Do We Ever Stop Being Children?
Working with our inner child
I am currently on my way back home after spending a week in Toronto, catching up with friends and family. Some of my most cherished moments were getting to spend time with my friends’ children, some as young as two months old.
For me, there is something profoundly hopeful about babies and young children. I hold the belief that all humans are born inherently good, so to be in their presence feels like one of the most honest forms of mindfulness. They are not performing, not filtering, not yet shaped by the layers of protection we learn over time. They simply are.
During our recent Yoga Teacher Training, my co-teacher Ally invited us to go to the place within us where there is no suffering. My mind immediately went to babies. Not because they don’t experience pain as of course they do, but because suffering, in the psychological sense, is something that develops over time. It is shaped by meaning-making, by unmet needs, by disconnection.
In that moment, I found myself connecting to a younger version of me the one that existed before suffering took root.
Being around so many children got my therapist brain thinking: when do we stop viewing one another as children? And I don’t mean in the literal sense.
From a developmental perspective, childhood isn’t a single moment we “grow out of.” Early childhood (roughly ages 0–5) is when our nervous system is being shaped most rapidly. It’s when we learn whether the world is safe, whether our needs will be met, and whether we are worthy of care. Middle childhood (6–12) is when social awareness expands, and we begin forming beliefs about ourselves in relation to others. Adolescence then brings identity formation, emotional intensity, and a still-developing capacity for regulation.
And importantly, our brains particularly the prefrontal cortex responsible for impulse control, emotional regulation, and decision-making isn’t fully developed until our mid-20s. So glad I didn’t those angel wings tattooed on my back when I was 18.
So while we may legally or culturally define adulthood much earlier, parts of us are still catching up. Parts of us are still young.
This is where inner child work can be such a powerful therapeutic lens. It invites us to connect with the younger parts of ourselves the parts that hold unmet needs, early wounds, and also our capacity for joy, curiosity, and play. It asks: What did you need then that you didn’t receive? And then gently: Can you offer some of that to yourself now?
In many therapeutic approaches the “inner child” isn’t just a metaphor. It reflects how early experiences are encoded in the body and nervous system. When we get triggered as adults, it is often not just our present-day self reacting, but younger parts of us that learned, long ago, how to survive.
So from one point of view, many of us are walking around as adults on the outside, while younger parts within us are still longing to be seen, soothed, and understood.
Which brings me back to the question: what could be possible if we continued to see each other, first, as children?
Is it realistic? Maybe not all the time. But is it helpful? I think, sometimes, yes.
I notice this most clearly in moments of frustration. I would never get mad at a toddler for being overstimulated and melting down in an airport. And yet, I can feel irritation rise when an adult in front of me is having what looks like a similar “crash out” over their carry-on not fitting in the overhead bin.
Why is that?
Part of me expects that, as adults, we should have the tools to regulate ourselves. But the truth is I don’t know their story. I don’t know what they experienced as a child. I don’t know if they were ever taught how to name their emotions, how to self-soothe, or how to feel safe in their own body.
A few weeks ago, we went to a talk with Gabor Maté, and this perspective was echoed so clearly in his work. He speaks often about addiction not as a choice or a moral failing, but as a response to pain. His question is not “Why the addiction?” but “Why the pain?”
In his years working in Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside, he saw again and again that many individuals struggling with addiction had histories of significant childhood trauma abuse, sexual assault, neglect and loss. Substances, in this light, become a form of coping, a way to soothe what was never soothed.
Maté’s work is deeply rooted in compassion. And it is not as a passive acceptance of harmful behaviour, but as an active willingness to understand the origins of it. He often emphasizes that compassion allows us to see the human being beneath the behaviour, without denying the impact of that behaviour.
And this is where the nuance lives.
Because compassion does not mean the absence of boundaries. It does not mean tolerating harm. And it does not replace accountability.
It means we can hold two truths at once:
That someone’s behaviour may be shaped by deep, early pain and that we are still allowed to protect ourselves from the impact of that behaviour.
There’s been an online trend around motherhood that says, “it’s also their first time being on this planet.” It’s often shared as a way to extend compassion toward parents to recognize that they, too, are learning as they go.
And I think there is truth in that.
But at the same time, we are also seeing more conversations about estrangement, about adult children going no-contact with their parents. And that, too, holds truth.
I see the nuance. I think each person’s circumstances are vastly different, and there will never be a one-size-fits-all answer.
For myself, when I have the capacity, I try to remember that the adults around me were once small children and in many ways, still are. If I can meet them with a bit more curiosity, a bit more softness, sometimes something shifts.
But I also know that I don’t always have the capacity for that. I can access it more easily in my role as a therapist. I don’t know what it would be like if I were in close relationship with someone who was actively harming me, an addict partner, or a neglectful or emotionally abusive parent. In those cases, this lens might not feel safe or accessible.
And that’s why being honest with ourselves about our capacity is so important.
One of my spiritual teachers often reminds me: do the work, and then step back. You can’t do it for someone else.
Part of my work right now is practicing seeing the inner child in others. Not to excuse behaviour, but to soften my own reactivity when it’s available to me.
You can always start with yourself. I often encourage clients to change their background screen to a photo of their younger selves, or their partner as a young child too. It can be these small shifts that can open up a bit more understanding when you need it.
And if that doesn’t feel accessible to you, that’s okay too.