Govind Shauri: The Adult Within.

inspired by the #decode session by Dr.Yuvaraj Kapdia.

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There is an idea I have been sitting with lately, one that landed almost like a professional epiphany from the perspective of a healer: a great adult is not dependent on a healed inner child.

This thought has reshaped how I look at my own history and the stories I have carried for years. For a long time, I believed that the adult version of me could only grow once the inner child had been comforted, repaired, and fully healed. But the more I observe people and the more I understand my own inner landscape, the clearer it becomes that healing doesn’t always follow that order. Most of us step into adulthood carrying wounds that were never resolved. And yet, some of our strongest adult traits emerge not from being healed first, but from deciding to move forward while still holding those wounds.

This idea becomes easier to grasp when I think of Krishna—not as the divine avatar we’re used to seeing, but as the boy and young man before the recognition of his own divinity. His life begins with a wound: abandonment at birth, separation from his parents, immediate danger. He is moved from place to place—Gokul, Vrindavan, the ashram, Mathura—never really having a stable home. Each place gives him love, yes, but also the awareness of being transient. A child with that kind of beginning would naturally carry fears about belonging, visibility, and safety.

And yet, Krishna does not wait for the child inside him to heal before becoming Shauri—the courageous, self-aware adult who confronts his circumstances. His adult story unfolds not because his childhood wounds vanish, but because he chooses action in spite of them. He gives himself permission to grow without waiting to be repaired.

When I relate this to my own life, it feels strangely familiar. My inner child still holds the imprint of instability—emotional more than physical. He remembers what it felt like to be invisible for safety. He remembers moments of feeling unanchored. He remembers the sense that home was something temporary. These memories shaped my earliest patterns: keep your head down, don’t take up too much space, don’t expect anything to last.

For a long time, I thought healing meant going back and “fixing” that child so that he could trust the world again. But the more I reflect, the more I realize that the adult in me does not need to depend on a perfectly healed child. What I need is a functional, present adult who can lead.

This adult identity speaks a simple, grounding truth:
I am not defined by what happened to me. I am defined by what I choose next.

That is the beginning of a new adult story.
Krishna’s story makes sense through that lens. His awakening is not a sudden divine event; it’s a gradual strengthening of adult choices. He studies, he learns, he faces his fears, he confronts the dangers that threatened him since birth. None of these milestones happen because the child in him is healed. They happen because the adult version of him steps forward.

This is where the healer’s perspective becomes meaningful for me. The child inside me doesn’t have to be brave. The child doesn’t have to feel safe. The child doesn’t have to resolve fears that were formed in moments of helplessness. That was never his job.

The job of the adult is different.
The adult can take risks.
The adult can show up when the child wants to hide.
The adult can build structures that the child never experienced.
The adult can create permanence where the child knew only transience.

The adult I am becoming—my “Krishna Shauri” self—is the one who decides what happens next.

Healing, in this sense, becomes less about “fixing the child” and more about giving the child the experience of being protected by a competent adult. The child’s fear of visibility softens when the adult shows he can handle visibility. The child’s fear of abandonment softens when the adult chooses to build lasting relationships. The child’s fear of instability softens when the adult creates a stable inner structure.

Krishna building Dwarka is the metaphor that resonates most with me. A child who never had a permanent home grows into an adult who chooses to create one. Not because the wound is gone, but because he decides it’s time to move forward.

This is the shift I feel internally now.
My own inner child can stay wounded. He can remain unsure. He can carry the memory of instability. He doesn’t have to evolve into a healed, confident, fearless version of himself. The responsibility of growth belongs to the adult.

And the more I operate from that adult identity, the more I sense something that resembles Krishna’s quiet awakening within me—a grounded strength, a capacity to choose, a clarity that does not erase my past but no longer lets my past dictate everything.

It’s not dramatic or mystical. It’s simply this:
I no longer wait for the child inside me to heal before living my life.
I allow the adult to lead.
I allow the adult to build.
I allow the adult to choose who I become next.

From that place, the child begins to feel safe—not because he becomes whole, but because the adult finally has.