At your age? The Subtle Bias of Expectation

“At your age, you should know better! You should be thinking about your future, not messing about with friends. How will you get a job with no qualifications? Do you know what kind of life that will be?”

He shrank back into his seat. His friends slipped quietly out of the firing zone. He didn’t blame them; the sting of disappointment and disgust is hard to share. But he couldn’t help wondering why it was always him who got picked out. They’d all been messing about.

Expectation happens fast.

We size people up in an instant, especially young people.

The tall 13-year-old gets told to “act her age.”

The small 15-year-old is soothed like a child.

The teen who smiles through anxiety is praised for coping; the one who cries gets comforted.

We do this automatically, often without noticing. We can base care and compassion not on who someone is, but on how they appear.

We expect more emotional maturity, more control, more resilience from kids who look older, act “together,” or hide distress well. And we extend more patience, or fewer opportunities, to those who seem younger, quieter, or more obviously struggling.

And sometimes, the ones who look the most “together” are the ones who’ve already had to grow up far too soon. They’ve learned to mask and manage to stay safe, shaped by trauma, poverty, or neglect.

It’s also impossible to ignore how this bias falls unevenly. Black children, for instance, are often seen as older, tougher, or more responsible than their white peers. Research calls this adultification bias — the idea that they “should know better” or “can handle more.” Reports in England have found that Black children are more likely to be punished for things like “defiance” or “insubordination,” while white children get empathy and understanding.

Same behaviour. Different lens. Entirely different outcome.

And those mismatched expectations don’t just shape discipline; they shape how a young person sees themselves, what they think they’re worth, and whether they’ll risk asking for help.

It’s easy to tell ourselves we don’t hold these biases, but we all do.

They’re sneaky, rooted in how we’ve been taught to see capability and “maturity.”

If a young person knows they’re being treated differently, they might become angry, disconnected, or decide it’s not worth trying. If they don’t realise it, they’re often left with confusion, guilt, or a quiet sense of not being enough.

And either way, the connection is lost.

So, as professionals, we have to own it. Yes, you have bias. So do I. The point isn’t to deny it, but to notice it. Catch it in the moment. Ask yourself:

Whose expectations am I carrying into this room?

Who do I offer less grace to, and why?

That awareness alone can soften the dynamic in powerful ways.

Then there’s masking, the great invisible burden.

Some young people spend their days pretending to cope. Especially those who are neurodivergent, have unknown trauma, or have invisible conditions. They learn early that being “fine” earns approval and reduces risk.

But that performance comes at a cost: exhaustion, anxiety, burnout, identity confusion.

You can only hold the mask for so long before you forget where it ends and you begin.

In therapy, helping someone safely unmask, to be seen without performance, can be one of the most healing experiences we offer. But it takes trust. And time.

For young people in care or those navigating multiple professionals, the performance often becomes routine: smiling through assessments, proving they’re “coping,” managing others’ reactions. It’s heavy work.

Family systems add another layer.

Many of us grow up with fixed roles: “the capable one,” “the easy one,” “the problem.” These roles keep the family system stable, but they also limit how we’re seen. When school and home echo the same expectations, it can feel like love or safety has to be earned through coping.

The scripts sound like:

“I mustn’t make it harder for anyone.”

“They have it worse, so I’ll manage.”

“If I am quiet and small, then I won’t be noticed and therefore safe.

In therapy, this might be the first space where those roles get gently questioned. Where someone realises they can be cared for even when they’re not holding it all together.

True attunement, the real work, means seeing the person in front of us, not our idea of who they should be.

Invisibility doesn’t always mean being unseen; sometimes it means being seen through the wrong lens.

And maybe that’s part of what we offer in the counselling room: a place to lay down both burdens, the weight of being underestimated and the pressure of being over-expected.

To offer grace not based on what we see, but on what’s truly needed.

🍃💛 Moment to reflect: Whose expectations do I hold unconsciously in the room? Who am I offering less grace to?

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