The Perfect Little Me: Discovering Myself in the City
Sometimes, it’s best to stop seeking advice and discover things for yourself.
When I was eight years old, my family made the big move to the city. At that age, I believed that city boys would be much cooler than me. I felt isolated in my thoughts and had already given up before setting foot in this new territory.
About 6 months prior to our move, my elder brother’s school went on an excursion to the very city we would soon call home. My mom had relocated there due to a job opportunity a year before the rest of us joined her.
The news we received from my brother's excursion was that, according to his interpretation, "all the kids in the city are super smart and cool." When my mom came to move me and my younger sister, my brother sat me down and asked, "Are you sure you can cope with the kids in the city?" He painted a picture of them being super intelligent and eloquent. But here I was, the little kid who only spoke his local dialect well and only had a smattering of English that was barely understandable.
My mind raced like a caffeinated squirrel, and the excitement I should have felt about the upcoming journey turned into anxiety. I feared that I wouldn't be accepted by the city kids and that I would live a lonely life there. My brother's words fueled this fear so well that I almost declined the move with my mom, wanting to wait until my dad's relocation.
Upon arriving in the city, I encountered a different reality, one that made me question what my brother had told me about city kids. We arrived in the city late at night, and the next morning, I stepped out of the house to witness a scene different from the familiar, stuffy old village view. I saw kids playing around, and I watched from a distance, pondering how cool my brother had said they were and how uncool I felt in comparison.
As is often the case with kids, they soon noticed the new kid in the neighborhood and began approaching one by one. Before the day ended, we were already hanging out together, but I carefully measured my words, not wanting to embarrass myself. My brother's advice had made me believe they were cool and eloquent, so I didn't want to say anything that would make them think less of me.
Most of the notions I brought from the village turned out to be incorrect, and the kids were not as perfect as my brother had described them. This realization eased my anxiety, but the idea that city kids were cooler than me lingered in my subconscious, awakening the “perfect little me" that was asleep. I did everything to avoid mistakes, donning the mask of a fearless kid, attempting to be cool and fit in, constantly reminding myself that they were cooler than I was, so I had to act cool.
I made every effort to blend in and avoid mistakes that might lead to their rejection. This marked my first experience riding the "bandwagon." Perfectionism became a little companion, and I would chastise myself over the slightest errors. Though this feeling eventually subsided as I became accustomed to city life, the voice of perfectionism still occasionally tingled in the background.
That experience did two things to me: it turned me into a perfectionist, which is frustrating, but it also motivated me to work on myself to the point where I became a role model for other kids in the neighborhood. However, dealing with perfectionism is highly individualized. I both dislike the lingering need for perfection, but appreciate how it challenged me to grow and improve.
My greatest advantage during this journey was having parents who provided a safe space for us to share our feelings, even the weirdest ones. They made us feel comfortable sharing anything and offered a listening ear and support to help us through challenging moments. My dad, in particular, wouldn't just pat us on the back with empathy; he engaged us in conversations that put us at ease and guided us to find solutions to our problems. He was playful, and we often played and joked together so much that some people mistook him for my brother instead of my dad. When people asked, "Is he your dad or your brother?" I would just chuckle and say ‘my dad of course!’ and the inevitable follow-up question was, "And he plays so much with you?" My response was simple: "Why not? He's my dad, not my boss!"
Growing up, kids navigate through turbulent waters, and the best support they can have for a calm journey begins at home, well before seeking external support. A lot of kids resort to undesirable behaviors sometimes because nobody gave them a listening ear or the right space to communicate their true feelings.
