A day from when I was five years old is etched in my memory like a faint, lingering scent. My mother was rushing to a meeting after arriving late from church. After entering the bathroom and realizing we were out of bathing soap, she sent me to the nearby store where we usually shop to get some.

The owner of the store, contrary to my intention, delayed me. He welcomed me in, then asked me to sit on his lap and began molesting me. I had no idea what was going on or how I was supposed to react, but after he was done, he gave me the soap and told me not to tell anyone or he would put a rat in my vagina. 

Five-year-old me walked out of the store, and as I was heading home, I saw my mom coming to get me. Her disappointment hit me like a gentle reprimand in the form of a knock on the head, believing I had wasted time playing instead of completing the task on time, and she promised to deal with me thoroughly when she returned from her meeting.

I recall losing some money for an errand on another occasion, not in the innocence of being five but in the realm of growing up. I tried looking for it and was heartbroken because I had lost it, but my parents assumed I had lost it while playing. I got in trouble for my mistake as soon as I got home and couldn't deliver what I was sent to buy or the money meant for it.

Time marched on, and adolescence graced my existence with newfound responsibilities. As the first child and female, the kitchen became my domain. One day, as I reached for a pot of freshly prepared soup my mom had made in the morning and asked me to reheat it later that evening, the searing heat kissed my skin, and the pot reluctantly danced out of my grasp. My parents became enraged and insisted that the accident was the result of my playing and not paying attention. Actually, I wasn't. I simply didn't realize how hot the pot was, and when I tried to lift it, it burned me, so I dropped it instinctively. My parents both canned me to the point where I thought I was going to pass out.

Another memory that stands out is when I broke my mother's favorite mug. She then proceeded to use a piece of the broken glass to leave scars on my body, claiming that they would serve as a constant reminder for me not to forget or break anything else.

These memories keep returning to me, especially since I've made similar mistakes as an adult. I've broken my favorite mugs and plates and have lost money even when I couldn't afford to. But, in these moments of self-reflection, I can't help but wonder: how can I punish myself for genuine errors when I know, from my own experience, that they were not intentional?

I witnessed a familiar scene in my apartment a few months ago. Outside, a neighbor's child was playing. She was holding money her mother had given her to keep safe, but she became distracted and left it behind when she stood up. Another neighbor discovered the money and initially kept it to herself because she believed the girl deserved punishment to teach her a lesson. Even when the girl cried because she knew her mother would be upset, my neighbor kept the money and only turned it in after she was certain the girl had been properly punished.

Through these experiences, I've realized that, as adults, we frequently forget the tender fragility of our own youth. We punish children for making the same innocent mistakes we once did—the very blunders that shape our personalities.

We, too, have broken and misplaced treasured possessions. Shouldn't we then give the young the same understanding that we would want for ourselves?

We punish children despite the fact that they did not intend to do wrong. We punish children for playing. But what else are children supposed to do? Shouldn't we give them the same opportunity to learn and grow that we would want for ourselves, just as we would like to be treated in our vulnerable moments?