I was in the middle of an online meeting when my seven-year-old son walked into the room, holding a drawing he had made. It was a portrait of our family, and there I was — sitting in front of the computer, as always. Not looking at him. Not smiling. Just… there.
When the meeting ended, I looked at that drawing for a long time. And something inside me broke in a necessary way. I had read dozens of books about productivity, conscious parenting, work-life balance. I had taken courses, listened to podcasts, written down strategies. But in that moment, facing a simple child’s drawing, I realized: I didn’t need to learn anything more. I needed to unlearn almost everything.
The Invisible Inheritance We Carry
Growing up with performance pressure
I grew up in a generation where success had a very clear formula: get good grades, excel in sports, pass college entrance exams, get a good job, build a solid career. My parents — like so many others of their time — believed this was the path to a safe and fulfilled life. And I don’t blame them. They were doing the best they knew how with the tools they had.
But this inheritance came with a silent price: I learned early on that my worth was directly tied to my achievements. A failing grade wasn’t just a low mark — it was a personal failure. Losing a sports competition wasn’t just a defeat in the game — it was confirmation that I hadn’t tried hard enough. There was always a sense of “not good enough” hovering over any result that wasn’t excellent.
Carrying childhood patterns into adulthood
This programming followed me into adulthood without questioning. Naturally, I transferred the same logic to work and, eventually, to motherhood. If I wasn’t constantly producing, achieving, proving my worth, then what was I? The question haunted me, but I never stopped long enough to really listen to it.
When Accumulating Knowledge Became My Armor
For years, I believed that the answer to being a better mother, a more competent professional, a more fulfilled person, lay in accumulating more information. More time management techniques, more educational methods, more self-awareness tools. More courses on raising emotionally intelligent children. More strategies for being productive without sacrificing family. More, more, more.
The endless search for the perfect solution
I collected solutions like someone assembling a puzzle that never completes. Each new book brought the promise that, finally, I would discover the secret to balancing everything perfectly. Each workshop offered the definitive technique that would solve my performance anxiety.
The problem wasn’t the pursuit of knowledge itself. It was what I was using this search to hide: the deep fear of stopping, looking inward, and questioning the beliefs I had built about what it meant to be “good enough.” The relentless search for more information was, in fact, an escape from having to confront the emptiness I felt when I wasn’t producing something measurable.
Sharing an ongoing journey
Here at personalorb.com, I share my journey of personal growth and the healing alternatives I’ve been exploring — not as ready-made formulas, but as honest experiments from someone who is still learning. And one of the most difficult discoveries has been this: sometimes, growing means emptying out, not filling up.
What It Means to Unlearn (And Why It Hurts So Much)
Unlearning is not forgetting. It’s something much more conscious and, I confess, uncomfortable. Looking at mental patterns you’ve cultivated for years — some inherited from childhood, others built as survival mechanisms — requires the courage to question: “Does this still serve who I’m becoming?”
The beliefs I had to release
For me, the process began with painful recognitions:
The belief that being a good mother meant always being professionally available. I thought I needed to prove that having a son didn’t diminish my work capacity. So I accepted more work, took on more projects, answered emails at midnight. My son saw a mother physically present but absent in every other sense. Unlearning this meant accepting that boundaries aren’t weakness — they’re self-care and, ironically, the best example I can give him.
The habit of measuring my worth by the number of things I could accomplish in a day. Productivity became my identity. “Unproductive” days made me feel guilty, even when those days were for rest, playing with my son, or simply existing without producing anything tangible. I had to relearn that my worth isn’t in what I deliver to the world, but in who I am when no one is measuring. This relearning took time and patience.
The idea that I needed to have all the answers before acting. At work, I postponed decisions waiting for absolute certainty. In motherhood, I read one more book, consulted one more “expert,” hoping to find THE perfect method for every situation. But life doesn’t wait for certainties, and learning to detach from what no longer serves me has been fundamental to moving forward with more lightness and authenticity.
The need to be perfect to be loved. This was perhaps the deepest and most painful belief to unlearn. Those demands from childhood — for impeccable grades, for exemplary athletic performance — had taught me that love and approval were conditional. That I needed to earn affection through achievements. Unlearning this meant accepting that I can be loved on my worst days, in my mistakes, in my imperfect humanity.
