Looking for Safety

 I think I have spent most of my life searching for one thing.

Safety.

The kind of safety I rarely knew as a child.

I found glimpses of it at my grandparents’ house. There, I could breathe. I could play. I could simply be a little girl.

But I never truly felt it in the home where I grew up.

So I spent the rest of my life searching for what I had lost before I even knew how to name it.

At first, I searched for it in my first boyfriend.

Then in every relationship that followed.

I always believed that having a man beside me would somehow make me feel safe.

I rarely knew how to be alone.

When my partner died two and a half years ago, I didn’t just lose the love of my life.

The little girl inside me lost the place where she believed she was safe.

Since then, I have lost all desire to be in another relationship.

Perhaps because I am beginning to understand that no one outside of me was ever meant to carry that responsibility.

I also searched for safety through control.

If I could plan enough…

Manage enough…

Anticipate every possibility…

Maybe nothing bad would happen.

But the truth is, I never had control to begin with.

Control wasn’t safety.

It was only the illusion of safety.

One by one, the places where my little girl used to hide have disappeared.

The relationships.

The distractions.

The illusion of control.

Without them, there are days when I feel incredibly raw.

Exposed.

Vulnerable.

It is not easy to sit with those feelings.

Every part of me wants to run toward something familiar.

But there is nowhere left to run.

Only somewhere to surrender.

Each day I sit beside my little girl.

I speak gently to her.

I remind her that she is no longer alone.

I tell her that I will not abandon her.

She is listening.

But she has not fully learned to trust me in that way yet.

After all, she spent a lifetime believing that safety had to come from somewhere else.

Trust like that is not built in a day.

It is built one gentle moment at a time.

Perhaps one day she will discover what I am only beginning to believe—

That the safety she has searched for all her life has never been found in another person or in control.

It has been quietly waiting…

Within us all along.

Surrender is the Way Home

 I have learned that growing up in dysfunction—especially where there is the constant threat of punishment or abandonment—can leave echoes that last a lifetime.

Not everyone believes in inner child work.

I do.

It has become one of the greatest teachers of my life.

Last night was another difficult night. My bladder symptoms returned with a vengeance, and for a while the pain seemed louder than hope.

But somewhere beneath the pain, I heard a familiar voice.

A voice I have learned to trust.

It whispered, This is the way out.

Immediately I thought of Rumi’s timeless words:

“The cure for the pain is in the pain.”

Those words have carried me through many seasons of my life.

As I sat with the discomfort, I realized that my body is telling a story my mind has never been able to fully tell. To me, it feels as though my bladder is holding onto old fear, and my little girl is still gripping it with all her strength.

Pain has been familiar to her.

Freedom has not.

She learned long ago that holding on felt safer than letting go.

That control felt safer than surrender.

That vigilance felt safer than peace.

I do not judge her for that.

She was only trying to survive.

But I also believe there comes a moment in every healing journey when surviving is no longer enough.

There comes a moment when the heart grows weary of carrying what no longer belongs to it.

A moment when surrender is no longer something we choose…

It is something that gently chooses us.

I don’t believe I am there yet.

But I can feel myself moving closer.

Closer to trust.

Closer to freedom.

Closer to home.

When Joy Feels Far Away

 I have learned that physical pain has a way of concealing joy.

There was a time when emotional pain overshadowed everything. But through years of recovery, therapy, prayer, and inner work, I slowly found my way back to myself. The weight of emotional suffering began to lift, and joy became something I could recognize again.

I smiled more easily.

I laughed more freely.

I felt grateful simply to be alive.

Then physical pain entered my life.

It didn’t erase my joy.

But it hid it.

Pain has a way of narrowing our focus until all we can see is the next moment of discomfort. It whispers that this is all there is. It tries to convince us that joy has left for good.

But I know better.

Joy hasn’t disappeared.

It has simply become quieter.

These days I have to look for it in smaller places.

The warmth of the morning sun.

The song of a bird outside my window.

The comfort of a soft blanket.

The gentle purr of Winston.

The laughter of a friend.

A moment when my body softens, even for just a breath.

Recovery taught me something I will carry for the rest of my life.

Gratitude is not the denial of pain.

It is the quiet willingness to notice that something beautiful still exists beside it.

Some days, gratitude is abundant.

Other days, it is wonderfully simple.

Today, I am grateful for breath.

I am grateful for faith.

And for today…

That is enough.