Discovering What’s Beyond Survival

 Today, I can look back at that little girl with compassion instead of judgment. I can acknowledge just how painful her world once felt without becoming lost in it myself.

Because something else is true, too.

She made it here.

She grew up.

She found recovery.

She discovered spirituality, love, and purpose. She learned to help others. She found a passion for understanding the wounds of childhood and helping people learn to care for the little ones inside themselves.

She became a woman who has lived, loved, lost, and continued to grow.

She discovered a strength she could never have imagined when she was a frightened little girl.

And she is still here.

I think sometimes I forget how far we have come.

I become so focused on what still hurts, what remains unresolved, and what I am still trying to understand that I forget to acknowledge the journey itself.

Perhaps I have spent so many years trying to heal her that I haven’t fully stopped to appreciate the fact that she survived.

She doesn’t need me to keep searching for every painful memory.

She doesn’t need me to keep reopening every wound to prove that what happened mattered.

So, little girl, I want you to know something.

I understand how badly you wanted the pain to stop.

I wish you hadn’t felt so alone.

I wish someone had helped you carry what was too heavy for you.

You deserved comfort, protection, and love.

But you made it here.

And you don’t have to keep living inside that painful story to be remembered, loved, or understood.

I will not deny what happened to you.

I will not ask you to pretend it didn’t hurt.

But I will gently remind you that our story did not end there.

We are allowed to experience joy.

We are allowed to feel peace.

We are allowed to look toward the future without carrying every sorrow from the past.

Perhaps this is what surrender means for me now.

Not abandoning my little girl.

Not forgetting her pain.

She has waited a long time for peace.

And maybe, little by little, we can allow ourselves to discover it.

Not by erasing the past.

But by remembering to live in the day.

A Child’s Fantasy

 This is going to be a hard blog to write, but it is part of my story.

Some children fantasize about becoming veterinarians, marrying Prince Charming, or growing up to live wonderful lives.

My little girl had a different fantasy.

She fantasized about dying.

The pain she lived with was so great, and she had nowhere to take it. She carried the burden alone, without knowing how to make sense of what she was feeling or how to find relief.

There was the loneliness.

There was the fear of making a mistake and risking a beating.

There was the feeling of being trapped in a life she didn’t know how to change.

And somewhere in her young mind, death came to represent a peaceful place. A place where the fear might finally stop and the pain might no longer exist.

She never did anything to harm herself.

But that doesn’t mean she didn’t think about death. She did.

When I look back now, my heart aches for that little girl. What child should have to imagine death as a place of peace because life feels so painful?

She wasn’t looking for an end to a life she had barely begun to live.

She was looking for an end to suffering she didn’t know how to escape.

And there were times in my adulthood when life became so painful that the little girl inside me didn’t want to keep going.

But we did.

We kept going through addiction and recovery, through heartbreaking losses, and through seasons of pain that tested us in ways we never could have imagined.

Today, I can look back at that little girl with compassion. She was trying to survive feelings that were far too big for her to carry alone.

I don’t judge her for the fantasies she had.

I understand why she longed for peace.

But I am no longer that child, even when old feelings return.

It is time to let go of the old fantasy.

I know that my little girl still holds tightly to some of the pain she experienced. I can feel how easily she returns to the old story, as though she must keep carrying it to remember what happened or to prove how much it hurt.

I cannot change what happened to that little girl.

But I can love her.

I can listen to her.

And I can remind her that our story did not end there.

We are still here.

There is still life to live, love to experience, and peace to discover.

I will continue to surrender the past.

One memory at a time.

One old belief at a time.

One gentle reminder at a time:

The suffering was real, but it does not define the future.

Letting Go of the Back-up Plan

 Part of surrendering is learning to let go of our backup plans.

Not every plan, of course. There is nothing wrong with being thoughtful or preparing for the future.

But sometimes, our backup plans are about more than being prepared.

Sometimes, they are about fear.

We want to know that if something goes wrong, we have another way out. We want to protect ourselves from disappointment, uncertainty, and the possibility of being hurt.

And perhaps, in some ways, having a backup plan gives us a false sense of control.

Have you ever stopped to wonder where that need for control began?

Did you feel safe as a child?

If you didn’t, perhaps the little girl inside you learned to find ways to manage the fear. Maybe she learned to anticipate what might happen, prepare for the worst, or make sure she always had an escape route.

When a child cannot depend on the world around her to feel safe, she may begin to depend on her own ability to stay one step ahead.

I understand that little girl.

I know what it feels like to want to be prepared for whatever might happen next.

And I can see how those old patterns can follow us into adulthood.

We may look like capable, independent people who know how to take care of ourselves. But underneath, there may still be a frightened child trying to make sure nothing catches us off guard.

Perhaps surrender invites us to look at this differently.

What if I don’t need to know every possible outcome?

What if I don’t need to have an escape route for every disappointment?

What if I can trust myself to meet whatever comes, even when I don’t know exactly how I will do it?

This doesn’t mean I won’t make plans or take care of myself. It means I can begin to notice when preparation turns into an attempt to control life because I am afraid.

I can acknowledge the fear without letting it make every decision.

I can remind my little girl that we are no longer powerless children. We have choices now. We can ask for help. We can respond to circumstances as they unfold.

We don’t have to figure everything out in advance.

Maybe, just for today, I can loosen my grip, take a breath, and allow life to unfold.

And when my little girl becomes frightened by the uncertainty, I can remind her:

We don’t have to know everything that will happen.

We can trust ourselves to meet it together.