19/08/2025
“No two children grow up in the same home. Even with the same parents.”
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I heard something today that felt like someone quietly rearranged the furniture in my soul.
Gabor Maté, in a conversation with Mel Robbins on her podcast, said:
“No two children grow up in the same home. Even with the same parents.”
And he’s right.
By the time each child is born, the people raising them have already changed.
A father may be softer now, or more guarded.
A mother may be freer, or more worn.
The marriage may be blooming… or quietly cracking.
Money might be scarce, or finally enough to breathe.
And then there’s *us*—the children.
We come with different hearts, different fears, different ways of hearing the same words.
One child feels loved in the quiet; another feels abandoned in it.
One thrives under structure; another wilts.
The same hug, the same house, the same parents—yet completely different worlds.
It made me think about the stories we carry.
How we assume we all lived the same childhood because we shared a roof.
But we didn’t.
We were each raised by a different version of our parents… a version shaped by time, by trials, by joy, by fatigue.
And maybe part of growing up - truly growing up - is making peace with this.
To forgive the versions of our parents who couldn’t give more.
To honor the versions who somehow gave anyway.
And to understand that the love was real, even when it looked nothing alike.
Because love isn’t static.
It’s a living thing—changing, faltering, blooming—just like the people who give it.
