Nothing will test your worldview faster than a stubborn child and a plate of peas. I found that out when my daughter was four or five, sitting at our kitchen table with her arms crossed and that particular glint in her eyes that said she’d rather face certain doom than swallow a single green sphere.
One evening I told her, ‘You’re not leaving this table until you eat your peas.’ The words left my mouth with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet realized they were declaring war on a miniature version of themselves. She simply tightened her crossed arms, pressed her lips together, and entered what I can only describe as a state of peaceful resistance.
I tried bargaining—’Just a spoonful and you can be done’—employing the reasonable tone I reserved for important negotiations. She remained unmoved, a tiny statue of defiance. We cleared the other dishes around her, set up a board game on the table, played with her siblings while she watched from her pea-guarding post. Her brothers put on pajamas, watched television just out of her line of sight, went to bed. Still she sat, the peas growing cold beside her folded hands.
When I returned after putting the others to sleep, I found her slumped over in sleep, head resting on the table beside the untouched peas. Our dog had his front paws on the chair, quietly enjoying what my daughter had so resolutely refused.
That moment—seeing those peas disappear into the dog’s mouth while my daughter slept—became something more than a failed dinner negotiation. It became the beginning of a quiet unraveling. Why had these small green orbs taken on such monumental importance? What was really at stake here beyond nutrition or manners?
Everything I thought I understood about parenting, authority, and what matters began to feel less solid. The experience pushed my beliefs to their edges, revealing fractures I hadn’t noticed before. That plate of peas became a mirror reflecting back all the unexamined assumptions I carried about how the world should work, how children should behave, and what it means to be a good parent.
This seemingly insignificant standoff started a process of deconstruction that would eventually touch much more than my approach to vegetables. It began with a simple question that echoed in the quiet kitchen: Why did these peas matter so much that I was willing to turn dinner into a battle of wills? The answer, it turned out, had very little to do with peas at all.
The Many Faces of Deconstruction
When I first encountered the term deconstruction, it sounded like academic jargon—something reserved for postmodern philosophers debating in ivory towers. But as I sat at that dinner table, staring at my daughter’s untouched peas, I realized deconstruction wasn’t an abstract concept. It was something happening right there, in the quiet tension between a parent’s expectation and a child’s defiance.
Deconstruction, in its academic sense, traces back to French philosopher Jacques Derrida, who introduced it in the mid-20th century as a method to challenge rigid, authoritarian narratives—whether fascist, Marxist, or ideological. It’s the process of peeling back layers of meaning, questioning assumptions, and exposing contradictions within texts, beliefs, and systems. At its heart, deconstruction is about humility: recognizing that our most cherished beliefs might be built on shaky foundations.
But deconstruction isn’t just for philosophers. Think of it like reverse engineering. When an unexploded missile lands in foreign territory, engineers don’t just destroy it. They take it apart, piece by piece, to understand how it works—its triggers, its wiring, its intent. Only then can they build something better, or at least avoid its dangers. That’s what I needed to do with my beliefs about parenting, peas, and control. I had to dismantle my own emotional and ideological missile before it caused real harm.
There’s also a gentler, organic side to deconstruction—one I find even more compelling. Think of a seed. It doesn’t destroy its shell out of anger or rebellion. It simply grows, gently cracking open the husk that once protected it, making room for what it’s meant to become. Deconstruction, in this sense, isn’t about tearing down for the sake of chaos. It’s about making space for growth.
In the world of therapy, particularly narrative therapy pioneered by thinkers like Michael White, deconstruction becomes a practical tool for healing. People come into counseling carrying stories that weigh them down: “I’m not good enough,” “This relationship is doomed,” “I must always be in control.” Through deconstruction, we learn to take those stories apart—examining where they came from, who benefited from them, and what they leave out. We untangle the narrative thread by thread until it loses its power to define us.
That’s what happened with me and the peas. I didn’t just abandon my beliefs—I took them apart. Why did I think forcing a child to eat vegetables was a moral imperative? Where did that idea come from? My own upbringing? Cultural norms? Fear of being judged as a “bad parent”? Once I started asking those questions, the belief began to loosen its grip.
Deconstruction, in all its forms, is an act of curiosity, not condemnation. It’s not about declaring everything meaningless, but about asking what really matters—and being willing to listen, even when the answer surprises us.
The Belief System Behind Peas: A Self-Deconstruction Practice
That night at the dinner table, something far deeper than vegetable consumption was at stake. As I stared at my daughter’s determined face and that untouched pile of peas, I began to recognize the intricate web of beliefs I had constructed around this simple green vegetable. What appeared to be a simple parenting moment was actually the collision of multiple deeply held convictions.
