"One stops being a child when one realizes that telling one's trouble does not make it any better"

Growing up is marked by a series of subtle, sometimes painful realizations, and perhaps none is so profound as understanding the limits of sharing our emotional burdens. During childhood, expressing fears or sadness to a trusted adult brings comfort and often practical help. Children cry, explain their grievances, and expect solace, advice, maybe even a solution. A part of innocence is the faith that merely articulating pain will dissipate it, that the world will respond with care and amelioration.

Eventually, maturity imposes itself, not just through age, but through experience. We encounter moments when pouring out our suffering to others fails to relieve the weight it exerts. Sympathy might be offered, advice might be given, but the core wound remains. What once soothed, a receptive ear or a calming embrace, proves insufficient. It becomes clear that others, regardless of good will or deep empathy, cannot fundamentally extract us from personal sorrow or resolve the complications that beset us. The act of narrating troubles becomes less a release and more an echo chamber, sometimes amplifying our struggles rather than softening them.

Reaching this realization is bittersweet. It signals a loss of naiveté, but also ushers in self-reliance. There is, hidden in this insight, the beginning of a new kind of resilience: recognizing that at times, suffering must be processed internally, that healing can require solitude, and acceptance may grow in silence rather than conversation. Adulthood is colored by the comprehension that the world does not automatically bend to our needs, and comfort is not always found in external validation. While mutual understanding still has value, its power has limits. Self-understanding, then, becomes an ever-more significant aspect of navigating hardship, guiding us toward self-possession, endurance, and genuine maturity.