Pain and Passion

 A few months into learning Inner Child work, about thirty years ago, I discovered something I didn’t expect.

I found a passion.

I became deeply interested in understanding the little girl inside me and the healing that could happen when we learned to listen to her, love her, and give her what she needed.

That passion didn’t fade.

It is still alive in me today.

And now, thirty years later, something unexpected has happened again.

This past year, as I’ve faced physical issues and chronic pain, I found myself drawn into learning about the nervous system.

At first, I wasn’t looking for another passion.

I was looking for answers.

But in the last few weeks, I’ve realized that something familiar is happening.

I’m fascinated.

I want to learn.

I want to understand.

And I want to teach what I’m discovering.

There is something about the nervous system that feels strangely connected to the Inner Child work I’ve been doing for decades.

Both invite me to listen more deeply.

Both ask me to understand rather than judge.

Both remind me that patterns can develop for very good reasons, even when those patterns no longer serve us.

And both seem to point toward the same thing:

Healing begins with compassion.

It’s almost as though a new door has opened.

I never would have chosen chronic pain as the way to find it.

But perhaps that is one of the mysteries of life.

Sometimes something difficult leads us somewhere we never expected to go.

And here I am again.

Learning.

Discovering.

And feeling that familiar spark of passion come alive.

The Kind of Pain Others Can’t See

 From the time I was a youngster and well into my adult life, I carried a kind of pain that no one could see.

Emotional pain.

As an adult, I became very good at disguising it.

Even the people closest to me had no idea how much I was suffering internally.

I could smile.

I could take care of things.

From the outside, everything looked good.

But inside, there was a very different story.

It wasn’t until I came into recovery that I began to reveal those hidden parts of myself.

Little by little, I started telling the truth.

I began doing the healing work.

I began allowing myself to feel the things I had spent years trying not to feel.

And then, fairly early in my recovery, I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia.

At the time, I had no idea what that meant.

It took years before I really began to understand my experience with it.

Once again, I was living with a kind of pain that other people couldn’t see.

But this time, I wasn’t hiding it.

I talked about it.

I acknowledged it.

And yet, initially, there was still some shame.

There was something about having an illness that other people couldn’t see that made me question myself.

Could people really understand how I felt?

Would they believe me?

Was I somehow supposed to be stronger?

Looking back, I can see the irony.

I had spent years hiding emotional pain because no one could see it.

Then I had physical pain that no one could see.

Different pain.

But both taught me something about what it means to live with an experience that exists inside you, even when the outside world can’t see it.

Maybe that is one of the greatest lessons I’ve learned:

Just because pain can’t be seen doesn’t mean it isn’t real.

And just because someone else can’t see what I’m carrying doesn’t mean I have to carry it alone.

And a good reminder that we never know what somebody else is going through either.

Pain Management

 When I look back at the chapters of my life, I can see how pain management has been woven through my story.

Even as a little girl, I was looking for ways to feel okay when I didn’t really feel okay.

I felt trapped.

I felt unsafe.

And I found whatever I could to help me escape those feelings.

As I moved into adulthood, some of my choices in relationships weren’t healthy. But looking back, I can see that I was still trying to manage pain.

There have been so many chapters where pain management became part of my life.

Addiction was a big one.

And it was painful.

Then came the loss of my child.

The loss of my partner.

And physical pain that has come and gone in different forms for the last thirty years.

Different pain.

Different chapters.

For most of my life, I thought pain management meant finding something outside of myself that would make the pain go away.

I learned to rise above it, time after time.

I learned to embrace the lessons.

Now I’m wondering if this chapter is asking me to learn something different.

Maybe it’s about surrendering pain management?

My Three Mantras

 There are three things I say to myself many times a day.

The first is:

I am loved.

The second is:

I am safe.

And the third is:

I am free of the past.

The first two feel true to me today.

I do feel loved.

And I love myself.

That wasn’t always true. I spent many years carrying shame and questioning my worth. But today, I can honestly say that love is something I feel inside myself.

I also feel safe.

I live in a quiet little neighborhood, and I’ve made choices about what I allow into my environment. I gave up watching the news entirely. I don’t want to bring all of that fear and suffering into my home—or into my consciousness.

I am safe.

But the third mantra is different.

I am free of the past.

That is something I have to continually work on.

Because at this period of my life, I sometimes feel more connected to that little girl than I ever have before.

I can feel the things she went through.

I can feel her fear.

I can feel how deeply some of those experiences affected her.

And some days, it’s hard to feel all of that.

But maybe this is part of healing.

Maybe healing isn’t always about leaving the past behind.

Maybe sometimes it means being willing to face the places that still need love.

I don’t have to be discouraged because I’m still discovering things.

I don’t have to believe I’ve failed because something from the past still touches me.

I can simply remind myself:

I am loved.

I am safe.

And little by little,

I am becoming free of the past.