Nutritional Beliefs: The Authority of Healthy Eating
The Food and Drug Administration lists peas as a healthy green vegetable, positioned firmly at the base of the food pyramid. This wasn’t just about peas; it was about my entire understanding of nutrition and health. I believed in giving unfamiliar foods a chance, in developing tastes beyond immediate preferences. The nutritional science, the government guidelines, the cultural consensus—all pointed to peas as objectively good. My insistence wasn’t arbitrary; it felt scientifically and socially validated. Yet in that moment, I had to question whether nutritional guidance should ever become nutritional dogma, whether health recommendations should override personal autonomy, even for a child.
Parenting Philosophy: Authority and Obedience
I operated under the assumption that parents should guide firmly, even when met with resistance. This belief stemmed from my own upbringing—my mother made me eat my peas, and I turned out fine, didn’t I? There’s a certain parenting tradition that values respect for authority, that sees parental directives as inherently beneficial. I believed that sometimes children need to do things they don’t want to do because adults know better. But watching my sleeping daughter, her peas eaten by the dog, I wondered: when does guidance become coercion? When does teaching become bullying? The line seemed much thinner than I had previously acknowledged.
Ethical Considerations: Respect and Gratitude
A deeper layer emerged around food respect and gratitude. I believed in honoring the food on our plates—this pea plant had sacrificed its life for our nourishment. Someone had grown these peas, harvested them, transported them, and I had purchased and cooked them. The least we could do was eat them rather than let them go to waste. There’s a moral dimension to food consumption that transcends personal preference, connecting us to broader systems of production and consumption. Yet I had to ask myself: does forcing a child to eat something they genuinely dislike actually teach gratitude? Or does it create resentment toward both the food and the concept of thankfulness?
Character Values: Stubbornness as Virtue
Perhaps most revealing was my belief in stubbornness itself. I valued persistence, determination, seeing things through—qualities I wanted to instill in my children. I believed that not taking the easy way out built character. In my mind, this pea standoff wasn’t just about vegetables; it was about teaching resilience. But as the hours passed, I recognized the irony: in trying to teach her not to be stubborn about peas, I was demonstrating exactly the kind of inflexibility I supposedly wanted to avoid. I was teaching stubbornness by modeling stubbornness, creating the very pattern I hoped to prevent.
The Deconstruction Process: Peeling Back the Layers
Deconstructing these beliefs required examining each layer separately while understanding how they interconnected. The nutritional belief wasn’t wrong—peas are nutritious. The parenting philosophy contained wisdom—children do need guidance. The ethical consideration had merit—food waste matters. The value of persistence is real. The problem emerged not in the beliefs themselves but in their application, in their absolute enforcement without consideration of context, individual differences, or competing values.
I began asking different questions: Why did this particular battle feel so important? What was I really trying to prove? Was this about her health or my authority? Was this about nutrition or winning? The answers were uncomfortable. I realized I had elevated peas from a food item to a symbol—a symbol of my parenting competence, of my ability to pass on values, of maintaining control. The peas had become what theologians might call an idol—something good that had taken on ultimate importance.
This deconstruction wasn’t about rejecting these beliefs entirely but about understanding their proper place and proportion. Nutritional guidance matters, but not more than a child’s emotional well-being. Parental authority is important, but not as an end in itself. Gratitude for food is valuable, but not when enforced through coercion. Persistence is virtuous, but not when it becomes inflexibility.
The process felt like taking apart a complex machine to see how it worked—examining each gear and spring, understanding how they connected, and then reassembling it with better awareness of its function and limitations. I emerged not with fewer beliefs but with more nuanced ones, not with less conviction but with better-understood convictions.
That plate of peas became my personal laboratory for understanding how beliefs operate, how they can both guide and constrain us, and how sometimes the most important growth comes not from defending our beliefs but from examining them.
Beyond Peas: When Beliefs Become Idols
My daughter’s standoff with a plate of peas wasn’t some unique parental failure—it was a miniature version of what happens when any belief becomes disproportionately important. We all have our peas, those small things that somehow come to represent everything we think matters in life. The process of making something small carry immense significance is what I’ve come to call idolatry, though I’m using the term more psychologically than theologically.
Consider the exvangelicals—those raised in conservative evangelical homes who now find themselves questioning everything. They’re not rejecting faith lightly. They’re responding to genuine pain: the homophobia they witnessed, the scientific denial they were taught, the misogyny they experienced, the racial biases they inherited, the political polarization they endured, and the sexual abuse cover-ups they discovered. Their deconstruction isn’t about rebellion; it’s about integrity. When the system you were told was perfect shows cracks, you don’t just patch them—you examine the entire foundation.
