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.

We Can’t Heal What We Can’t Feel

 “We can’t heal what we can’t feel.”

I have repeated those words to so many people over the years.

Now they have become my own lesson.

As I sit quietly with my little girl, I feel her becoming more and more exposed.

Not exposed to shame.

Exposed to love.

She is slowly revealing what she has carried for so long.

I feel her pain.

I feel her loneliness.

I feel her fear.

I feel her desperate longing to escape feelings that were simply too overwhelming for a child to bear.

There are moments when it feels almost unbearable to witness.

Part of me wants to make it stop.

Part of me wants to rush her through this painful place.

But another part of me understands something important.

The more she trusts me enough to reveal herself, the greater the opportunity I have to truly reach her.

For so many years, she survived by hiding.

Now, perhaps healing begins because she no longer has to.

This is an uncomfortable season of my life.

Some days it feels as though every hidden wound has come into the light at once.

There are moments when I wonder why so much has surfaced now.

Then I remember.

You cannot heal what remains buried forever.

Perhaps what feels like falling apart is really an invitation to become whole.

So I will stay.

I will listen.

I will feel.

And I will trust that every tear, every memory, and every feeling that finally finds its way into the light is one more step toward leaving the past where it belongs.

Not forgotten.

Not erased.

But no longer carrying the same power over my life.