Before I Had the Words

How White Supremacy Culture Shaped My Childhood and How I’m Unlearning It

Photo by Merve: https://www.pexels.com/photo/small-angel-statuette-in-glass-case-7552595/

By: Luna Kilvaari

The Rules I Couldn’t See

Before I had the words “white supremacy culture,” I had rules. Unspoken, unbreakable rules that whispered through classrooms, dinner tables, churches, and skin.

Be good. Be quiet. Be grateful. Be clean. Be small. Be nice. Be right. Be white—without ever saying the word.

For most of my life, I didn’t realize I was being trained. Not just by my family or my community, but by a culture older and deeper than any one person. A culture built to shape whiteness into a system of survival—by teaching those of us born into it how to disappear inside it.

When I first read the list of the 15 characteristics of white supremacy culture (developed by Tema Okun and others), I felt like I was reading a manual for my own upbringing. Not because anyone said the words “white supremacy” to me as a child—they didn’t. But because every one of those traits lived in my body. They shaped my nervous system. They wrote the story of how I saw myself, my worth, and my role in the world.

This is the story of how that training began—and how I’m unlearning it now.

“The Good Girl Spell” (Perfectionism)

White supremacy culture taught me early that being lovable meant being flawless. There was no room for failure, no space for mess. I didn’t learn to be a child—I learned to be an achievement.

I was the chubby girl with the quiet mouth and the over-apologetic heart. I remember wiping crumbs from my shirt with shame in my throat because I thought taking up space was already a sin. I believed if

I could be sweet enough, helpful enough, good enough, no one would notice the parts of me that didn’t belong in the whitewashed fairy tale.

Now, I hold that little girl with soft hands. I let her mess up. I tell her she’s already sacred—not when she’s fixed, but exactly as she is.

“Don’t Rock the Boat” (Fear of Open Conflict)

I was taught that silence was peace. That obedience was love. That disagreement meant danger.

I didn’t grow up in a house where we talked about the hard things. We swallowed them. Smiled through them. I learned that anger made me “ungrateful,” tears made me “dramatic,” and standing up for myself made me “disrespectful.”

When I felt unsafe, I retreated. When I felt misunderstood, I blamed myself. I made myself small, soft, pleasing. I became an emotional contortionist just to keep the boat from rocking—even when I was drowning in it.

White supremacy culture taught us that conflict threatens power. But now, I know sacred conflict can be a bridge. In my healing, in my marriage, in EAGER—I’m learning that honesty is not violence. That staying can be revolutionary. That conflict doesn’t mean I’m broken. Sometimes it means I’m finally telling the truth.

“Alone Is Safe” (Individualism)

When I was little, I thought strength meant keeping it all inside. No one ever told me that, not directly—but the rules were clear. Don’t be a burden. Don’t need too much. Don’t expect to be understood.

I was the child who figured things out quietly. Who made art out of loneliness. Who masked the meltdown and held the ache. Because somewhere deep inside me, I believed asking for help was weakness. And weakness meant you might be left behind.

White supremacy culture taught me that we rise alone, that self-reliance is survival. But now, I’m unlearning the lie that healing is a solo act. I’m learning to reach for others without shame. To ask for support without apology. To believe that I was never meant to carry the world by myself.

“They Know Best, I Stay Small” (Paternalism)

I grew up being told what was best for me. What to wear. What to believe. Who to be.

My voice was seen as cute at best, defiant at worst. I was praised when I nodded, punished when I questioned. My dreams were dismissed as silly. My knowing was often overwritten. Even when I cried, they’d say “you’re fine”—as if I couldn’t possibly know my own body’s truth.

Some of my earliest memories of power were not safe. I learned quickly that those who wore badges or held authority—especially white men—were not always protectors. And yet, I was still taught to obey, to trust, to stay small.

Paternalism doesn’t just live in systems. It lives in kitchens, classrooms, and church pews. It shaped my silence.

Today, I’m reclaiming the power of inner authority. I’m mothering my own voice. Listening to the wisdom that was always inside me. I’m learning to say, “I know what I need. I trust myself now.”

“Faster, Better, Worthier” (Sense of Urgency)

I don’t remember resting as a child. I remember rushing.

There was always something to prove. Something to perfect. Something to fix before anyone could call me lazy, or sloppy, or wrong.

Even now, urgency lives in my breath sometimes—making me feel like if I stop, I’ll disappear. That I have to hurry up and heal, hurry up and forgive, hurry up and be okay.

But white supremacy culture manufactures urgency to keep us disconnected from our own pace, our own seasons, our own bodies.

I’m learning to move slower. To spiral instead of sprint. To trust that healing unfolds in divine time—and I don’t have to rush to be worthy.

“Color Inside the Lines or Else” (Only One Right Way)

There was a right way to be a girl. A right way to be white. A right way to be loved.

I was taught those ways like commandments: Obey. Smile. Be polite. Don’t ask why. Don’t get loud. Don’t stray too far. The lines were invisible, but the punishment for crossing them was real.

I remember feeling the edge of the line every time I was “too much.” Too emotional. Too opinionated. Too curious. The message was clear: whiteness rewards those who stay within the lines it drew.

But now, I draw my own lines. I live in spirals. I ask the questions. I step outside the box and build altars there. And I bless the little girl who once thought love only lived inside approval.

“What I Know Doesn’t Count Unless It’s in a Book” (Worship of the Written Word/Objectivity)

I’ve always been a deep feeler. A knower. A dreamer. But growing up, that was never enough.

I was taught that facts mattered more than feelings. That authority lived in textbooks, not in my body.

That to be “smart,” I had to quote something. Prove something. Cite something.

My own intuition was called “silly.” My sacred knowing was treated as fantasy.

But now I understand: those systems never wanted me to trust myself. They wanted me to look outward forever. To trade my inner compass for someone else’s permission.

But I know now: truth lives in more than pages. It lives in bodies. In memory. In dreams. In grief. In story. It lives in me.

Reparenting the Girl They Tried to Erase

I’m still unraveling all the rules I was raised with. Still finding new ones hiding under my skin. Still softening into the truth that I don’t have to earn safety anymore. I don’t have to perform my worth. I don’t have to be the “good girl” just to be allowed to exist.

Every day, I reparent a little girl who was trained to forget her instincts. And every day, I let her be messy, wild, imperfect, and whole.

This is the beginning of my unlearning. The undoing of a spell I never agreed to.

I’m walking backward through the spiral to find the child I left behind. And I’m bringing her home.

Let’s Reflect, Together

If this piece stirred something in you— If you saw your own childhood in mine— I invite you to sit with that, and speak it aloud if it feels right.

You’re not alone. And you’re not broken.

You were shaped. But you can re-shape.

This is our work. This is our becoming.

With love, Luna Kilvaari @LunaGoddessRising ■