I’ve sat with enough people in my counseling practice to recognize patterns. There’s the woman who believed in romance the way I believed in peas. She wasn’t just hoping for a good relationship; she had built an entire worldview around finding her perfect soulmate. Romantic comedies had become her scripture, dating apps her ritual, and every failed relationship felt like theological failure. Her deconstruction began when she realized that searching for Prince Charming was preventing her from seeing actual human beings.
Then there’s the man who believed being right justified everything. He could demolish relationships, hurt people, even become physically aggressive—all while maintaining moral superiority because technically, factually, he was correct. His belief in rightness had become so inflated that it crowded out compassion, empathy, and basic human connection. His deconstruction started when being right left him utterly alone.
The addicts who come to my office aren’t just struggling with substances; they’re wrestling with belief systems. The alcohol isn’t the problem—it’s the belief that alcohol matters more than anything else. The compulsive hand-washer isn’t just afraid of germs; he believes that his ritual has ultimate significance. In each case, something small has been asked to carry cosmic weight.
Nationalism and racism operate on similar principles. They take the natural human tendency to form groups and inflate it into something ultimate. Your race or nation becomes not just part of your identity but the central organizing principle of reality itself. I’ve watched people destroy relationships, careers, even their own peace of mind because they believed their racial purity or national superiority mattered above all else.
Marriages often become battlefields of competing beliefs. Couples will spend years proving points to each other, each conversation another skirmish in a war where being right matters more than being connected. I’ve seen people choose being correct over being loved, winning arguments over maintaining relationships. They’re not fighting about dishes or schedules or money—they’re fighting because they’ve made their position into an idol.
What all these situations share is disproportion. Something limited—peas, romance, correctness, substances, rituals, race, nation, being right—gets asked to do infinite work. It’s like using a teacup to bail out a flooding ship; the tool isn’t wrong, but the expectation is absurd.
The psychological function of these beliefs often starts reasonably enough. We develop rules, principles, and values that help us navigate complexity. The problem comes when these tools become masters instead of servants. The map becomes more important than the territory. The recipe matters more than the meal.
Deconstruction in these cases isn’t about destruction but about recalibration. It’s recognizing when something has taken on more significance than it deserves and gently—or sometimes forcefully—returning it to its proper size. The exvangelical isn’t rejecting God but rejecting a too-small God. The romantic isn’t abandoning love but seeking something deeper than fantasy. The argumentative spouse isn’t surrendering truth but discovering that being right is empty without connection.
This process always feels dangerous because we’ve invested so much in these beliefs. Letting go of inflated significance can feel like losing everything. But in reality, we’re making space for what actually matters by clearing out what only pretended to matter.
The work isn’t easy. It requires examining why we gave something so much power in the first place. Often, it’s because we’re afraid—afraid of complexity, afraid of uncertainty, afraid of having to constantly figure things out. Beliefs that become idols usually promise simplicity and certainty in exchange for our flexibility and curiosity.
But the freedom on the other side is worth the discomfort. When peas are just peas again, when being right is just being right, when romance is just one aspect of relationship—then we can actually engage with reality rather than our ideas about reality. We can respond to what’s actually happening rather than what we believe should be happening.
The most hopeful part is that this deconstruction often leads to reconstruction. Not always—sometimes things fall apart and stay apart—but often, by clearing away the inflated beliefs, we make space for something more authentic to grow. The exvangelical might find a faith that’s deeper because it’s chosen rather than inherited. The romantic might discover love that’s more satisfying because it’s real rather than ideal. The argumentative spouse might find connection that’s more meaningful because it’s built on mutual understanding rather than victory.
My daughter’s peas taught me that when something feels overwhelmingly important, it’s worth asking whether I’ve made it into an idol. The tension I felt wasn’t about vegetables but about all the meaning I’d loaded onto those small green spheres. Letting go of that meaning didn’t make peas unimportant—it just made them peas again.
And sometimes, that’s exactly what we need: to see things as they are, not as we’ve made them out to be.
The Path Forward: Rebuilding After Deconstruction
Deconstruction can feel like standing in the rubble of your own beliefs. The familiar structures have come down, and what remains is uncertainty. Yet this space, however disorienting, is where genuine growth begins. The process isn’t about destruction for its own sake, but about clearing away what no longer serves us to make room for something more authentic.
