At the age of three, my gymnastics teacher locked me in the bathroom—in the dark—because I fell off the parallel bars and cried.

I don’t know how long I was in that bathroom, but I pounded on the door, turned that doorknob with all the force in my little body.

No response.

It felt like hours had passed before I heard my mother’s muffled voice outside the door. I had slumped with my back against it, knees under my chin, arms tightly coiled around my legs.

Suddenly, the door swung open, and there stood both my gymnastics teacher and my mom.

Extending her hand to me, my mom pulled me up to standing. She scrawled her signature to sign me out of class, and without making eye contact with the gymnastics teachers, she said loudly, “Come on, Jeannie. You will never have to set foot in here again, I promise.”

And I never did.

You see, I don’t believe in shaming children—no matter what they have done—because I know what it feels like to be shamed as a child. To be traumatized. To be terrified.

Now that I am in my forties, I have begun to re-parent the three-year-old in me who screamed and wailed and felt trapped and suffocated in that bathroom.

This is, in large part, why I believe so strongly in treating all humans, whether young or old(er), with dignity, respect, and kindness. All. Every. Single. One.

My hope is that your experience of me in this slice of Substack will be warm, welcoming, and safe.