The Sister Wound

 Some wounds are easy to name.

This one isn’t.

When I think of my sister, I think of confusion.

As children, we did not get along. I didn’t trust her, and she likely didn’t trust me.

As adults, things became more complicated.

We laughed together. Shared holidays, conversations, and pieces of our lives. At times, she felt like a friend.

And yet, beneath the surface, something never felt safe.

I often felt two versions of my sister existed at once—the one who loved me to my face and the one who spoke differently when I wasn’t in the room.

For most of my life, I pushed those feelings aside.

I wanted to believe we were closer than we were.

She was often the first person I called when I was hurting. I shared secrets, fears, and parts of myself that were precious to me.

Again and again, I chose trust.

And again and again, something inside me felt betrayed.

For sixty years, I swallowed that truth.

Not because I didn’t see it.

Because I didn’t want to.

The loss of a sister’s love is a painful thing to face.

Eventually, something inside me could no longer pretend.

The relationship ended.

Not with understanding.

Not with closure.

Just with a quiet recognition that I could no longer abandon myself to preserve the illusion of what I wished our relationship could be.

Today, I don’t know if I am completely over the hurt.

The betrayal.

The disappointment.

Perhaps healing is not about erasing those feelings.

Perhaps it is about allowing them to be true.

And sitting with them long enough to discover what remains after the grief has spoken.

Coming Home to Myself

 I have walked a long road.

A road marked by fear and love,

loss and awakening,

grief and grace.

There were times I thought the storms would break me.

They didn’t.

Instead, they taught me how to stand.

How to feel.

How to trust.

The little girl who spent her life searching for safety is still with me.

But she is no longer hiding.

She is seen.

She is loved.

And the woman I have become no longer needs to earn her worth, prove her goodness, or search outside herself for belonging.

What was never mine to carry, I am learning to set down.

The shame.

The fear.

The stories that told me I was not enough.

In their place, something quieter has emerged.

Trust.

Compassion.

Freedom.

I have learned that love does not punish.

That grief and joy can share the same heart.

That healing is not becoming someone new—

it is remembering who you were before the world taught you to be afraid.

Today, I carry both my scars and my wisdom.

Both my losses and my blessings.

Both the child I was and the woman I have become.

And for the first time in my life, they belong to each other.

They belong to me.

I am not arriving anywhere.

I am returning.

Returning to the truth beneath the fear.

Returning to the love that never left.

Returning to myself.

The Good Little Girl

 I continue to live with pain.

But this morning, something became clear.

For years, I have done everything the doctors asked of me. Tests. Treatments. Procedures. Appointments.

I followed the rules.

I was the good patient.

And yet, here I am.

Still searching.

Still hurting.

As I sat with that truth, I saw something deeper.

A little girl who learned early that safety came from obedience.

A child who feared punishment if she questioned authority.

A child who learned to trust everyone else’s voice before her own.

I have carried her into every doctor’s office.

Into every decision.

Into every attempt to find relief.

But today, something is changing.

Today, I feel invited to listen more closely to my own inner knowing.

To trust myself.

To stop searching for someone else to rescue me.

What needs healing most may not be my ability to follow instructions.

It may be the fear that tells me I am not allowed to choose for myself.

The fear that says I will be punished if I step outside the lines.

So today, I sit with that frightened little girl.

And together, we practice something new.

Not rebellion.

Not defiance.

Freedom.

The freedom to listen.

The freedom to trust.

The freedom to believe that our voice matters too.

The Quiet Return

 After I surrendered control,

the first thing I noticed was stillness.

Not the absence of pain.

The absence of struggle.

For the first time,
I was no longer fighting my body
or demanding that it change.

I was listening.

And somewhere inside,
the little girl began to emerge.

Curious.

But not feeling safe yet.

She had spent a lifetime waiting
to be met with kindness.

Now, at last, she was.

I began noticing small things:

A softer breath.

A relaxed shoulder.

The warmth of sunlight on my skin.

The quiet moment of simply being alive.

Nothing dramatic.

Just small moments of peace
appearing where fear once lived.

Slowly, I began to trust myself.

To trust my feelings.
My instincts.
My body.

To trust that pain could be present
without defining me.

That grief could visit
without destroying me.

And in that gentle surrender,
something unexpected returned.

Little trickles of joy.

Not the fragile happiness
that depends on circumstances.

But something deeper.

Steadier.

A quiet knowing that whispered:

I am here.

I am safe.

I am enough.