Inside Heilsche

There is this sentence that stays in my head:

Twelve years of compliance training.
School as factory.
Children as products.
Obedience as success.

When I was younger, I thought I had simply failed in that system. I didn’t get certain jobs, didn’t fit certain roles, didn’t become what they wanted. Now I start to see something else:

Maybe the factory never really wanted me.
Maybe my mind was a bad material for their machine.

Averraheilsche

For a long time, I carried one simple shame:

“I’m not good enough to be hired in factory once i graduate high school, unlike most of my friends.”

I tried to enter real factories. Filled the forms, did the interviews, hoped for a job. Rejected, again and again. I told myself:

I’m not worthy.
I’m not professional enough.
Something is wrong with me.

Averraheilsche

Later, I realised something funny and painful.
In interviews, I asked questions. Real questions. I wanted to know:
Why is the schedule like this?
How is the pay structured?
What happens if this or that?
I wasn’t rude. I was simply not programmed to smile, nod, and accept whatever was said.

And as far i remember, instead being nervous with HR, probably Im the one who lead them into their own nervous.

But Factories don’t look for that. They look for people who show up on time, follow instructions, don’t disturb the line.

So if I map it:
System: wants formatted workers, easy to insert into the machine.
Me: keeps asking, keeps doubting, keeps reading the small print.

For years, I translated that as failure.
Now I can also read it as evidence:
My system is not built for pure obedience.
I was never fully “format‑compatible.”
The factory was right to reject me. I would have clogged their gears.

Averraheilsche

As a kid, I never fully trusted history class.
Not because I hated stories. I love stories.

I just felt something strange about being told to believe everything in the history book as sacred, when:
I never met the people,
I wasn’t there,
and all the information came through someone else’s filter.

My body always had this quiet rebellion:
“Why should I treat this as holy just because it’s printed and tested?”
School teaches you that memorising official stories is “intelligence,” and obedience to the textbook is “being a good student.”

Something in me refused that trade.
On the surface, it looks like:
“I don’t like history.”
Underneath, it’s more like:
“I don’t let systems fully own my perception of reality.”
This is my little crack in the wall of compliance.
I care more about the source and the question than the approved answer.

The hidden curriculum and my kids’ hearts and interest.
School doesn’t only teach math and language. There is a second, invisible program: the hidden curriculum.

Unspoken rules like:
Sit down, be quiet.
Don’t ask too much.
Respect the schedule more than your body.

Your worth = grades + behaviour.

Averraheilsche

I felt that when I was young. Now, as a mother, I feel it even stronger.
With my daughter:
She struggles with math.
She is soft, caring, sensitive. Her heart feels a lot.
The factory voice would say: “Push harder. Fix the math. Numbers first.”

My voice says:
“Her sensitivity is not a defect. It’s something I want to protect in a world that already numbs people.”
So I don’t want her identity to become:
“I’m the stupid one,”
just because she doesn’t shine where the system puts the spotlight.

With my son:
He likes drawing, building, creating things with his hands.
He can do math, but his joy is in constructing, not in filling test papers.

The factory would try to turn him into another good test‑taker.
I try to be a channel for what he loves, not a guard for the rulebook.

I read the curriculum, then I quietly say, “No. I won’t let this overwrite my kids’ essence.”

To me, Soul first.
Numbers can adapt.

One of the most violent things school teaches is that your body is not yours. You must:

• ask to pee,
• ask to drink water,
• ask to stand up,
• ignore hunger, tiredness, natural rhythms.

The schedule is “right.” Your body is wrong.

Maybe that’s why, as an adult, I have such a strong reaction to mass interventions on children’s bodies:
vaccines organised through school,
mass deworming,
anything that comes as “everyone must, at the same time, no questions.”

Averraheilsche

I’m not against thinking. I’m against blind obedience.
I have been judged as a bad mother because I don’t just sign everything:

• “Why are you making it difficult?”
• “Don’t you love your kids?”
• “Just follow the program.”

But my position is simple:
I don’t hand over full authority over my children’s bodies to institutions.
I listen, I research, I decide. I am allowed to be different.

It’s the opposite of what school trained into me.
They taught: “Authority tells you when to eat, move, speak.”
I answer: “Not with my kids. Not anymore.”

I Refusing to sacrifice my kids to numbers
The system loves numbers:

• Rankings,
• Grades,
• Top 10 students,
• Weakest 10 students.

It turns children into data for who is “better” or “worse.” The “best” kids are often just the ones most successfully programmed to obey and perform.

In my home, I try to step aside from that game.
My kids see classmates chasing scores.
I tell them:

Learn what you are genuinely drawn to.
Don’t measure your whole self only by school subjects.
You are not your test paper.
So when my daughter is weak in math, I don’t label her as “the weak one.” I see her empathy, her awareness, her softness.

When my son is drawn to building and drawing, I don’t shame it as “not academic.” I see it as a valid path, a real intelligence.
I am quietly withdrawing them from the scoreboard that was used on me.

Sometimes, Teenage rebellion is easy.
“School is stupid.”
Then you still obey, still chase certificates, still let the system define your value.

What I’m doing now feels different.
I don’t just roll my eyes at teachers.

I also:
question official narratives (history, medicine, institutional truth),
refuse automatic rights over my kids’ bodies,
treat sensitivity and creativity as sacred,
reinterpret my own “failures” (factory rejections) as misfit with the machine, not proof that I am trash.

Averraheilsche

The system likes controlled rebels:

• The clown,
• The burnout,
• The dropout who still behaves exactly as predicted.

I am trying to step one level further away:
change how I decide, not just how I feel.
That is more dangerous to the machine than loud teenage anger.

The Indonesian version of “mortgaged future”

In some countries, students are trapped in huge university debt. The system owns their future. They must obey, they cannot risk.

Here, the shape is a bit different.
It’s not always the child in debt. It’s the parents:
working extra,
sacrificing their health,
paying high school fees,
sometimes putting their own dreams on hold.

The hidden message to the child becomes:
“Your job is to make all this sacrifice worth it.”
Your worth must justify your parents’ suffering.

Averraheilsche

I know this pattern. I feel it. I don’t want to pass it on.
I don’t want my kids to walk through life thinking:
“I exist to pay back what my mom went through.”

I would rather they feel:
“My mom see me as a human, not as a project to prove their success.”

So when I’m tempted to use guilt ~ “I work so hard for you, you must study harder” ~ I try to stop.

I don’t want to mortgage their soul to my effort.

If I bring this chapter back to power, this is the picture:
I grew up in a system that wanted me to be a compliant worker, obedient student, quiet believer in official stories.

It failed to fully capture me. My questions, my suspicion toward single‑source “truth,” my resistance to body control made me slightly “wrong” for their factory.

For years, I blamed myself for every rejection and misfit.
Now, my position is changing.
I am not the student anymore.
I am the gatekeeper.
I stand between my children and institutions and say:
“We will listen, but we won’t worship you.”
“We will read your papers, but we will also read our own bodies.”
“We will use your system when it serves us, not let it eat us alive.”

That doesn’t mean I’m perfect, or that my kids will never be hurt. It just means I am no longer fully compliant.

I filter.

I question.

I protect.

Maybe I wasn’t built for the factory.
Maybe that’s exactly why I’m able to do this now.
Because I know what it feels like to think:
“I am the problem. I don’t fit. I must be wrong.”

And I don’t want that ~ to be my children’s main education.

I would rather they learn:
“Some rooms were never built for you.
You are allowed to walk past them,
and build something that fits your own nervous system instead.”

Averraheilsche