Recognizing Our Personal Idols
The first step in reconstruction is recognizing what we’ve made into idols. These aren’t necessarily golden calves or stone statues; they’re the beliefs we’ve elevated beyond their proper significance. My peas became an idol when they represented everything from nutritional wisdom to parental authority.
You’ll know you’ve encountered an idol when a seemingly small issue triggers disproportionate emotion. That tightness in your chest when your teenager questions your political views? The surge of anger when someone challenges your parenting approach? The defensive posture when your religious beliefs face scrutiny? These emotional responses often signal that something has become more than just an opinion—it’s become part of your identity.
I’ve found it helpful to ask myself: “What would happen if I turned out to be wrong about this?” If the thought feels threatening or impossible to entertain, you might be dealing with an idol. The evangelical who can’t imagine a loving God outside their specific doctrine, the progressive who can’t tolerate questioning of social justice narratives, the parent who can’t consider alternative educational approaches—all might be holding something too tightly.
Dissecting Belief Structures
Once you’ve identified a potential idol, the real work begins. Take that belief and lay it out on the examination table of your mind. Where did it come from? My pea obsession traced back to childhood dinners, nutritional guidelines, and cultural messages about waste and respect.
Ask yourself these questions about any belief you’re examining:
- When did I first adopt this belief?
- Who taught it to me, and what was their motivation?
- What evidence supports this belief?
- What experiences challenge it?
- What would I lose by modifying this belief?
- Who would I disappoint if I changed my mind?
This isn’t about finding the “right” answer but about understanding the architecture of your conviction. Often, we find beliefs built on foundations of fear, social acceptance, or childhood programming rather than thoughtful examination.
Evaluating True Value
Not all beliefs need discarding. The goal isn’t nihilistic rejection but proportional valuation. My belief that vegetables are nutritious didn’t need throwing out—it needed contextualizing. Nutrition matters, but not more than my relationship with my daughter or her developing autonomy.
I’ve developed a simple framework for this evaluation. Imagine a scale from 1 to 10, where 1 is “barely matters” and 10 is “matters absolutely.” Now rate your belief about peas, politics, parenting, or whatever you’re examining. Then ask: What else deserves a 10? Love? Health? Integrity? Connection?
If your belief about peas scores an 8 but your child’s emotional well-being scores a 9, you have your answer. The problem isn’t the belief itself but its disproportionate weighting in your personal value system.
Constructing Healthier Frameworks
Reconstruction isn’t about finding perfect beliefs but developing flexible, humble frameworks that can evolve with new information. After the pea incident, I didn’t abandon nutrition—I developed a more nuanced approach that included my daughter’s autonomy and our relationship dynamics.
I think of it as building with Lego rather than carving in stone. Stone constructions are permanent and fragile—they break under pressure and can’t be modified. Lego structures can be reconfigured, expanded, or partially dismantled as needed.
My nutritional beliefs became Lego. Some pieces stayed: “Vegetables provide important nutrients.” Some modified: “Children need exposure to various foods but also autonomy in eating.” Some added: “Mealtime atmosphere and relationship matter more than perfect consumption.”
Practical Exercises for Daily Deconstruction
The beauty of deconstruction is that you don’t need a philosophy degree to practice it—just willingness to question yourself. Here are simple ways to incorporate this thinking into daily life:
The Why Ladder: When you feel strongly about something, ask “why” five times. “I believe children should clean their plates.” Why? “Because food shouldn’t be wasted.” Why? “Because people are starving.” Why? “Because resources aren’t distributed equally.” Why? “Because of systemic economic issues.” Why? Suddenly your plate-cleaning rule carries the weight of global economic inequality—probably more than it should bear.
Belief Auditing: Set a monthly reminder to examine one strongly held belief. Research its origins, alternatives, and evidence. Talk to someone who disagrees—not to convince them but to understand their perspective.
Emotional Flagging: Notice when you feel defensive, angry, or threatened in conversations. These emotions often signal beliefs that might need examination.
The Funeral Exercise: Imagine attending the funeral of your belief. What would people say about it? What would they say about you for holding it? What might be buried with it? What new space would its death create?
These practices aren’t about reaching final answers but about maintaining intellectual humility and flexibility. The goal isn’t to be right but to be in right relationship with reality—which, as far as I can tell, is far more complex and mysterious than any of our beliefs can capture.
The reconstruction process is ongoing. I still catch myself making idols of new beliefs, still find areas where my thinking has hardened without my noticing. But now I have tools to notice, to question, to adjust. And that, I’ve found, matters far more than any particular belief about peas, parenting, or anything else.
