Is Our Personality Shaped by Our Parents—or by Ourselves?

By Young B. Lee

Is our personality shaped by our parents, or do we shape it ourselves? This is a question I have asked myself for many years.

There is an old Korean saying: "Habits formed at three last until eighty." The saying dates back to a time when the average human lifespan was less than fifty years.

Today, the average life expectancy in Korea is about eighty-six years. Yet the old saying still seems to suggest that the personality and habits formed in childhood remain with us throughout our lives. But where do the habits and personality of a three-year-old come from? It would not be unreasonable to say that they come largely from the parents who brought us into the world and raised us.

Still, I find myself asking: Is it really true that habits formed at three last a lifetime? What do you, my readers, think?

My own answer would be, "Half true and half false." But perhaps the question is not one that can be answered so simply.

As I looked around and reflected on the lives of others, I noticed something interesting. Many people who grew up with loving parents went on to lead stable, fulfilling lives. Yet there were also those who overcame difficult childhood circumstances and became equally healthy, well-adjusted adults.

One such person was a woman I met many years ago, when she was about thirty.

She was outgoing, capable, cheerful, and optimistic. She was intelligent, yet modest, never one to boast about herself. She also had a wonderful sense of humor.

What surprised me even more was her childhood.

She had lost her father to war when she was only two years old. Her mother had gone abroad to study and, after returning home, was occupied with responsibilities in government heavy service. It was hardly the kind of childhood environment one might expect to produce such a well-balanced personality.

How could someone with such a background have become such a remarkable person?

It was difficult to explain in terms of what I thought I knew about personality development.

That woman, who had raised such a profound question in my mind, later became my wife.

Like most married couples, we sometimes quarrel. When that happens, we may stop speaking to each other. But my wife can rarely endure the silence for more than two days.

Eventually, she offers a truce.

"I'm sorry. I was wrong."

The truth is, I am usually the one at fault. But my pride keeps me from admitting it.

So I ask, "What did you do wrong?"

And she answers, "I don't know!"

At that point, neither of us can help bursting into laughter.

During our marriage, whenever my behavior upsets her, my wife sometimes turns to my older brother, whose temperament is much gentler than mine, to share her frustrations.

My brother usually responds, "You know, we brothers all grew up without a mother. That's why we are the way we are. Please try to understand and forgive him."

Sharing her frustrations may bring my wife some relief, but my brother's explanation does little to solve the problem.

My wife firmly believes that while one's parents may be responsible for certain difficulties in childhood, continuing to blame them after the age of forty is hardly a healthy way to live.

As for me, it was not until long after I had studied psychology that I began to understand myself.

My personality, which had begun taking shape in early childhood, was undoubtedly influenced by my strict father.

I had little difficulty developing trust in others, but I struggled with autonomy. I was inclined toward self-doubt and was often painfully shy, sometimes burdened by feelings of shame.

Once I recognized these traits in myself, I began making a conscious effort to change them.

There was another experience that remains vivid in my memory.

When I first studied child development, I began to feel that my strict father had somehow robbed me of my childhood. I wanted to confront him, to ask why he had raised me with such severity.

But when I finally stood before him, something unexpected happened.

Where had the father who had frightened me so deeply as a child gone?

Sitting before me was simply an old man, his hair completely white, his stern face mellow.

I felt a sudden tenderness toward him, almost a sense of sorrow.

All the words I had wanted to say remained unspoken.

Did I forgive my father that day? Or had I finally begun to understand him?

After that, I continued trying to change myself.

Ten years. Twenty years. Thirty years. Forty years.

I could never run like a rabbit, but I kept moving forward, little by little, like a tortoise.

Now, well into my nineties, I can still recognize traces of the personality shaped by my father during my childhood. Those shadows have not entirely disappeared.

Yet I feel that I have become, at least, a little freer than I once was.

Perhaps, after all, we spend our entire lives becoming who we are.

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