Unlearning the Rules That Kept You Small

There’s a set of rules you’ve been living by—some you know, some buried so deep you mistake them for truth. Maybe you don’t even remember where they started. Maybe they sound like your mother’s voice, your third-grade teacher, your first heartbreak, your old church, the way your father sighed when you spoke too loud or took up too much space.

These rules are sneaky. Don’t be too much. Don’t rock the boat. Don’t want more than you’re given. Don’t need. Don’t outshine. Don’t rest. Don’t get messy. Don’t trust your gut. Don’t speak out of turn. Don’t fail, and for the love of all things, don’t ever make anyone uncomfortable.

For a while, these rules kept you safe—or at least, they kept you accepted, which can feel the same when you’re young and vulnerable. You learned to read the room. You learned to shrink and apologize for your existence before anyone could ask you to. You learned that fitting in sometimes means leaving parts of yourself at the door.

But then life happens. You get tired—bone-deep tired—of feeling caged in your own skin. You notice the ache, the resentment, the sense that you’re living a story written by someone else’s pen. You start to question: Who made these rules? Why do I keep following them when they make me miserable?

Unlearning is messy. It’s not a simple process of deleting old files. These rules are stitched into your nervous system, your habits, the way your voice wavers when you ask for what you need. Sometimes unlearning feels like betrayal—of your upbringing, your culture, your family’s legacy. Sometimes it feels like freedom and terror rolled into one.

So how do you begin to unlearn?

First: You notice the rule in action. Maybe it’s the way you downplay your achievements or swallow your anger. Maybe it’s in the apology that slips out when you take up space or say no. Maybe it’s how you flinch when someone praises you, or how you rush to fill the silence in a room.

Second: You trace it back. Who taught me this rule? Was it spoken, or just shown by example? What did it cost me to obey? What did I gain?

Third: You question its authority. Is this rule serving who I am now? Or just who I had to be to survive then? What might open up if I broke it—just a little?

Fourth: You practice breaking it. Tiny acts of rebellion. Speaking up when your voice shakes. Letting yourself rest, even if the world keeps spinning. Celebrating yourself without waiting for permission. Choosing what feels true, even if it’s inconvenient, even if you’re misunderstood.

Unlearning is an act of reclamation. You’re not erasing your history; you’re choosing to become the author. You’re gathering up the parts of you that learned to hide—your wildness, your softness, your hunger, your joy—and saying, You get to come home now. You get to stay.

It takes time. Sometimes you’ll falter. Sometimes you’ll wish you could go back to not knowing. But every time you break an old rule and survive, your world gets a little bigger. Your self-trust grows. The voice that once whispered, “Don’t,” now says, “Try.” The cage opens, and you realize you were holding the key all along.

You are not here to be small. You’re here to take up your rightful space, to live out loud, to break the rules that no longer fit. Let them go. Write new ones.

With you—loud, unapologetic, and beautifully unfinished,

Sarah