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.

Reliving the Nightmare

 In some strange way, I feel as though I am reliving my childhood nightmare.

Once again, I find myself tiptoeing around fear and pain.

As a little girl, I learned that expressing my feelings wasn’t safe. I swallowed my tears, my anger, my confusion, and my fear because there was no room for them. There was only room for being the good little girl.

Today, I notice something heartbreaking.

When I cry, my physical pain often becomes worse.

It feels as though my body is still carrying the same message it learned long ago—that my feelings are dangerous, that expressing them comes with consequences.

This is how I grew up.

Afraid.

Walking on eggshells.

Trying so hard to do everything right.

Trying to be good enough.

Trying to earn love, acceptance, and safety.

Yet somehow, no matter how hard I tried, I was left feeling ashamed. Guilty. As though I was always disappointing someone. As though I was somehow getting life wrong.

That old feeling still visits me.

Now, instead of trying to fix a family that could never give me what I needed, I find myself trying to fix a body that won’t cooperate.

I read.

I pray.

I rest.

I try new treatments.

I search for answers.

And when the pain refuses to let go, a familiar voice quietly whispers that I must have failed. That if I had only done something differently, somehow I would feel better.

I know that voice.

It isn’t really about today.

It is the echo of a little girl who believed that if she could only be better, quieter, smarter, kinder, or more lovable, everything around her would finally become safe.

She carried responsibilities that never belonged to a child.

Now I wonder if I have unknowingly handed those same impossible responsibilities to the woman I have become.

Part of me feels as though I have failed both of us—the little girl who needed protection and the woman who carried dreams for a different life.

But perhaps that, too, is an old story.

Maybe neither of us failed.

Maybe we have simply been carrying burdens that were never ours to carry.

And maybe the bravest thing either of us has ever done is to keep hoping, even while walking through the fear.

Teaching My Nervous System to Rest

 There is so much written these days about the nervous system.

As I read and learn, I cannot help but feel sadness for all that mine has endured.

It has lived through fear.

Through hypervigilance.

Through grief.

Through loss.

Through years of believing that pushing harder was the answer.

I became so accustomed to overriding my body’s whispers that I rarely noticed when they became screams.

Some of it came from the perfectionist in me.

Some of it came from the part of me that believed multitasking was a measure of my worth.

Some of it came from simply believing this was how life was supposed to be lived.

Work harder. Do more. Push through.

There were choices I made that, had I known better, I would have made differently.

But there were also many things that were never within my control.

The little girl who learned to survive did not choose the world she was born into.

She simply learned how to adapt.

Today, I no longer judge her for the ways she survived.

And I no longer judge myself.

I cannot undo the years of asking my nervous system to carry more than it was ever designed to hold.

I cannot rewrite yesterday.

But I can choose a different way to live today.

I can speak to myself with kindness instead of criticism.

I can move with gentleness instead of urgency.

I can rest without earning it.

I can listen when my body whispers instead of waiting until it cries out in pain.

The pusher in me no longer gets to lead my life.

She helped me survive.

But she is ready to rest now, too.

These days, I return again and again to a simple reminder—

Easy does it.