Finding What Really Matters
Deconstruction brings you to a peculiar crossroads where certainty meets doubt and neither seems to offer clear directions. After dismantling old beliefs about parenting, faith, or relationships, you’re left standing amid the rubble wondering what deserves to be rebuilt. This moment of disorientation isn’t failure—it’s the necessary precondition for finding what actually matters rather than what we’ve been told should matter.
The philosophical tension between certainty and uncertainty becomes palpable here. We crave solid ground beneath our feet, yet the very process of deconstruction reveals that most foundations are less stable than we imagined. The parenting books that promised guaranteed results, the religious doctrines that claimed absolute truth, the cultural narratives that prescribed life paths—all prove more fragile under examination. Yet this uncertainty isn’t something to fear but to embrace as intellectual honesty. The willingness to sit with “I don’t know” might be the most honest position we can occupy in a complex world.
Practical wisdom emerges not from finding permanent answers but from developing better questions. Instead of asking “What is the right way to parent?” we might ask “What does this specific child need in this moment?” Rather than seeking “The One True Belief System,” we might explore “Which values help me become more compassionate and present?” This shift from absolute to contextual thinking represents the real growth deconstruction makes possible. It’s the difference between looking for a finished map and learning how to navigate with a compass.
This ongoing process of evaluation and re-evaluation becomes itself the skill that matters most. Like developing musical ear through practice, we gradually become better at discerning what deserves our commitment and what doesn’t. The parent who deconstructed their rigid feeding rules might develop greater sensitivity to their child’s autonomy while still providing nutritional guidance. The person who deconstructed their religious upbringing might develop a more personal spirituality less dependent on institutional approval. The partner who deconstructed their romantic fantasies might build more authentic relationships based on mutual growth rather than perfect harmony.
Viewing deconstruction as an evolutionary tool changes everything. We’re not destroying our past selves but shedding perspectives that no longer serve us, like trees losing leaves to make room for new growth. Each round of examination leaves us with slightly better questions, slightly more nuanced understanding, slightly greater capacity to hold complexity without needing to resolve it prematurely. The goal isn’t reaching some final destination of enlightenment but becoming more comfortable with the journey itself.
Perhaps what really matters is precisely this willingness to keep looking without pretending we’ve found definitive answers. The humility to acknowledge that our current understanding is always partial. The courage to change our minds when evidence warrants it. The compassion to recognize that others are on their own journeys of figuring things out. These orientations might matter more than any specific belief we hold at any given moment.
I’ve come to appreciate that not knowing what really matters might be more honest than claiming certainty. The search itself—conducted with curiosity rather than desperation, with openness rather than dogma—becomes what gives life depth and meaning. We’re all just figuring it out as we go, sometimes getting it right, often getting it wrong, but hopefully learning something each time we reassess our assumptions.
So we end where we began: with a parent and child at a table, but now with slightly different questions. Not “How do I make her eat peas?” but “What’s actually important here?” Not “Who’s winning this power struggle?” but “What kind of relationship am I building?” The answers might change from moment to moment, situation to situation, and that’s exactly as it should be.
The End of the Peas
That plate of peas still sits in my memory, not as a monument to parental failure, but as a turning point. The dog got his snack, my daughter kept her autonomy, and I gained something far more valuable than obedience—a crack in my certainty that let the light in. We never spoke of the peas again, but their legacy shaped our relationship in ways I couldn’t have predicted.
Deconstruction, I’ve come to understand, isn’t the destination but the doorway. It’s not about arriving at some final truth but about developing the courage to question the truths we’ve inherited. That night at the dinner table wasn’t the end of my parenting journey; it was the beginning of a more authentic one. I stopped seeing my role as enforcing rules and started seeing it as guiding a human being toward her own wisdom.
What surprises me most isn’t how wrong I was about the peas, but how many other areas of my life needed similar examination. The process that began with a vegetable became a lens through which I viewed everything from my work to my relationships to my deepest values. Each time I peel back another layer of assumption, I find both discomfort and liberation waiting underneath.
This ongoing work of examination and re-examination has become my most reliable compass. Not because it points toward fixed answers, but because it keeps me asking better questions. The moment I think I’ve finally figured out what really matters is the moment I need to start deconstructing again.
So here we are, you and I, at the end of this particular exploration. The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m writing about the limitations of certainty while trying to offer something meaningful. Perhaps the most honest thing I can say is that I’m still figuring this out as I go, still learning to distinguish between what matters and what really matters.
Right now, it matters that I finish this essay so we can both return to the ongoing work of our lives. Does any of this really matter? I suppose we’ll have to keep taking things apart to find out.
