Where the Little Ones Hide

Cottage Children (The Wood Gatherers) by Thomas Gainsborough

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Sometimes, someone will tell me about a weekend that upset them — a word that felt sharpened, an argument that seemed unfair, or a silence that clung to them long after the moment was over.

And inside, I’m thinking,

There’s more here than what they’re saying.

Their response feels heavier than the moment calls for.

And I wonder — what part of them is really stirring?

So often, I’ll gently ask:

“How old did you feel in that moment?”

It’s a soft question. The kind you ask while the rain taps the windows and the dog shifts in her sleep by the fire. Because the truth is, when we get triggered or tangled up in big feelings, it’s rarely just about the moment we’re in.

More often, it’s about a moment from long ago, still echoing through the walls.

That’s what we call transference — though I don’t often use the word. It sounds too much like textbook talk for something so deeply human.

It’s what happens when an old hurt wakes up inside a new situation.

When someone forgets to reply and, suddenly, it feels like abandonment.

When your partner looks disappointed and you feel seven years old and not good enough.

We are like old cottages — layered and patched, full of history, with beams that hold stories, and small hidden rooms we haven't visited in a long time. The kind of places where the floorboards creak and sigh as if remembering all the feet that walked before.

We live in those rooms, even when we forget they’re there.

Some of us have a little version of ourselves living in the cupboard under the stairs —

still waiting for Mum to say sorry,

or Dad to turn around and hug us.

Still hoping someone will notice.

And when life gets loud, or love gets complicated, or someone uses that tone, little you rushes out and takes charge.

She’s the one who panics.

Or shouts.

Or freezes.

She’s the one who suddenly feels like she’s losing everything — when really, it was just a Saturday morning disagreement in the kitchen.

This is the heart of it.

Transference isn’t some rare psychological quirk. It’s just what happens when past and present blur. When your nervous system can’t quite tell the difference between now and then.

And if you don’t know she’s there — the little version of you — she’ll run the show.

That’s why I ask my clients how old they feel in difficult moments. Because once you spot her — the child or teenager or younger self inside you — you can meet her.

You can sit her down by the fire and say,

“You’re safe now. This is not then. I’ve got you.”

And that alone can change everything.

We don’t need to banish or silence her.

We don’t need to tell her off.

We just need to stop letting her drive the cart through the village at top speed every time someone forgets to say goodbye in the way that little us was longing for.

It’s tender work, this staying with ourselves.

But it’s the kind that rebuilds a life from the inside out.

And over time — slowly, quietly — she’ll trust you enough to rest.

She’ll curl up like a cat in a warm window.

She’ll stop shouting.

She'll stop panicking.

She'll stop self-sabotaging.

Because she’ll know you’re finally listening.

And that’s no magic.

It's not even theory, really.

It's just what happens when we remember that all the versions of us,

even the smallest ones,

are still here.