The Practices That Helped Me Unlearn
There’s no manual for dismantling beliefs you’ve carried your whole life. My journey wasn’t linear — it still isn’t — and probably never will be. But some alternatives I’ve been exploring have made a real difference in my daily life:
Questioning automatic patterns
I began observing my automatic behaviors, especially in moments of stress. Why did I always say “yes” to more work? Why did guilt follow every moment of rest? Why did I replicate with my son the same performance pressure I received from my parents, even knowing the weight it carried? Each “why” opened a door to new understandings about myself.
Creating rituals of presence
Instead of seeking more productivity, I began seeking more presence. I turned off notifications at specific times. I created a half-hour ritual before bed just to talk with my son — no phone, no “problem-solving,” just being there, listening about his day, about his fears and dreams. Discomfort filled the beginning. My mind screamed the list of “more important” things I could be doing. But gradually, I realized there’s nothing more important than this.
Experimenting with error as a learning tool
At work, I started testing different approaches, even without guaranteed success. In motherhood, I allowed myself not to know and to learn alongside my son. Being the mother who makes mistakes, who apologizes, who changes her mind — I gave myself this permission. Each “it didn’t work” stopped being failure and became valuable information about who I am and who I’m becoming.
Writing to process emotions
Writing shifted from finding immediate solutions to giving space to contradictions. I write about times when I was an impatient mother, along with projects that didn’t work out, and days when I feel completely lost. This space of radical honesty with myself has been deeply healing and liberating.
Talking openly with my son
I started sharing with him, in age-appropriate ways, my own doubts and learnings. This became part of our relationship. When I make mistakes, genuine apologies follow. When I don’t know something, I admit it easily. I’m trying to break the cycle of perfection I learned, showing him that being human is infinitely more valuable than being perfect.
The Paradox That Continues to Transform Me
Here’s what I discovered: the more I unlearn, the lighter I become. And the lighter I become, the more space opens up to truly learn — not empty information or techniques disconnected from my reality, but wisdom that comes from genuinely lived experience.
What’s different now
Today, when my son draws me, sometimes I’m still at the computer. But now other images appear too: beside him at the park, making paper airplanes. In the kitchen, making a monumental mess trying to make pancakes. Simply sitting on the living room floor, building block cities, without thinking about tomorrow’s deadline or the email I need to answer.
Mistakes still happen. Days still come when guilt presses in and the internal voice whispers that I’m not doing enough, that I should be achieving more, producing more, being more. But now I understand clearly: growth isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about having the courage to ask the right questions and allowing yourself to change the answers as life transforms and transforms us along with it.
An Invitation to Your Own Journey
If you’re here at personalorb.com, the search for growth, healing, and self-knowledge likely brought you here. Maybe you also carry heavy beliefs about who you should be. Maybe you also grew up hearing that love is earned through performance. Maybe you’ve also accumulated so many inherited “truths” that no room is left to breathe and discover your own.
Questions to ask yourself
What do you need to unlearn today? Where do you feel stuck, even though you have enough knowledge? What demands from childhood do you still carry as if they were yours, when in reality they’re echoes from another time, other voices, other expectations?
The answer won’t come from one more book or one more miraculous technique. It will come from within, when you have the courage to honestly look at the patterns you repeat without questioning, at the beliefs you automatically defend, at the old versions of yourself you continue carrying out of habit or fear of discovering who you really are without them.
The courage to be imperfect
Unlearning requires deep vulnerability. It requires accepting that you don’t need to have everything figured out. It requires the willingness to be imperfect, confused, contradictory — and still completely valuable. This willingness opens the door to real transformation.
That day, facing my son’s drawing, wasn’t the day I found all the answers. It was the day I had the courage to question the questions I’d been asking myself for decades. And that changed everything.
An ongoing process
This process continues. Every day, in different ways, I choose to empty out a little more so I can fill myself with what truly matters. It’s not easy, it’s not linear, and it’s definitely not perfect. But it’s real. And it’s mine. And that, finally, is enough.
And you, what have you realized you need to unlearn to keep growing? Share in the comments — this space is ours, and we grow together when we have the courage to be honest about our imperfect journeys.