Last year, I had a number of interactions that made me reflect deeply on the concept of emotional maturity: what it is, and why it seems to be so rare in a world that appears more reactive than ever. A brief glance at modern politics often feels like watching the inner children of powerful men in suits engage in territorial playground fights.
“This is mine, and I will not give it to you,” even if thousands of people lose their lives because of it.
“I am stronger and more important than you are,” the geopolitical equivalent of little boys trying to outdo each other in a schoolyard, except these are grown adults with access to armies, nuclear weapons, and immense political power.
Disturbingly, this behaviour is often admired because dominance, certainty, and aggression can create the illusion of strength, especially in uncertain times. Perhaps this goes some way to explaining populism and the growing appeal of political parties that offer simplistic answers to complex problems. Why else would millions of people be drawn to leaders who display impulsivity, blame-shifting, grandiosity, and emotional reactivity on a near-daily basis?
I have noticed this tendency not only in politics, but also in far more ordinary personal and professional settings, particularly when mistakes are made. Last year, I moved into a new apartment and, within the first two weeks, the management company gave out my keys to contractors twice without my knowledge or consent. Although the company apologised after I lodged a formal complaint, the apology was accompanied by deflection, justification, and resistance to my request for a lock change. It was only after I researched the law and quoted it back to them that they relented.
What struck me was not the original mistake, but the apparent inability to simply acknowledge it fully, take responsibility, and make amends without defensiveness.
And that is what I have been reflecting on: why is it so difficult for so many of us to own our mistakes? Why do we so often justify them, defend ourselves, distract from them, or avoid the issue altogether? Why are we willing to damage good relationships rather than simply say: “I was wrong”?
I think that, as so often, the answer lies in unconscious conditioning. Some of it is personal, and some of it collective. In Germany, for example, where I was born, I often feel that this defensiveness is cultural. Imagine starting (and losing) two world wars and carrying the historical weight of the Holocaust. That can create a profound collective guilt complex, one that has the power to unconsciously condition an entire nation to respond to criticism with: “It wasn’t me!”
In addition, after the Second World War, many people were preoccupied with survival, leaving little time, energy, or even language for personal reflection and emotional healing. In Germany, the Holocaust was often simply not talked about after the war ended. It was as though an entire nation entered a stoic silence around something too horrific to truly look at, feel, or fully acknowledge.
It was easier to say “we did not know” than to face the sheer horror, shame, and complicity of what ordinary people had participated in or allowed to happen. Many dark emotions were consequently internalised rather than processed, something that later generations are only gradually beginning to disentangle.
In Sicily, where my father is from, the defensiveness is different again. Pride and the concept of la bella figura (looking good in the eyes of others) play a major role in a culture that is often looked down upon and ridiculed by the rest of Italy. An island that was invaded and colonised repeatedly over centuries may naturally develop a stronger instinct to defend itself, not only physically, but emotionally too.
Then, of course, there is personal conditioning. If your parents or teachers punished you harshly for every perceived mistake, it can become much harder to admit fault later in life. Likewise, if vulnerability was repeatedly met with ridicule, humiliation, or rejection, defensiveness often becomes a survival strategy. And if your caregivers, teachers, or wider culture never learned emotional maturity themselves, it would have been difficult for you to develop those skills in the first place.
But sometimes, emotional immaturity is also simply a matter of entitlement. Some of the more difficult interactions I have had recently were with men in positions of power. If somebody identifies strongly with status, authority, or professional prestige, it may genuinely not occur to them that they should acknowledge mistakes, reflect, or admit that another person was right.
The more power people accumulate, the easier it can become to justify their own behaviour, deflect criticism, and surround themselves with environments in which accountability rarely exists. Apologising then may begin to feel less like maturity and more like humiliation.
The truth, however, is that authentic relationships become extremely difficult when emotional maturity is absent. Why? Because without it, we can so easily damage our connection with others. We interact from masks and unresolved wounds rather than from our authentic selves. Every time we do not own a mistake we have made, the other person loses trust in us. Every time we avoid a difficult conversation, shut down emotionally, or distract ourselves instead of engaging honestly, we risk losing the people we care about. Instead of closeness, we create distance. And with that distance comes loneliness.
The question is: do we have the courage to look honestly at ourselves? Because very often, the hardest truths to face are not about others, but about our own behaviour. And without reflection, genuine growth becomes almost impossible.
Unfortunately, a society that values productivity above almost everything else does not place much value on introspection. People are expected to function, not reflect.
But is this really the kind of society we want to live in?
I personally don’t think so.
Imagine instead a world in which children are taught from an early age how to:
- regulate difficult emotions without avoidance or aggression
- communicate honestly under stress
- tolerate vulnerability
- repair conflict and disconnection
- hold conflicting truths
- take accountability without defensiveness or spiralling into shame
How different would our relationships, politics, workplaces, and inner lives look then?
This is one of the reasons why I am currently studying Restorative Practice, a transdisciplinary field of study that explores how to strengthen relationships and improve social connection within communities. At its core, restorative practice teaches people how to relate more authentically and compassionately, whilst still maintaining healthy boundaries. It also encourages the capacity to hold complexity and nuance, the understanding that two seemingly contradictory things can be true at the same time.
Naturally, we often crave simplicity: good or bad, right or wrong, victim or villain. But human relationships and life are rarely that straightforward. Truth is often layered, contradictory, and emotionally complex. And we can only begin to navigate that complexity through honest and sensitive communication, and a genuine willingness to understand each other’s perspectives and experiences.
What I have learned through my own relationships and interactions is that most of us still have a great deal of inner growing to do. Emotional maturity is often assumed to come automatically with age, education, status, spirituality, or professional success. In reality, however, it is a very specific inner capacity that many people never consciously develop.
Yet, the consequences of emotional immaturity can be observed everywhere: in wars, racism, poverty, and polarisation on a collective level, and in loneliness, ruptured relationships, misunderstanding, and emotional disconnection on a personal one.
So how do we begin to change this? As usual, with ourselves. Simply becoming aware of where we may still need to grow is already a step in the right direction. The desire for healthier, deeper, and more authentic relationships can be a powerful motivator. So can finding the courage to admit when we were wrong and witnessing how positively others often respond when we apologise without justification. And even recognising where we still lack that courage to do so is a victory in itself.
Ultimately, emotional maturity requires honesty. We need to be able to look at ourselves without flinching and recognise the beautiful, flawed, amazing, imperfect human being that we are. When we accept ourselves fully, growth becomes possible without shame.
That is the paradox at the heart of emotional maturity: loving ourselves as we are, whilst also being willing to free ourselves from the conditioning that obscures our essence.
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