Observation, Parenting, and Becoming Real

There’s something magical about observation. In physics, the very act of observing a system forces it to collapse from a state of infinite possibilities into a single reality. This idea—so profound and strange—feels equally applicable to the inner workings of our minds. I am coming to understand that observation has power that can’t be overstated. It is only through observation that we can begin to understand the strange totality that is “us” or “me”; and only by understanding ourselves, or being understood, can we begin to truly exist.

I’ve read many thinkpieces (and a modest handful of books), watched many YouTube videos, and attempted to comprehend many psycho-spiritual tools that seek different ways to fragment the self—to best break you down into pieces for the mind to understand. The ancient Greeks seemed to prefer the two opposing forces of heart versus mind (or, relatedly, the right versus left hemispheres of the brain), people will draw borders between many combinations of the Body, Heart, and Mind (or Flesh, Soul, and Spirit) from spiritual tradition, there is Freud’s Id, Ego, and Superego, the Social Self vs. True Self (Donald Winnicott), the forces of Yin and Yang, the Enneagram of Personality, and Jung’s Cognitive Functions. Many, many more of these theories exist. While I admit this may be a personal failing of mine, I have been having trouble tangibly applying these principles to arrive at a stable sense of self since I was a teenager.

Recently, though, I think I have stumbled upon a delineation that my intuition can really bite into. I can divide myself neatly (mostly—I’ll get to this later) into two parts; the watchful, logical part of me that evaluates and guides, and the instinctive, emotional, and tangible part of me that simply acts. I’ve come to see these two parts as my “parent” and my “child.” The parent is my frontal cortex, the part of me that seeks to protect, to correct, and is concerned with logic, morality, and matters of right and wrong. The parent is conscious, and when I say “me”, that’s normally what I’m referring to. The child is everything else—my body, my subconscious mind, my autonomous nervous system, my feelings, my impulses, my learned behaviors, and my irrational loves and fears.

For a long time, my inner parent (which I’ll henceforth use interchangeably with “me”) was a helicopter; classically overbearing and judgmental. I was always ready to step in and correct my child, to micromanage her every move. And while I thought this was the way to become “better,” (and I do admit, this was effective to a point) what I was really doing was stifling her, talking down to her, and insulting her intelligence and inherent beauty and goodness. I didn’t trust her, I didn’t really even like her all that much, and she knew it. Over time, she stopped expressing herself freely, or (often destructively) expressed herself only in the times and places where I was too preoccupied or checked-out to notice or care. I do not blame her for this. The innocence of a child, even the very fabric that makes up a child, is fragile; children can be hurt, and sometimes irreparably so. It is with great sorrow that I think back to the years where all my child saw from her caregiver was the reflection of the world’s judgment. 

Recently (and slowly), after many years of grappling with trust and confidence in myself, I’ve started to parent differently. I’ve decided that in most situations, it is better to observe, rather than interfere. To cultivate a kind, watchful eye over myself—not to grasp desperately and control, but to guide gently, slowly, and iteratively, with many words of love and encouragement. I’ve learned to trust that my child knows what she’s doing most of the time (she is 26 now, after all), and that she needs freedom to explore, to play, and yes, to make mistakes. 

This shift has been transformative for me. It feels as though my child can breathe for the first time in years, and the result has been astonishing. She’s witty without trying. She can be bold. She’s capable of handling situations that the parent brain used to think she couldn’t manage without its constant supervision. By giving her the freedom to be herself, I’ve discovered parts of me that I didn’t know existed—parts that are effortlessly strong, resilient, and joyful. I even recognize now that most of the words that come out of my mouth are not actually mine—they’re hers. It is also only through this process that I have been able to cultivate true belief in anything, because without the tangible experience of falling down, getting hurt, and getting back up again, everything that I thought may be true about myself, my true, child self, remained painfully untested. 

I can’t shake a sense that no facet of a child is real until someone lays eyes on it. While I’m learning to be a better parent, and I can (and must) be the main person to guide her self-actualization, I am certainly not perfect. The idea-land of the parental frontal cortex is beholden to its inner logical model of the world, and blind spots in one person’s individual logical framework are unavoidable. Much like a child needs friends and playmates and a community for proper development, there just seem to be some people on this planet that can see my child, flaws and all, with more acuity and in darker places than I have ever been able to muster. While this process is not always pleasant, please, cherish and love the people who can see your child in the ways that you cannot, and trust and care for you enough to help fill in your gaps. 

One night, recently, I could tell I was swimming in a veritable soup of emotions. I had just returned home after a few wonderful, yet charged days—days with stakes, where I was navigating complex feelings, grappling with my sense of right and wrong, and pouring energy into steering my ship gracefully. It was a constant, delicate, joint negotiation between my parent and child. During these days, we undeniably and demonstrably worked very well together. I was writing in my journal at my kitchen table trying to process everything, and suddenly, the earth seemed to split in front of me. I turned off my judgemental brain, opened my eyes and senses to what was about to happen, and watched. 

Floodgates suddenly opened, accompanied by messy, heaving sobs and hiccups. I recall watching myself standing bent over a kitchen chair, crying into it like it was some kind of receptacle for years of pent up frustrations. I watched myself get up, pace around, lean back on the chair, reread what I had just written, shake my hands and body, and bawl some more. It was as though a panic-laden anger had erupted through me, the type that only comes out when something very precious to you is threatened. 

I knelt on my bed, and through cries, I found myself praying: to God, to the Universe, or whatever. I sat up, I bowed down, and sat up, and bowed down again. I whispered, “Make me….” The words caught in my throat, over and over, until I finally managed to choke them out: “With your blessing, make me real.” It was a full call to the divine light that I learned about in my Catholic upbringing to shine on every part of me. It was a desperate plea to be allowed to step fully into every present moment, flaws and all, and be illuminated. It was about overcoming cowardice and being trusting enough to let go of the masks and illusions. Of simply being allowed to exist, and to bask in truthful rays of your inner parent and others. Of surrendering to inner integration and feeling seen within yourself and in your close relationships. 

Being and feeling real certainly isn’t just about these big, dramatic moments. Sometimes, it’s as simple as taking the time to regularly sweep out the literal and metaphorical dark corners of your life. On that same night, after my prayer, I cleaned the space under my bed for the first time in ages. Dust and cobwebs, long ignored, were vacuumed up. It felt like a small act, but also a profound one. To be real, you must bravely face the things you’ve been avoiding; no numbness or dissociation to make it go down easier, and no shame or rage to punish or self-flagellate. You must commit to seeing the flaws and shortcomings clearly and compassionately—a necessary precursor to addressing them.

Quiet observation is the key to this process. It’s not about watching with a critical eye, but with a loving one. It’s about seeing yourself—your body, your actions, your emotions—not as something to be fixed, but as something to be understood. When you observe yourself with kindness and curiosity, you create space for growth. You collapse the infinite possibilities of who you could be into the truth of who you are. This, I think, is the relationship between observation and becoming real. It’s not always easy. Most of the time, for me anyway, it has been deeply uncomfortable. But the rewards are worth it. Because when you let go of control and simply observe, and simultaneously build the confidence to be observed, you can finally allow yourself to step into your own existence.