‘I’ am ‘Me’

Power in Miniature

I see my parents standing tall. They speak, and I believe them. They choose my clothes. They decide my bedtime. They shape my world. I call them Mom and Dad. They feel like giants. They know every rule. Their words hold real weight. Their commands and opinions blend into the air I breathe.

I trust them to keep me safe. When I cry, they come. When I smile, they hug me. I assume they created the sky and placed the moon high above. They seem that powerful. They stand at the center of my universe. My body is small, my mind is fresh. Their voices ring like truth.

My father says money solves every problem. My mother says money corrupts. Both speak with certainty. I absorb both lessons. My father’s words echo when he counts pennies on the table. My mother’s warnings ring when she scolds him for chasing profit. I see two gods in conflict. That tension confuses me, but I accept it. I exist in their domain.

I learn from their behavior. If Mom stares at spiders with fear, I learn spiders mean danger. If Dad greets each neighbor with a handshake, I learn neighbors deserve kindness. I copy them. I watch how they speak. I mimic their gestures. This is my first education, shaped by everyday moments.

They bring me to church. They kneel on pews. They whisper prayers. I sense mystery. I see them showing reverence to an invisible power. They do it with calm confidence, so I accept that a larger father exists somewhere above us. I try to imagine him. My parents encourage it. They do not explain that each family worships a different version of that father or mother figure. They just say our way is correct. I hold that statement close because I have no reason to doubt them.

I watch cartoons. My parents chuckle at certain jokes. They hush me at certain scenes. Their reactions guide me. I assume each show holds a moral. They filter what I can watch. I see them as gatekeepers. I trust they keep harmful images away from me. They define my sense of what is acceptable. Sometimes they slip, letting me see something violent or chaotic. Then they panic. I see their fear. It rattles me. I realize they can lose control. That idea scares me more than any cartoon.

They feed me. They dress me. They pick my school. They push me toward activities or keep me from them. Dad might say sports build character. Mom might say music fosters creativity. They hold these opinions like absolute truth. I bounce between them, seeking approval. If I please one, I might disappoint the other. That conflict rises inside my heart. I feel split. I want both to smile at me. I measure my worth by their response.

I see them fight at the dinner table. Dad rants about bills. Mom argues about discipline. They raise voices. I shrink back in my chair. The tension feels larger than me. Then they stop. They shift to calm conversation. I wonder how they can switch so fast. I sense their frustration, but they hide it. I watch them mask deeper issues. They once seemed perfect. Now I see cracks. Still, I cling to my childlike trust. They remain bigger, stronger, wiser.

I observe their rules. Bedtime at 8. Homework before play. Manners at the table. I follow these rules because I want their praise. When I do well, they pat my head or offer a treat. They say, “Good job.” Those words mean everything. They echo in my mind long after. I chase that praise in small ways. I believe pleasing them matters more than anything.

Sometimes they impose rules that puzzle me. “Never talk to strangers.” “Never run across the street.” “Never question your teachers.” These rules shape my worldview. I assume strangers hold danger. I assume streets swallow children who cross alone. I assume teachers hold perfect knowledge. My parents do not always explain. They simply set boundaries. They own my trust. I follow. They have all the power. I am small.

They also carry beliefs about groups of people. My father might roll his eyes when he sees certain neighbors. He makes jokes about them. I do not get the punchline, but I hear his tone. My mother might correct him, or she might laugh too. Either way, I notice. I file it away. That is how I learn prejudice. That is how I learn acceptance or bias. It comes in daily moments, quick remarks, gestures. I assume their stance is truth.

They set a moral code. Perhaps Mom says, “Work hard and keep going.” Perhaps Dad says, “Connections matter more than sweat.” Each phrase leaves an imprint. I repeat these lines in my head. They clash. I attempt to reconcile them. The two gods in my house disagree, but they also stand united in their role over me. Their combined influence engulfs me. I cannot see beyond it.

Psychologists have fancy names for this. John Bowlby wrote about attachment. He said children see parents as anchors. We cling to them because we find safety there. If they offer consistent love, we learn trust. If they act erratic, we learn fear. My own experience depends on their moods. If Dad yells unpredictably, I tremble. If Mom soothes me when I cry, I breathe easier. These experiences shape my sense of stability. Bowlby calls it “secure” or “insecure” attachment. I do not know these terms yet, but I feel them in my bones.

