The Protector

 I am learning more about my little girl and the many ways she has tried to protect me.

For years, she whispered stories born of fear: You can’t trust people. You can’t trust yourself. You are not enough.

Those stories held me hostage for much of my life. None of them were true, but I didn’t know that then. I believed them.

Recovery changed that. Slowly, those emotional wounds began to heal, and my relationship with myself transformed. I learned self-compassion. I learned trust. I learned love for myself and others.

But my clever little girl found another way to protect me.

She moved into my body.

When pain arrived, she filled my mind with frightening stories. She kept me searching, fixing, trying harder. Doctor after doctor. Treatment after treatment. Yet nothing seemed to help.

Today, I see it more clearly.

It was never about my body.

It was about a frightened child and a nervous system that had been once again, trying to keep me safe.

How does a little girl protect herself?

She makes her world smaller.

When pain comes, she wants to pull inward. Stay home. Stay focused on her body. Figure out how to make the pain go away.

Just as she once taught me not to trust others, she now tries to protect me by keeping me confined.

But I see her now.

And I understand.

Fear does not get to decide the size of my life.

My little girl no longer gets to be my protector.

She gets to be what she always was—a sweet, sensitive child who deserves love, safety, and freedom.

My protector is no longer fear.

My protector is intuition.

And intuition always leads me toward life.

The Many Hiding Places

 For most of my life, the little girl inside me was looking for somewhere to hide.

Sometimes she hid behind relationships. Sometimes behind motherhood. Sometimes behind the hope that another person could make her feel safe.

But those were not her only hiding places.

She hid in creativity, disappearing for hours into projects, art, and imagination. Creating gave her relief from a world that often felt too harsh and overwhelming.

She hid in helping others too.

That began when I was young and eventually became part of my identity. Nearly every path I chose involved service, healing, teaching, or caring for others. There was genuine love in that, but there was also a frightened child who felt safer focusing on someone else’s needs than her own.

Over the years, there were other hiding places.

Food.

Alcohol.

Drugs.

Busyness.

Chaos.

Anything that could soften fear or pull attention away from what lived underneath.

None of these things were wrong. They were simply the ways I learned to survive.

But one by one, life has removed them.

The relationships.

The distractions.

The attachments.

Even much of the creativity that once filled my days has gone quiet.

And now she stands exposed.

The little girl who spent a lifetime searching for safety outside herself.

For a long time, that exposure felt terrifying.

Today, it feels different.

Today, I wonder if what I call exposure is really an invitation.

An invitation to stop hiding.

To stop running.

To stop looking outside myself for what has always been waiting within.

Perhaps this is not the end of her hiding places.

Perhaps it is the beginning of her freedom.

Holding Space With My Little Girl

My body has been calling for my attention all day.

Another wave of urgency.

Another invitation to listen.

Not long ago, fear would have taken over. I would have searched for answers, called doctors, wanted medicine, or rushed to the emergency room.

But something is different now.

Today, I am sitting beside the little girl inside me and reminding her that she is safe.

Safe even in discomfort.

Safe even in uncertainty.

Safe even when the body is loud.

I don’t know exactly what my body is trying to tell me.

Perhaps it is asking me to feel grief that has been waiting patiently beneath the surface.

Perhaps it simply wants my attention.

My kindness.

My presence.

What I do know is that beneath the urgency, I sense something deeper.

A child who spent years expecting punishment.

A child who learned to brace for what might happen next.

Today, I offer her a different message.

There will be no punishment.

No blame.

No fear.

Only love.

Only reassurance.

Only the gentle reminder that she no longer has to be afraid.

Saying Goodbye to the Punisher

 I grew up in a home where fear, shame, and blame were used as teachers.

There was little room for tenderness.

Little room for mistakes.

Little room to simply be a child.

So I learned to become my own punisher.

Though I was a good kid—sensitive, caring, and eager to please—some part of me came to believe that I deserved punishment. I carried that belief for years without ever understanding why.

As a teenager and young adult, the punishment lived in my thoughts. I judged myself harshly. Criticized myself relentlessly. Nothing ever felt good enough.

Then recovery entered my life.

Slowly, I learned compassion.

I learned to love myself.

I learned to quiet the cruel voice in my head.

But looking back, I can see that the punisher wasn’t finished.

It simply changed its form.

As the emotional suffering eased, physical pain stepped forward. Fibromyalgia. Chronic fatigue. Nerve pain. Bladder pain. The punisher no longer spoke through thoughts alone. It seemed to speak through my body.

Today, I see that pattern more clearly.

And today, I am ready to let it go.

Not by fighting it.

Not by fearing it.

But by recognizing that it no longer belongs to me.

The child I was never deserved punishment.

The woman I am does not deserve it either.

So this morning, I say goodbye to the punisher.

And I choose a different truth:

I am loved.

I am safe.

I am free from the past.

Glimpses of Freedom

 For much of my life, it was emotional pain that held me captive.

As a child, I never learned to feel good about myself. The punishment I received became a voice inside my own head, and over time I turned that punishment against myself.

I was hard on myself as a teenager.

Hard on myself as an adult.

There were seasons when the pain felt so overwhelming that I didn’t want to be here at all.

I wanted relief.

I wanted escape.

I wanted peace.

Recovery changed that.

Slowly, through years of healing, I learned compassion. I learned forgiveness. Eventually, I learned something I once thought impossible:

I learned to love myself.

But as the emotional pain softened, physical pain stepped forward.

First fibromyalgia.

Then chronic fatigue.

Then the nerve pain in my knees.

And later, the pain in my bladder.

Today, I can see how deeply pain has shaped my life. It runs through my story like a thread, weaving itself through loss, fear, relationships, and healing.

Sometimes I wonder what life would feel like without it.

Do I know what true freedom feels like?

Only in glimpses.

A walk on the beach.

A moment of laughter.

A quiet connection with God.

A morning when fear forgets to visit.

But perhaps those glimpses are enough.

Enough to remind me that freedom exists.

Enough to remind me that pain is not the whole story.

And enough to keep moving toward the light.

And to honor the truth that lives within me.