Candid Conversion Newsletter: Sitting in Limbo

On restraint, connection, and the long road to emotional clarity.

Childhood as Curriculum

“Eventually, you start calling that drive. Ambition. But sometimes, it’s just fear disguised as progress.”

—from The Vale of Existence

I grew up in a place most people would call small. But for me, it was a whole world. A world paced by fruit seasons, the first shift of the Trade Winds, and shaped by everything in between.

Easter meant kites. Homemade, paper and sticks, with tails that cut through the sky like they had somewhere urgent to be. Every time of year had its own rhythm. You learned the months by what ripened, not what the calendar said.

But freedom? That wasn’t part of the deal. I grew up under tight rules. Not the soft kind. The kind that arrive early and leave late. Limited play. Don’t talk to so-and-so. Don’t walk past that corner. Don’t be “too much,” whatever that meant.

You learn quick how to read a room when you grow up in a place like that. You get fluent in silence, in side-eyes, in the way someone clears their throat instead of telling you “no.”

And somehow, that turns into a kind of intelligence. Not the classroom kind. But the kind you earn by watching and adapting. You build awareness from the small stuff. From being told “don’t” and still finding your way to “maybe.”

Like swimming. Nobody in my family knew how. But I learned anyway, by sneaking off to the river with the other kids, pretending I wasn’t terrified. Trial and error. Dog paddle or sink.

We made stuff from scraps. Slingshots, toys, entire games invented on the spot. The guava bush was basically an economy. Different trees, different seasons, different rules. We weren’t being clever. We were surviving creatively.

And relationships? They mattered more than anything. Not the kind you keep score on, but the kind that show up. Wealth measured not in money, but in presence.

We never called it emotional intelligence, but we lived it. You’d check on someone when their energy felt off, or when something in you did. You’d listen close to how something wasn’t said. You’d step in before help was asked for.

Even inside all those rules, there was a kind of freedom. Not in geography. In community. That’s what held it all up. That’s what made the weight feel lighter.

Ticks came with the territory. Underarms, behind knees, places you didn’t mention in polite company. Still, the adventure was worth it. We weren’t reckless. Just determined. Unsupervised with purpose.

August meant bird season. You had to be ready. The kids with the fancy fish-gun  slingshots always had the upper hand. The rest of us made do. The tool never mattered as much as the care you used it with.

We were learning discipline without calling it that. Learning to hold yourself to a standard, even when no one was watching.

Looking back, I see now that we were gathering more than just memories. We were learning how to be.

The Razor and the Comb 🪒🩸

When you grow up steeped in that kind of bond—the real, platonic kind—you carry it into adulthood. You expect people to meet you with presence. With care. With intention. Not transaction.

That, I’ve learned, is part of the growing up. The emotional evolution.

Realizing that how you were shaped isn’t how everyone was. That what you think is “normal” was actually a kind of gift. Or a fluke. I call it a quiet privilege. 

I heard this story once.

A father and his young son are standing side by side at the mirror. The father is shaving, calmly and precisely. The son watches, fascinated. He wants in. So the father dabs shaving cream onto the boy’s cheeks, then hands him a comb. Smooth, harmless. The boy imitates every stroke, proud of his reflection.

It’s sweet. But it sticks with you. Because the razor he mimics? That blade would cut him if given too soon. It’s not the tool that’s wrong. It’s the timing.

I think about that a lot.

Because there were things I tried to carry too early. Skills I thought I had. Maturity I faked. Pushing myself to grow faster because standing still felt like falling behind.

But now I understand. Some tools require waiting. Some forms of strength take shape in silence. Sometimes, mimicking adulthood is the only way to survive it, until you’re ready for the weight of the real thing.

That realization is the kind of maturity no one hands you. You get it by sitting with what you missed. What you rushed. What hurt more than it should have. And still choosing to stay soft.

Fun, Lost and Found 📌

I caught up with an old friend recently. Drinks, finally. Life had kept shoving the plan down the calendar. But we found a window.

We did the usual. Talked family. Shared names. Updated maps of each other’s lives. But somewhere in the middle of it, I noticed something. A quiet distance. A shift.

They were more open, more excited. I felt more held back. Not closed. Just slower to open. Measured in a way I didn’t used to be.

So I asked,

“From when you met me to now, how do you think I’ve changed?”

They paused. Then said,

“You used to be more fun.”

I didn’t flinch. I just nodded.

“You learn in reverse,” I said.

And it’s true. Growth gives you information. But reflection is where the wisdom shows up.

You realize some of your ambition was just armor. That all the “drive” was sometimes just you trying not to drown.

You start to understand that connection, not achievement, is what brings you back to yourself.

And you get grateful. Not just for what worked out. But for what didn’t. Because that shaped you too.

Still Becoming 💪🏿

How you show up.

How you speak.

How you stay, even when it’s hard.

That’s part of becoming.

Still sitting in limbo, maybe.

But with your eyes open.