Albert Bandura says we learn by watching. I see it each day. Dad teases the waiter, so I tease a friend at lunch. Mom prays with eyes closed, so I bow my head too. I copy them. I see them as ultimate models. I do not question. I mimic. That is how children absorb culture. That is how we inherit mannerisms and beliefs. It is an invisible transfer of knowledge. Dad curses at the TV. I do the same. Mom displays patience with the crying baby. I learn that calm approach.

Sigmund Freud points to the mother-father dynamic as our first taste of authority and love. He claims we build our adult moral compass from that system. I sense a moral watchtower forming within me. When I break a rule, I feel guilt. When I follow instructions, I feel pride. Maybe these feelings echo my parents’ voices. They reward me with nods and punish me with glares. In time, their presence migrates into my mind. I carry their gaze.

Jean Piaget describes how children see rules as absolute. He calls it moral realism. When Mom says I must finish vegetables before dessert, I treat that as cosmic law. I do not see nuance. Piaget says younger kids cannot consider exceptions easily. Dad’s statement equals truth. Mom’s statement equals truth. A conflict arises if they differ. My mind scrambles to cope.

Carl Jung says the father and mother are archetypes. They fill mythic roles in my psyche. My father is the sun, my mother is the moon. They glow with cosmic energy in my little world. They guide me. They also bring storms. Sometimes the sun scorches, sometimes the moon hides. I sense the mythic weight. They become primal gods in my dreams.

Erik Erikson says my first task is to learn trust or mistrust. My parents decide which path I adopt. They feed me or neglect me. They hold me or push me aside. They show me that the world is safe or harsh. As I grow, I test my independence. My parents cheer or scold. I form core beliefs about myself. Am I capable or flawed? Those beliefs bloom in adult life. The seeds form now.

I call them Mom and Dad, but they carry real names. They were once children too. They learned from their own parents. They formed ideas from old traditions. They stand above me, wielding power. That power is miniature compared to grand governments or cosmic forces, but it molds me more than any politician or distant deity. Their house is a kingdom. Their word is law.

Dad hands me a deck of cards. He says, “Play with these.” I see some cards are bent. Some are missing corners. A few are perfect. I do not realize yet that these cards symbolize my starting advantages and disadvantages. My father decides my environment. My mother decides my daily schedule. Together, they stack my deck. They pick my school. They sign me up for sports or art lessons or nothing. They choose our neighborhood. They govern how I see money, neighbors, chores, faith, and myself.

I reach for answers outside the home. Teachers instruct me. Classmates share stories. Television blasts images. Yet my first filter is parental. I see the teacher’s lesson and compare it to my father’s words. If they clash, I freeze. Whom do I believe? If Dad says dinosaurs lived 5,000 years ago, but the teacher says 65 million, my mind spins. Dad is my pillar. The teacher also stands as an authority. I wonder who is correct. I might cling to Dad’s claim, because loyalty feels safer than contradiction.

As I enter adolescence, I grow taller. I develop opinions. I attempt to push back. My mother says, “You have changed,” but I see her old instructions as constraints. I hear her old beliefs as dogmas. My father demands certain chores. I resist. I challenge them, testing the edges of their power. That tension rises. They threaten punishment. I roll my eyes. We clash. The illusions of perfect harmony fade.

I begin to see they are flawed. Dad’s jokes sometimes offend me. Mom’s tears unsettle me. They display fear about bills. They rage about politics. They show prejudice toward certain people. I realize they do not hold absolute truth. That discovery surprises me. I feel a jolt. Part of me wants to keep the illusion that they know everything. Another part wants freedom to form my own thoughts. This rift can cause anger, or it can open dialogue.

I notice my father regrets lost opportunities. He scolds me to avoid repeating his mistakes. My mother pushes me to pursue her dreams. She never became a musician, so she wants me to learn violin. I see them projecting their hopes onto me. I resent it. I also crave their applause. The tension weighs on me. I sense that my future is partly shaped by their unfulfilled desires.

I also catch glimpses of their deeper emotions. Dad stares out the window, shoulders slumped, lost in worry. Mom sighs at the kitchen sink. She mutters about finances. They believed adulthood would bring control, yet they juggle problems. As a child, I expected them to manage everything. Now I see them as uncertain. They wear the mantle of parental authority, but it seems heavy.

