I Thought It Was Normal

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my childhood. About things that, at the time, felt normal. Just part of growing up. Just “the way things were.”

But looking back now… I see it differently.

Discipline, in our house, didn’t look like conversations. Or understanding. Or being guided through things. It looked like smacks. The wooden spoon.

It looked like fear.

If we were arguing with each other, dad would grab one of us by each ear and knock our heads together to “knock sense into us.”

And you didn’t question it. You didn’t cry too loudly. You didn’t push back. Because that would only make it worse.

The scariest words you could hear were: “Wait until your dad gets home.” Everything in you would drop. Because you knew what that meant. You knew what was coming.

Mum would never do the physical punishing. And in some ways, that made it worse. Because it meant waiting. All day. Sitting with it. Thinking about it. Feeling that slow build of dread that didn’t go away. You couldn’t move on. You couldn’t reset. It just sat there, hanging over you. And by the time dad got home, it was never calm.

He’d been at work all day. Tired. Irritated. Already carrying whatever his day had been. So when he walked through the door and had to deal with us - it was heavier. Harsher. It wasn’t just about what we’d done anymore. It felt like everything came out in that moment.

And you could feel that. Even as a child. That it wasn’t just discipline. It was frustration. Exhaustion. Something bigger than you. Which somehow made it even scarier.

If we were out in public and started “misbehaving,”  it didn’t need to be loud. It didn’t need to be obvious. A hand would grab yours. Squeeze it so tight you could almost feel it pop. And that was enough. That was the warning. That was the moment you knew - this isn’t over. You’d go quiet. Still. Careful. Because the real discipline was waiting for you at home.

And then there was church. We were expected to sit still. Be quiet. Behave. And if we didn’t? Dad would quietly pick us up, carry us out of the main hall. From the outside, it probably looked like a parent handling things calmly. Removing a child who was being disruptive. We’d come back in a few minutes later. Red-faced. Teary-eyed. But completely still. Completely silent. Not daring to step out of line again.

What no one saw was what happened in the hallway. The walloping. What looked like “good discipline”  was actually fear doing its job.

And that’s the part that’s hard to sit with now. Because as a child, you don’t question it. You don’t have anything to compare it to. You just assume - this is normal. This is what discipline is. This is what happens when you get it wrong.

But now, looking back… It doesn’t feel normal. It feels heavy. It feels like being controlled through fear rather than understanding. Like learning to behave not because you understood right from wrong, but because you were scared of what would happen if you didn’t.

And that stays with you. It shows up in how you react to conflict. How you respond to authority. How quickly fear kicks in when you feel like you’ve done something wrong. It shows up in the way your body remembers before your mind has even caught up. Because it wasn’t just discipline. It was the feeling that came with it.

The anticipation. The waiting. The dread of what was coming next. And that doesn’t just disappear because you grow up.

And I see it now, in a different way. When I’m around my nieces and nephews. I don’t really have a relationship with them. But something in me softens when they misbehave. Because I recognise it. Not as something bad. Just… something human. But then I hear it. Dad, almost proudly, telling them how he would smack us if we dared behave like that.

And most of the time, it wasn’t even big behaviour. It wasn’t anything extreme. It was saying no. It was crying. It was not liking the food on our plate. It was being a child. And hearing that now… it does something to me. Because I know what that felt like. I know the fear behind those words. I know the weight they carry. And part of me just feels… sad. For them.

Because I wonder if they’ll grow up thinking the same things I did. That their feelings are wrong. That their reactions are too much. That making a mistake means something bad is coming. That love and fear sit too close together.

I think that’s the hardest part. Realising that what felt normal was actually something I had to survive. And realising how easily it could repeat itself without anyone questioning it.

But I’m questioning it now. I’m seeing it clearly. And maybe that’s where it starts. Not pretending it was okay. Not brushing it off as “just how it was.” But acknowledging it. Feeling it. Understanding it. And finally saying - that wasn’t normal. That wasn’t okay.