the glass child

"The childhood shows the man, as morning shows the day." ― John Milton

It is touching that we live in a world where we have learnt to be so kind to children. It would be even kinder if we learnt to be more generous towards the childlike parts of one another.

~School of Life Kindness Deck

Words can be sparks, igniting wildfires of memory. A year ago, I penned an essay that excavated the child within. It was an exploration of how the echoes of our youngest years reverberate through the chambers of our adult hearts.

Our formative experiences are alchemists, transmuting fleeting moments into lifelong lenses. Childhood memories — radiant with joy or shadowed by pain — don't merely fade into the mists of time. They become the very glass through which we perceive our world, tinting every interaction, every decision, every emotion with their indelible hues.

Revisiting this theme, I’m struck by the gravity of those early years, the weight they carry even as we stride into adulthood. The child within us isn't just a relic of the past; it’s a living, breathing part of our present selves, deserving acknowledgment, perhaps even reverence.

And suddenly, I’m there again —

I’m in the backseat of my grandmother’s car, a six-year-old island in a sea of adult decisions. The murmur of grown-up voices filters through locked doors and rolled-up windows, incomprehensible yet world-shattering. My small body thrashes against the confines of the seat, of childhood itself. Sobs wrack my chest, each one a plea: Let me out. Let me run. Let me escape this moment of devastating understanding. It’ll be another month before I see my parents, eternity. And I’ll only have two fleeting days with my grandmother, a cruel taste of comfort before being shuttled back to my aunt. In this moment, my universe contracts to a single, crushing realization: life will never be the same.

Don’t let the ‘90s bedding distract from my cute lil bob!

---

For 4½ years, I was the sun of my family’s universe. My grandfather crafted miniature furniture for my dolls; my grandmother’s hands lovingly sewed my world into perfection. It was a childhood tailored just for me.

Then came Drew, his entrance marked not by joyous cries, but by a chilling silence. His blue complexion spoke volumes before any doctor could. Within moments, he was torn from my mother and rushed to a distant hospital, leaving a void of uncertainty. I can only imagine my mother’s anguish — alone, grappling with the news of her newborn receiving “last rites.”

Our family’s axis tilted. The diagnosis: a congenital heart defect. And I, in my childhood innocence, remained blissfully unaware of the storm engulfing us.

Boston’s Children’s Hospital became our new center of gravity — well, minus me. As my parents tended to Drew's critical needs, I drifted, shuffled between well-meaning relatives whose homes felt alien and unsettling. I was an outsider in my own life, each day a stark reminder of the divide between my idyllic past and this new reality.

Months blurred together, punctuated only by long stretches of absence from my parents and beloved grandparents. With adult eyes, I now understand the necessity of our separation, the impossible choices my parents faced, and the overwhelming grief that consumed them. The hands that raised me in their absence were a godsend, even if my younger self couldn't appreciate it.

But understanding wouldn’t come until later.

In those early days, I met their returns with glacial silence. I can still see myself turning away as my mother ran towards me at the airport. And my father still talks about the wordless days that followed. (Icing out remains my default when feeling neglected — my chilly core intact.)

Jealousy twisted my young heart, leading to moments of cruelty. Once, I pulled my sleeping brother's hair as he peacefully slept in his crib. He wailed and my mother confronted me, she’d seen me on the baby monitor. I lied and exclaimed, “he started it!” I was in pain, silently screaming for help, but neither of us could see it.

And the times when they weren’t in Boston brought little comfort. Our home buzzed with well-wishers who orbited the new sun, bearing food and promising prayers. I knew they weren't there for me; their ornate gifts were all for him. The unspoken message seemed clear: “Entertain yourself, Caroline.”

These wounds carved deep channels in my psyche. Now, I obsessively ensure no child feels overlooked, a testament to scars long healed but never forgotten.

But as I write this, shame and regret wash over me. I’m sorry, Mom and Dad. I’m sorry, Drew. I love you. I always did. Yet, I remind myself: I was just a child, grappling with a reality far beyond my understanding. All I knew was that a blue-tinged baby was the epicenter of my upended world.

A therapist once introduced me to the concept of a “glass child” — a term that resonated deeply. Glass children are those who grow up with a sibling requiring disproportionate parental attention. We’re “glass” for two reasons: we appear strong (emphasis on appear) and when our overwhelmed parents looked at us, they often looked through our needs rather than seeing them. This results in us maturing far quicker than anyone intends. My mom was occupied with the critical task of packing my brother’s open chest wound, she couldn't play on the floor with me. So, I adapted. I transformed into the most mature child imaginable, constantly praised for my “adult” behavior.

While this story isn’t unique, and many families have faced greater hardships, I've recently become acutely aware of how my brother's early years profoundly shaped me. This realization crystallized unexpectedly while watching a documentary about service dogs. Specifically, a scene of a young girl, an older sister like me, being told that the new family dog wasn’t for her but for her ill brother. It broke me. In her crestfallen face, I saw my own reflection — the familiar ache of being sidelined. I longed to tell her, and my younger self, “You’ve been so good, so quiet, so strong. You deserve that puppy too.” I wanted to explain how deeply these events rewired us and how we’ll both need grace and space for rediscovery.

///

As the “well” sibling, my role was to accept, to understand, to fade into the background. Life’s currents swept over me, my individuality submerged beneath the weight of family crisis. Even if I'd tried to assert myself, there were no eyes to see, no ears to hear — all attention rightfully focused on my brother's survival.

Today, I stand transformed — shaped by Drew’s presence, our family's journey, and my parents’ unyielding devotion to us. Yet, I’ve come to understand that acknowledging the jagged edges of our past isn’t just acceptable — it's essential. Our collective regrets and unspoken pains are as much a part of our story as our triumphs. We navigated uncharted waters, propelled by love and anguish, doing our best with what we had.

And as I continue to unravel these experiences, I find myself reaching back through time, extending a hand to the child I once was. I’m reclaiming the wildness of youth, embracing the frivolity I once abandoned. That little girl inside me, who grew up too fast, is being permitted to play, to experiment, to simply be.

This journey — with its valleys of challenge and peaks of growth — is an ongoing odyssey. As I stand at this waypoint, looking back at the path I’ve traveled and forward to the road ahead, I’m overwhelmed by a profound sense of gratitude.

For the hardships that forged me.

For the love that sustained me.

For the wisdom I've gained.

For the child within, finally heard.

Most of all, for Drew.

In the end, perhaps true kindness isn't just about being gentle with children, but about nurturing the child that lives on in each of us — vulnerable, resilient, and eternally worthy of compassion.