Their rules remain. They scold me for messing up my chores. They ground me for coming home late. I notice the hypocrisy. Dad stays out late with friends. Mom leaves dishes unwashed. I point this out, and they say, “We are parents. Our situation differs.” Their responses ring hollow. I see cracks in their moral foundation. They built my moral code. They hold me to it. They do not always follow it themselves. I fume. I also learn that humans bend rules when they hold power.

In my teenage years, I wrestle with identity. I cling to some parental lessons and reject others. Freud might say I harbor a love-hate dynamic. Bandura might say I still copy them, even when I try to rebel. Bowlby might say my secure attachment wavers. I see them as less than gods. They see me as a disobedient child. Our home becomes a tense battleground. Sometimes we laugh together, a flash of unity. Then conflict returns.

My friends share similar stories. One friend’s father preaches that only money matters, so my friend obsesses over brand clothes. Another friend’s mother forbids certain music, so my friend hides secret playlists. Each of us battles parental decrees. We also crave their acceptance. That is the paradox. We push them away while longing for a warm hug. We judge them while we want them to cheer at our achievements. The child’s mind endures.

Time passes. I grow into early adulthood. I move out. I rent a place, maybe with roommates. My parents stand at a distance. Now I see them less. I test new freedoms. I see friends from other backgrounds. I realize my parents might have lied or guessed about certain matters. My father used to say people from a different faith are dangerous. I discover that faith in college. I meet classmates who follow it. They are pleasant. My father’s words ring in my memory. I weigh them against new evidence. Confusion stirs. I question his worldview.

Sometimes I feel anger toward him. He shaped my early view. I might have treated people unfairly because of his influence. I wonder if he knew the harm. Or maybe he was repeating his own father’s prejudice. I sense a chain stretching back generations. My mother’s approach to emotion also lingers. She taught me to swallow tears. I still struggle to show sadness. That is her imprint. I try to unlearn it. I fail at times.

I search for new guides. Some friends immerse themselves in religion. Others chase money. Some idolize celebrities. Each choice reflects the parental blueprint. Maybe we copy the belief system we saw at home. Maybe we adopt its opposite. Either way, parents remain in the equation. They planted seeds. We let them sprout or hack them away.

I see references in books. The comedic voice of George Carlin echoes in my mind: We swap old gods for new idols. We fill the void. I might chase wealth, seeking the father’s praise I missed. Or I might become devout, craving the mother’s warmth. My parents were my first cosmic figures. Now I scramble to replace them, or I refuse to seek replacements and walk alone. Yet their mark remains.

I reflect on therapy. A counselor might say, “Let’s revisit childhood.” I cringe. Childhood shapes adult anxieties. That is what John Bowlby explained. If I never felt safe at home, I might approach relationships with suspicion. If Dad roared unpredictably, I might flinch at loud voices. If Mom hovered, I might expect smothering from romantic partners. I see the lines connecting then and now.

I also see the deck of cards again. My father gave me certain resources. My mother gave me certain biases. I did not choose them. They shaped my vantage. Some friends had wealth, others had poverty. Some had parents who read bedtime stories nightly, others had parents who cared more about chores. Each deck is unique. The grown child can shuffle, but the original suit remains. That stacked deck was an inheritance.

Carl Rogers wrote about unconditional regard. If parents accept us as we are, we grow in healthy ways. If they judge or withhold love, we carry wounds. I look back on times my parents withheld approval unless I performed well. Those moments still sting. I chase success to earn a phantom nod. Sometimes I succeed and still feel empty. I realize I chase a memory, not a real objective. That parental voice lives in my head. My mother’s or father’s eyes watch me from inside.

Yet they were children once. They faced their own gods at home. They repeated patterns or tried to escape them. My father might have endured a strict upbringing. My mother might have grown up with meager means. They overcame obstacles. Now they shape me, perhaps passing on old scars. Their demands and beliefs come from deep roots. This awareness fosters empathy. I see them as humans, less as cosmic judges. That does not erase my struggles, but it softens blame.

When they grow old, I see their frailty. My father’s hair grays. My mother’s posture slumps. They worry about retirement, about health, about regrets. I sense their mortality. The gods shrink. It surprises me. As a child, I assumed they would live forever, holding that fatherly or motherly aura. Now they fear the future. They ask me for help. They rely on my knowledge of technology or new customs. The power dynamic flips. I become caretaker. It is humbling and bittersweet.

We still clash over beliefs. My father remains sure that certain groups threaten us. My mother clings to old superstitions. I try to present facts. They wave me off. I see the same stubbornness they once saw in me. The cycle continues, but in reverse. Now I see them as the children of a past era. They see me as reckless or naive. We communicate in half-truths. Yet we share love forged through years of living together.

