it a battle.

She needed space. She needed to move at her own pace. She needed to not be forced.

And when I gave her that—when I stopped managing her and just walked beside her (or ahead of her, as it were)—connection became possible again.

The woodpecker. The sunshine. The walk we ended up taking together, even if it looked different than The Manager's version.

That's what my true self would do. Not force. Not manage. Just be present and let connection find its way.

The Getting Dressed Battle

Another morning. The getting-dressed battle. Again.

My four-year-old refusing to put on clothes. Me, getting more and more frustrated. Nagging. Repeating myself. Feeling my anger building.

The Manager was furious:

Why does this happen EVERY morning? She needs to just DO what she's told. I am out of ideas and out of patience.

I was so tired. Tired of this recurring morning ritual. Tired of the nagging. Tired of the battle.

Then, in the middle of my frustration, the question popped up:

What would she do?

I stopped. Took a breath.

And I did something The Manager would never allow: I admitted I didn't know what to do.

I sat down next to my daughter and said, honestly: "I don't know what to do. You need clothes to go to school and I don't want to nag you."

Exposing that I didn't know the answer—that was painful for The Manager. She thinks she needs to have the solution to everything. Needs to be in control. Needs to know.

But I didn't know. So I said it.

Then I asked: "Why don't you like putting on clothes?"

She grumbled. Didn't answer at first. I waited.

Then quietly: "It's so boring."

Oh.

It's boring.

Not defiance. Not trying to make my morning difficult. Just... boring.

"What if we put on some music? Would that help?"

She looked up. "Yes."

So I put on music. Started silly dancing while holding up her shirt.

She giggled. Started dancing too.

And while we were dancing, being ridiculous, making up moves—she got dressed.

We laughed together. The whole thing took maybe five minutes.

No forcing. No threats. No battle.

Just music and silliness and connection.

The Manager would never have done this. The Manager would have:

-Forced her into clothes

-Yelled

-Made it a battle of wills

-Insisted on compliance through control

My true self did something different:

-Admitted she didn't know

-Asked what was actually wrong

-Got creative

-Made it playful instead of forcing it

The Manager wanted me to believe asking "why don't you want to?" would make me look weak. That I needed to just make her comply.

But asking? That's what opened the door to the actual solution.

She wasn't being difficult. She was bored.

And boredom? That's solvable with music and silly dancing.

"What would she do?" doesn't always mean letting everything slide.

Sometimes it means getting creative. Being honest. Asking what's actually wrong instead of assuming.

It means responding to what's actually needed in the moment, not following a predetermined script.

Even when—especially when—that means admitting I don't have all the answers.

The Grocery Store

The grocery store last week.

My almost 2 year old daughter sitting in the trolley. We had a long list. The Manager was already planning the most efficient route through the store.

Then my daughter said: "Mamma, run!"

Old me—Manager me—would have immediately shut that down.

We're in public. People are watching. Act properly. This isn't a playground. You need to set an example. What will people think?

But "What would she do?" popped into my head again.

She would race.

So I did.

I started running with the trolley. Not recklessly—still careful of other people. But fast. Playing.

My daughter squealed with delight. Laughing. Arms up like she was on a rollercoaster.

We raced down the aisles. I made sound effects. She cheered.

We probably looked absolutely crazy.

The Manager was horrified: Everyone is staring. You look ridiculous. This is so inappropriate. A grown woman racing through the grocery store. What kind of example are you setting?

But I didn't care.

Because my daughter was laughing. Pure, delighted, unselfconscious joy.

And I was laughing too.

I saw people around us. Some looked surprised. But most? Most were smiling.

When did I become so serious that racing in a grocery store felt like breaking a rule?

When did I start believing that being a responsible adult meant never being silly in public?

The Manager convinced me that people were always judging. That I needed to appear proper, controlled, serious.

But my true self? She doesn't care what strangers in the grocery store think.

She cares that her daughter is laughing. That they're connected. That this mundane errand became a moment of joy instead of just another task to check off.

We still got all the groceries. Probably in the same amount of time.

But we did it with laughter instead of efficiency.

With connection instead of just compliance.

The Manager wanted me to believe that fun and responsibility are opposites.

But I'm learning they can coexist.

I can be a responsible adult AND race through the grocery store with my laughing daughter.

Both. At the same time.

What I'm Learning

The Manager convinced me I had to choose: either be playful or be responsible. Either let them do whatever they want or force compliance.

But those aren't the only options.

I'm discovering there's a third way.

When I'm responsive to what's actually needed in the moment—when I ask what's wrong instead of assuming, when I get curious instead of controlling—everything becomes clearer.

Even boundaries.

Especially boundaries.

Because boundaries that come from presence are so much clearer than predetermined rules.

The Manager's boundaries were rigid: "Children must sit properly at dinner. Children must get dressed when told. Children must walk nicely."

But my true self's boundaries are responsive: "What does this child actually need right now? What does this moment require?"

Sometimes that's patience and space (the dog walk).

Sometimes that's creativity and play (music while getting dressed).

Sometimes that's pure joy (racing through the grocery store).

And sometimes—it's still a firm boundary. But one that comes from connection, not control.

The difference is curiosity.

The Manager already knows what should happen. She has the script. Any deviation is a problem to be managed.

My true self gets curious and from that curiosity, solutions emerge that I could never have found in The Manager's rulebook.

Not because I'm permissive. Not because I've abandoned responsibility.

But because I'm actually paying attention to what's needed instead of forcing what I think should happen.

The Shift

Life is so much more alive like this.

My children speak the language of play naturally. They're curious. They're present. They're alive.

The Manager wanted me to train that out of them. To make them serious, proper, compliant.

But what if I learned to speak their language instead?

So when joy bubbles up inside me now—when something strikes me as funny, when silliness wants to emerge—I let it out.

The Manager wanted me to believe that playful and responsible were opposites.

That curiosity would lead to chaos. That asking what's wrong would make me look weak. That boundaries had to be rigid or they weren't real.

But I'm learning that's not true.

Playful can be responsible.

Curiosity opens the door to actual solutions.

Asking what's wrong is what reveals what's actually needed.

And boundaries that come from responsive presence are stronger—and clearer—than any predetermined rule.

My children don't need a manager forcing them to act like small adults.

They need a mother who's curious, responsive, and alive.

She's been buried so deep under all the shoulds. But she's still here.

And she's coming back to life.

🌲