We invest so much in raising confident children… So why do they already feel “not enough”?

There is something I keep hearing, quietly and repeatedly, in the words of the children I support.

Something that breaks my heart every time, and touches something deep within me.

I recently shared an Instagram post about this (in French - yes, Sakura is bilingual 😊), but it felt important to explore it more deeply here.

We all want to raise confident children.

We speak about it often. We invest in it generously.

We enroll them in activities, encourage their talents, support their learning, and try to equip them with everything they might need to thrive.

We want them to believe in themselves.

And yet… for around 1 in 4 children, who feel deeply and function differently, a very different story is taking shape.

In my sessions, I sit with neurodivergent and highly sensitive children who are only just beginning to understand themselves and already, their inner narratives are forming.

This is what they share with me…

A seven-year-old explains that having ADHD means she makes more mistakes at school.

A ten-year-old tells me that having ADHD means not being able to control himself, having poor focus, and that he wishes so much he were “normal,” so that he could fit in.

An eleven-year-old, hurt by a friendship, comes to the conclusion that she is simply “too sensitive,” as though her sensitivity were the cause of how she is treated.

Another eleven-year-old tells me that ADHD means not being a good friend, because he sometimes can’t control his reactions.

An eight-year-old describes introversion as being “very small inside.”

Another child tells me, without hesitation, that autism makes her weird.

These are not just passing comments. They are early conclusions about themselves.

Quiet definitions.

Stories beginning to take root...for the long term.

Children are not born seeing themselves this way.

These are not truths they have discovered in isolation.

They are meanings they have absorbed.

Through language. Through expectations. Through comments. Through looks.

Through the subtle, pervasive influence of a world that still struggles to make space for difference.

These children are learning that parts of who they are are somehow wrong, excessive, or insufficient, and that they need to correct, adapt, and be more like everyone else.

So how can we expect them to feel confident in who they are…if this is how they see themselves? If this becomes their inner voice, the one that shapes what they believe they are worth and capable of?

I am not pointing to any one person.

Not a parent.

Not a teacher.

Not a single moment.

This is more complex than that. This is about a wider system, a cultural narrative that continues to place “normal” on a pedestal, and measure children against it.

A system that teaches children to edit themselves.

To soften certain traits.

To hide others.

To become more acceptable.

But what if we paused, and gently turned the question around?

What if the issue is not what these children are…but the story we tell about what they are?

Who decided that ADHD should be reduced to hyperactivity, rather than recognised for its creativity, energy, drive, and capacity for original thought?

Who decided that autism should be equated with limitation, rather than recognised for its unique perspective, integrity, and attention to detail?

Who decided that sensitivity is something to outgrow, rather than recognised as a profound capacity for empathy, perception, intuition, and emotional intelligence?

Who decided that introversion equates to smallness, rather than being seen for its depth, reflection, and rich inner life?

Confidence cannot grow in a space where a child feels they must become someone else to be accepted.

It grows in the quiet, steady experience of being met, fully, as they are, and sensing, at a deep level:

There is nothing wrong with me.

And unless we change this narrative, I can assure you, it will stay.

In my work, I also sit with adult women, highly sensitive or neurodivergent, who are still carrying these early stories.

Women who feel, often at the same time, too much… and not enough.

Too emotional. Too intense. Too different.

And yet, somehow, still not quite enough.

Women who have spent years proving themselves.

Adjusting.

Overextending.

Women who have learned, often unconsciously, to move away from themselves in order to belong.

And who, later in life, find it profoundly difficult to return.

Because these stories, once internalised, do not simply disappear.

They shape identity.

They influence relationships.

They quietly dictate what feels safe to express, and what must be hidden.

I recognise this, because I too was that child.

The one who was too sensitive.

Too emotional.

Too complicated.

I grew up in that in-between space of feeling both too much… and not enough.

So, like many, I tried to adjust.

To become less sensitive.

More contained.

More like everyone else.

To toughen up.

But in doing so, I lost something essential, my connection to myself.

It was the day I reconnected with my difference, my sensitivity, the very place where my greatest strengths live: my empathy, my emotional intelligence, my intuition, my ability to feel beyond words, that Sakura was born.

Today, my work is about gently undoing that process.

It is about offering children, and adults, a different narrative.

One that does not ask them to shrink, but invites them to understand themselves.

One that does not pathologise difference, but honours it.

One that replaces “What is wrong with me?” with “What is true about me?”

Because when that shift happens, something profound follows.

Not just in behaviour, but in identity.

In self-worth.

In the way a child, or an adult, moves through the world.

If this resonates with you, if you recognise your child in these words, or perhaps a part of yourself, you are not alone in this.

This is the work I do every day at Sakura.

And it would be a privilege to walk alongside you in it.

With Love

Ixxx