One day they might pass away. Their cosmic presence disappears from the physical world. I stand alone with memories. I might feel relief from old tensions. I might feel sorrow at the loss. My mind replays their lessons. I pick which ones to keep. Some swirl around money, faith, morality, or success. Some revolve around how to show kindness or how to fight enemies. I see my adult decisions shaped by their example.

That is power in miniature. They had absolute rule over my small life. They formed my moral spine. They taught me how to hold a fork. They shaped my voice. Even if I rebel, that rebellion references them. They remain the baseline for everything. The comedic twist is they were mortals improvising. They worried about bills. They argued about politics. They repeated old myths. They guessed at big questions. Yet I saw them as gods.

I adopt new beliefs, but the old ones echo. I replace the father’s scolding with a boss’s demands. I replace the mother’s comfort with a partner’s embrace. Or I chase illusions of success or pleasure, searching for paternal or maternal approval. Sometimes I see it clearly. Other times I drift, blind to the origin. That is the child in me, longing for applause or dreading condemnation.

When I become a parent, I step onto their throne. My child stares at me like I stared at my parents. I feel unprepared, yet I must pretend. My child wants confidence. My child wants clear rules. I scramble to set them, hoping I do better than my mother or father. I vow to avoid their mistakes. Yet I catch myself repeating phrases I heard as a kid. I slip into the same patterns. My child absorbs them. The cycle spins on. I am the new god. I pass along my confusion disguised as authority.

This is comedic and tragic. The child sees my flaws. My illusions fade in their eyes as they grow. One day, they might accuse me of hypocrisy. They might say I forced them to adopt beliefs that hamper them. I will feel the sting of reflection. Maybe I will adapt. Maybe I will cling to power. Each parent faces that choice: remain a mini-tyrant or become a guide. My parents struggled. I do too. Power is seductive. The child’s worship can feel satisfying. Letting the child think freely can feel scary.

Communities evolve. Governments pass laws about child welfare. Schools shape a portion of the child’s mind. But the home remains the first dominion. The father or mother still wields primary influence. People have tried communal arrangements. Kibbutzim or experimental communes shared parental duties. Yet children still form attachments. They pick a favored adult or two. They see them as the central authority. The primal bond persists.

I recall reading about Michel Foucault’s ideas on power. He showed how power structures appear in every institution. The family is the first. Dad stands as the warden, or Mom does, or both. The child is the subject. That dynamic seeds a later acceptance of leaders or a later rejection of them. We rehearse society’s power play on a small stage. Our beliefs about justice, hierarchy, control, and rights begin in the living room.

So I remain a grown child. I sense the child’s perspective inside me. My parents molded my earliest tastes and fears. I can rewrite some scripts. I can question my father’s negativity or my mother’s illusions. I can see new ideas. Yet the echoes remain. That is the core of childhood’s effect. It lingers in adult thought.

When I find a job, I see traces of Dad’s obsession with achievement. When I pray or refrain from prayer, I recall Mom’s devotion. When I approach romantic partners, I rely on lessons from home. If my parents modeled warmth, I expect it. If they modeled conflict, I might replay it. Awareness helps me break destructive loops. Still, I slip sometimes. The child within me yearns for the familiarity of old habits.

Friends share similar journeys. One friend distances from her controlling mother. Another friend depends heavily on parental guidance. Some friends rant about trauma. Others praise an idyllic childhood. We each carry a distinct deck of cards. Some got better draws, some got worse. No one escapes the parental imprint. Even orphans carry the absence of parents as a huge factor. That absence becomes its own stamp.

Therapy can help. So can honest conversation. I might talk to my parents as an adult, explaining how certain statements shaped me. They might reveal their side, or they might deny it. Healing is possible when illusions drop. They might admit they guessed half the time. They might confess old fears or mistakes. That vulnerability bonds us. Or they might cling to the old stance. Then we struggle. I decide how to handle that rejection. Either way, it clarifies the past.

Stoic philosophy, championed by Marcus Aurelius, teaches that events lie outside our control. Our reaction is what we can shape. My childhood is an event. I had zero control over it. My parents shaped me. I can now shape my response. I can blame them forever, or I can use their lessons as stepping stones. That approach helps me find peace. I can see my father’s anger as a lesson about emotional regulation. I can see my mother’s caution as a lesson about security. I adapt their messages to suit my life now.

