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.

Rescuing My Little Girl

 I don’t think I have ever felt so close to my little girl.

Not simply because I remember her.

But because I can feel what she carried.

I can feel the loneliness she lived with, even when other people were around.

I can feel how trapped she felt inside a home that never truly felt safe.

I can feel the weight of shame that became part of how she saw herself.

I can even understand why there were times she longed for the pain to end, because no child should have to carry that much fear alone.

For so many years, she tucked those feelings neatly away.

She hid them so well that even I couldn’t fully see them.

Now they are in plain view.

One by one, she has gently uncovered the places that hurt the most.

Sometimes I try to comfort her with words.

I tell her she is safe.

I tell her she is loved.

I tell her that she never deserved what happened.

But words don’t always reach a frightened child.

Perhaps trust isn’t built through reassurance alone.

Perhaps it is built by staying.

By not turning away.

By not becoming impatient when healing takes longer than I hoped.

So I will stay close to her.

I will keep reminding her that she doesn’t have to carry this burden by herself anymore.

I will hold hope for her on the days she cannot hold it for herself.

And one day, I believe she will discover what she has been searching for all along.

Not simply relief from fear.

But the deep, quiet freedom that comes from finally knowing she is safe.

Feeling Trapped

 If you asked me how I felt as a child—and even into my teenage years—I would answer with one word.

Trapped.

I felt trapped inside a house where I didn’t feel safe.

I felt trapped in a place where I couldn’t simply be myself.

Shame and guilt were woven into everyday life.

Even ordinary things carried no sense of choice. I don’t remember my mother asking any of us what we would like to eat. We were expected to eat whatever was placed before us, whether we liked it or not. It wasn’t really about the food. It was about having no voice.

There were so many rules.

So little freedom.

As a little girl, I dreamed of the day I could leave that house behind.

I believed that when I finally walked out the door, I would be free.

Yet as I look back over my life, I see that the feeling of being trapped has returned in different forms.

Just before I came into recovery, I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue. My body became a prison. Some days I didn’t even have enough energy to make my bed.

Then, almost ten years ago, those illnesses disappeared as mysteriously as they had arrived.

I thought perhaps that chapter had ended.

But sometime later, the nerve pain in my knees began.

Once again, I felt trapped.

I became afraid to bend my knees, convinced I might be causing more damage, even though that wasn’t true. Fear quietly limited my world. I spent countless hours lying down because sitting became too painful.

Then came the bladder pain.

Once again, I felt trapped.

Lying down hurts.

Sitting hurts.

Standing too long hurts.

There are days when it feels as though there isn’t a comfortable place for my body to exist.

So few choices.

So little freedom.

As I write these words, I can’t help but wonder if that feeling of being trapped has become one of the deepest threads running through my life.

Not because every illness is caused by childhood trauma.

But because each season of physical limitation awakens something very old inside me.

The little girl who couldn’t leave the house.

The woman who longs to move freely through the world.

Perhaps that is why these experiences feel so intertwined.

So what is the lesson?

Is it simply to recognize how deeply the fear of being trapped has shaped my life?

Is it to discover a freedom that doesn’t depend entirely on my circumstances?

Or is it something else that I cannot yet see?

I don’t have the answers.

But I know this much.

The longing for freedom has lived inside me for as long as I can remember.

And maybe that longing itself is leading me home—not to the house I grew up in, but to a place within myself where no wound, no fear, and no illness can completely imprison my spirit.

The Patience of Surrender

 It is hard not to become discouraged.

Sometimes it feels as though I am carrying a wound that is nearly seventy years old. I have searched for it. Prayed over it. Sat with it. Cried through it. Tried to understand it.

And yet, it still feels as though something inside me remains frozen in time.

When I cannot seem to reach that place, I feel stuck.

It feels as though the little girl within me is still living with the pain, the fear, and the memories of the past. Sometimes it even seems as though she is afraid of what freedom might feel like.

After all, fear has been familiar.

Freedom has not.

If she has lived her whole life expecting danger, perhaps safety itself feels unfamiliar. Perhaps stepping into the light is not as simple as opening a door. Perhaps it requires trusting a world she never learned to trust.

I have tried to reassure her.

I have told her she is safe.

I have reminded her that she is no longer alone.

Some days those words seem to reach her.

Other days, her fear feels so much bigger than anything I can say.

And that is where I find myself today.

Not with another answer.

Not with another technique.

Only with surrender.

I cannot force healing.

I cannot force the past to let go.

I cannot force a frightened little girl to trust before she is ready.

Love cannot be forced.

Safety cannot be demanded.

Healing cannot be rushed.

Perhaps my task is not to rescue her but to remain faithfully beside her, as long as it takes.

To let her borrow my courage until she discovers her own.

To trust that even when I cannot see movement, something unseen may still be unfolding beneath the surface.

So today, my prayer is simple.

God, give me patience.

Give me the grace to stop measuring healing by how quickly old wounds disappear.

Teach me to trust that staying present is not the same as standing still.

And if all I can do today is love that little girl without asking her to change, then let that be enough.