The Sky is Falling

 Do you remember the story of Chicken Little?

He was always expecting danger. He believed the sky was falling.

I can relate to that story.

When you grow up with a sensitive nervous system, it doesn’t take much to frighten a little girl. She learns to watch for danger before she learns to trust that everything will be okay.

I see that pattern in myself.

I can swing from being naive to imagining frightening scenarios.

It is exhausting to live between those two extremes.

I have learned that my mind isn’t trying to make my life difficult. It is trying to protect me the only way it knows how.

As a child, expecting danger made sense.

It was my way of surviving.

But what protected me then doesn’t always serve me now.

I have to become mindful before believing every fearful thought that enters my mind. I have to pause long enough to ask myself, Is this happening right now, or is this an old alarm being sounded again?

Even then, I still make mistakes.

Sometimes I believe the fear.

Sometimes I let my imagination convince me that the sky is falling.

Instead of criticizing myself for it, I am learning to respond with compassion.

Of course my nervous system reacts this way.

It was trained to.

But it can also be retrained.

One gentle choice at a time.

One mindful pause at a time.

One reminder at a time that the frightened little girl who expected danger every day is now being cared for by the woman who knows that not every falling acorn means the sky is coming down.

Turning the Pain on Myself

 I have noticed something unexpected.

Physical pain has a way of pushing truth out of me.

As my body has become quieter in some ways and louder in others, memories and feelings that I buried long ago have begun to rise to the surface.

I don’t think I have ever been this honest about my childhood.

This morning, I found something I have spent much of my life avoiding.

Rage.

Not rage without reason.

Rage over the unfairness of what happened.

For so many years, I gave my father grace. I tried to understand him. I excused his behavior.

But this morning, I allowed myself to acknowledge what the little girl experienced.

The blaming.

The shaming.

The guilt.

The punishment.

So much of it felt like control.

And a child has no choice but to adapt.

As I grew older, something quietly changed.

The anger I couldn’t safely direct outward found another target.

Me.

I became the one who judged myself.

I became the one who believed I deserved punishment.

I carried shame that had never belonged to me.

Looking back now, my heart breaks for that little girl.

She learned to tolerate punishment from the people who were supposed to protect her.

Then she grew up and continued punishing herself.

Not because she wanted to suffer.

But because it was the language she had been taught.

Today, I know something she could never have known.

She never deserved it.

Not then.

Not ever.

The days of punishing myself are long over.

That doesn’t mean the scars have disappeared.

They are still there.

But scars tell a different story than wounds.

A wound is still bleeding.

A scar is evidence that something painful was survived.

Perhaps now my task is no longer to keep reopening the old injuries.

Perhaps it is to honor the scars with compassion, knowing they tell the story of a little girl who endured far more than any child should have had to bear—and who somehow kept going anyway.

The Wounds You Couldn’t See

 As I explore my childhood more deeply, I see things I never understood before.

I realize how little my parents knew about parenting. Their own needs often came before ours, and as a child, I thought that was normal.

The beatings with a belt left lasting wounds.

But I’m beginning to see that some of the deepest wounds were invisible.

No one asked how I felt.

No one taught me that my feelings mattered.

I didn’t feel safe bringing my fears, my questions, or my heart to the people who were supposed to protect me.

I learned to stay quiet, to be careful, and to put everyone else’s needs before my own.

I’ve done a great deal of healing over the years, but I can see there is another layer waiting for me—my nervous system.

It learned very early to stay alert, to brace for what might come next. Later in life, some of my own choices placed even more strain on it.

I can’t change the past.

But I can change how I care for myself today.

My lesson now is simple.

To teach my body that it is safe to slow down.

Safe to soften.

Safe to rest.

These days, I try to live by three gentle words:

Gentle. Simple. Kind.

The Gift of Kindness

 Today was another day of stabbing pain in my bladder and pelvis.

But this time, the pain opened the door to an unexpected memory.

I found myself thinking about one of my first boyfriend when I was fifteen or sixteen years old.

He was one of the sweetest people I had ever known.

Kind.

Thoughtful.

Attentive.

The physical pain I felt today reminded me of the severe cramping I used to have during my monthly periods. I remember how he would do everything he could to comfort me. He couldn’t take the pain away, but he stayed with me in it.

It was the first time I remember someone showing that kind of empathy.

The first time someone saw my suffering and responded with tenderness instead of impatience.

Looking back, I realize that moment touched something much deeper than I understood at the time.

It wasn’t only comfort I was receiving.

It was safety.

Throughout my life, there were several men who offered me that same gift.

They were kind.

Gentle.

Caring.

Their presence allowed the frightened little girl inside me to breathe.

At the time, I simply believed I had found love.

Today I understand I was also finding refuge.

When my partner died two and a half years ago, I finally saw how much of my sense of safety I had entrusted to the men I loved.

It wasn’t only him.

I could trace that pattern through many of my relationships.

Not because I was weak.

But because a little girl who had grown up without feeling safe naturally reached toward the people who made her feel protected.

Today, I see something changing.

I have learned to trust the women who are part of my life now.

Their friendship has shown me another kind of safety.

A quieter kind.

A steadier kind.

A safety built on honesty, acceptance, and trust.

As I look back over my life, I feel gratitude.

Gratitude for the men whose kindness helped a frightened little girl believe that gentle hearts existed.

Gratitude for the women who walk beside me today with love and authenticity.

And gratitude for the life lesson that continues to unfold.

Every act of kindness I have ever received was pointing me toward something even deeper—

The possibility that one day I could become that same safe, gentle presence…

For myself.