Part 3: Different Underneath the Dress
“Even in laughter the heart may ache, and rejoicing may end in grief.” —Proverbs 14:13 (NIV)
There are seasons in life, especially in childhood, when the outside world only sees a child’s sweet smile, her carefully sewn clothes, and her cooperative spirit. Beneath those surface details, however, may lie a heart already acquainted with fear, difference, and disconnection. Proverbs 14:13 captures this strange tension, the kind where laughter carries ache and joy is tinged with something hidden. Over time, I’ve realized that this verse describes not only my own elementary school experience, but also the silent path many children walk through early trauma.
I don’t recall much of kindergarten. Many of my days, especially when facing new challenges, were shaped by a deep desire to please, be brave, and simply fit in. I wore beautiful clothes, many of them lovingly sewn by my grandmother. My golden hair, matching crocheted capes, tassel hats, and quiet smile often convinced adults that I was resilient and highly functional.
In many ways, that was true.
In other ways, I was deeply lonely, confused, and scared. The trauma I had already endured left me emotionally numb, detached not only from my feelings, but also from the world around me. I remember being in kindergarten and noticing the little industrial toilets made just for kids. Their presence felt like an invitation into normalcy. That imagined normalcy never came. I didn’t use them because I wore diapers to school.
One day, early in the school year, I came home excited to announce that I had discovered the “secret” to holding it. I demonstrated my method by dancing from one foot to the other while holding my private parts. My mom laughed with tenderness, though sadness flickered in her eyes. Neither of us understood why what came easily to other children felt so complicated for me.
My parents genuinely believed, based on what the doctors said, that potty-training was possible for me. I believed it as well. I approached each day like a challenge, determined to succeed at something I didn’t yet understand was impossible. I tried over and over again, only to fail each time.
The gap between what was expected and what was possible created confusion for all of us. For me, it became easy to believe that I was the problem. For my parents, it required a slow and painful patience as they watched their child work diligently with no success, success they had been led to expect.
They didn’t withhold love, nor did they force shame. Even so, an unspoken grief lingered in the mismatch between hope and reality, something each of us carried differently.
As I speak about my parents, keep in mind that what follows is not an objective account of their thoughts or intentions, but my own childhood perceptions, filtered through time, trauma, and experiences that unfolded long after those early years. My memories from this season are foggy and often intertwined with what came later. I am not attempting to assign blame or catalogue mistakes. I love my parents, and I truly believe they did the best they could with the information, guidance, and cultural understanding available to them. Even when their best was not always what I needed, it was shaped by the era we lived in and by a deep desire to protect their child.
My father, I believe, experienced my medical condition in a way that differed from my mother’s. In that era, mothers were often the primary caregivers, attending appointments, managing daily care, and absorbing the emotional weight. My father was not uninvolved, yet I suspect my situation touched something far more complicated for him. Raised in a culture that linked worth to perfection and image, he likely struggled to separate my physical condition from his own sense of identity, even without intending to. I don’t recall specific words or actions that conveyed shame, yet I often felt like a disappointment, like I had introduced an invisible flaw into his world.
In some ways, I was a daddy’s girl. I loved being close to him. Even so, I sensed subtle cues, perhaps frustration, helplessness, or fear. There may have been hidden exasperation he didn’t know how to express, and that I didn’t know how to interpret. Looking back, I believe the shame I felt was often his own sorrow, misguided and unnamed, something neither of us had the tools to understand.
My mother carried many of the same fears, though they surfaced differently. Because she was the one most involved in my day-to-day care, she was also the one who provided most of my guidance, explaining the world as best she could while navigating her own uncertainty. She often told me that what mattered was who I was on the inside, that character mattered more than appearances, that the cover of a book was less important than its contents. I believed her. At the same time, she would reassure me that I was “lucky” my condition was hidden beneath my clothing, that it wasn’t something people could see right away. You would have to be around me often—daily or all day—to notice that something was different. Even then, you wouldn’t know why. You would only sense that for some reason I wore diapers, that for some reason I was different from the other children. Subtly, this taught me that not acknowledging what was happening, or the feelings surrounding it, was the safer option. I’m not sure I disagree with that even today. But as a child, it confused me.
By this point, I had already undergone several surgeries. While I smiled through finger painting and music time, most of my days were lived in a fog. My trauma response shielded me from feeling too much, yet it also made it difficult to feel anything fully. I don’t remember much learning. I mostly remember watching, trying, failing, and pretending.
The first awareness that I was different came quietly. I began to worry that I might be found out, that the soiling of my diaper would eventually expose me. With that awareness came a new emotion, what I can now identify as anxiety.
Thankfully, school was only a half day. I usually returned home before anyone noticed that my diaper needed changing. Even so, I carried a daily tension mixed with fear and a growing awareness that something about me did not quite fit the world I was entering. No matter how hard I tried, there was always an unspoken sense that it wasn’t enough. I was doing my best, yet falling short of something I couldn’t name. It is understandable how I could reach this conclusion and carry it in my subconscious for decades.
My parents had been advised not to treat me differently. They did their very best to follow that guidance. In their love, they attempted to normalize what clearly wasn’t. My mom recalls that I wanted to go to school. More likely, she encouraged me that it would be fun, and I didn’t resist. I had no idea I would soon carry the weight of feeling like an outsider.
Their love was real. So was their uncertainty. Looking back, I see that they offered me the best they could, given the limited guidance they received. Even as they tried to push me forward into life, I often felt alone in the quiet spaces behind my smile.
Proverbs 14:13 speaks to a kind of contradiction, the way joy and grief can exist at the same time, even when one goes unnoticed. As a child, I did not have the awareness to recognize both. What I knew was what I showed, a smile, cooperation, laughter. What I did not yet understand was that something else could exist alongside those things, unacknowledged but still present.
Even in my laughter, something remained hidden.
Even in my handmade dress, I was different underneath.
What happens when a child learns to smile through what she cannot name?
What happens when difference is hidden, but never addressed?
Proverbs reminds us that laughter can carry ache. It also reminds us that what is unseen is not unknown to God.
The devotional for this post explores what it means to bring hidden grief into the light—offering Scripture, prayer, and reflection for those who learned early to appear fine while quietly feeling different.