Some rebel completely. They sever ties. They discard everything the parent taught. That can free them from harmful scripts. Yet it can also lead to a different prison: a life defined by rebellion. Even rebellion references the parent. The child remains anchored to that early dynamic. True freedom lies in recognizing the blueprint, adjusting it, adding personal expansions, and forging an individual style.

I see comedic patterns in others. A friend who hated his father’s controlling ways grows up to manage an entire team at work with an iron fist. He replicates the exact behavior. Another friend who admired his mother’s generosity becomes a volunteer at multiple charities. He expands on her kindness. The parental seeds sprout in many forms. We become little mirrors of what we once saw, with twists and flourishes. Our adult personalities carry that childhood design.

I recall a day when I was six. My mother told me the neighborhood was dangerous. I felt fear leaving our house. Years later, I see that the area was peaceful. She repeated an old fear. It shaped my caution. Now I wrestle with social anxiety. I see the direct link. Her words formed my emotional lens. I respect her worry, but I also recognize it was misplaced. That step is crucial: acknowledging the root and deciding how to move forward.

Another memory: Dad praising me for reading. He said, “Books hold power.” That belief stuck. I remain an eager reader. I feel gratitude for that spark. My father gave me a love for knowledge. His other messages I question. That is how I parse them. I keep some, discard some. Parents bestow a complex inheritance. We carry it into adulthood, sifting, sorting, weaving new narratives.

Children do not remain children forever. Yet the child’s vantage lingers, especially when we face stress or wonder. In such moments, we revert to that early stance: we see the world as big, ourselves as small. We look for guidance. We seek fatherly or motherly comfort in religion, mentors, or even celebrities. We want a big hand to hold. We want a face that nods approval. The memory of how we once turned to Mom or Dad remains. We chase that lost feeling. That pursuit can lead to illusions or growth. Sometimes both.

When I reflect on everything, I see that my childhood shaped my adult identity. Those moments in the kitchen, the driveway, the living room, and the backyard formed me. My parents exercised power in miniature. They governed my dawn. They taught me how to walk, talk, and think. I carry their voices in my head, for better or worse. The mother’s songs echo in my adult quiet. The father’s stern lectures surface when I face dilemmas. I can rewrite, but the original script is theirs.

This truth unites us all. Every adult was once a child. Every child sees parents as mighty forces. Then we age. We discover their flaws. We accept or reject their teachings. We build upon their worldview or discard it. The cycle repeats when we become parents ourselves. Our kids stand in awe, while we scramble to appear wise. The comedic loop spins across generations, each new child idolizing uncertain adults.

Childhood ends, but the imprint remains. That is the hidden power. It sets the trajectory. Each adult carries remnants of the child’s illusions, hopes, and fears. Each adult either continues or challenges the lessons from that early domain. The child’s perspective never vanishes fully. It whispers inside. It reminds us that we once believed in perfect guardians. We once obeyed their words as cosmic law. Then reality taught us otherwise.

Life is messy. Parents are messy. Children adapt. We form our adult ways by weaving parental threads with our personal discoveries. We measure them against new truths. We shape the future generation while remembering the past. That is how power in miniature operates. It invests colossal authority in those early years, then echoes forever.

That child inside me sees my parents in a softer light now. I understand they tried. They had flaws. They loved me. They stumbled. They taught me well in some areas and poorly in others. I hold them accountable, yet I see them with compassion. They were once small too. They faced their own giant figures. Their illusions shattered. They did their best, or at least they tried. I glean the lessons, forging a balanced adult identity.

Childhood shaped me. The adult I am reflects that seed. The journey from cradle to grownup is never simple. We each carry our own scars and gifts. In the end, it is power in miniature. It is the father’s heavy voice, the mother’s gentle lullaby, the arguments and the jokes, the dinner table rules, the late-night prayers, the sudden tears, the forced smiles, the grounded weekends, the proud claps, the silent pleas. All of that merges into who I become.

I can move forward with a clearer vision. I see them as humans. I see myself as shaped by them yet free to shape my next steps. My illusions about parental perfection fade. I might keep a piece of that memory, though, because a child’s wonder holds beauty. I harness it to remain curious. I remain open to learning, to asking questions, to forging a life that blends old and new. That is the gift of childhood. It lays a foundation for the adult, even when cracks appear. I step on that foundation, a little wobbly, but ready to build upward.

By Noel | Fowklaw