A Child’s Fantasy

 This is going to be a hard blog to write, but it is part of my story.

Some children fantasize about becoming veterinarians, marrying Prince Charming, or growing up to live wonderful lives.

My little girl had a different fantasy.

She fantasized about dying.

The pain she lived with was so great, and she had nowhere to take it. She carried the burden alone, without knowing how to make sense of what she was feeling or how to find relief.

There was the loneliness.

There was the fear of making a mistake and risking a beating.

There was the feeling of being trapped in a life she didn’t know how to change.

And somewhere in her young mind, death came to represent a peaceful place. A place where the fear might finally stop and the pain might no longer exist.

She never did anything to harm herself.

But that doesn’t mean she didn’t think about death. She did.

When I look back now, my heart aches for that little girl. What child should have to imagine death as a place of peace because life feels so painful?

She wasn’t looking for an end to a life she had barely begun to live.

She was looking for an end to suffering she didn’t know how to escape.

And there were times in my adulthood when life became so painful that the little girl inside me didn’t want to keep going.

But we did.

We kept going through addiction and recovery, through heartbreaking losses, and through seasons of pain that tested us in ways we never could have imagined.

Today, I can look back at that little girl with compassion. She was trying to survive feelings that were far too big for her to carry alone.

I don’t judge her for the fantasies she had.

I understand why she longed for peace.

But I am no longer that child, even when old feelings return.

It is time to let go of the old fantasy.

I know that my little girl still holds tightly to some of the pain she experienced. I can feel how easily she returns to the old story, as though she must keep carrying it to remember what happened or to prove how much it hurt.

I cannot change what happened to that little girl.

But I can love her.

I can listen to her.

And I can remind her that our story did not end there.

We are still here.

There is still life to live, love to experience, and peace to discover.

I will continue to surrender the past.

One memory at a time.

One old belief at a time.

One gentle reminder at a time:

The suffering was real, but it does not define the future.

Letting Go of the Back-up Plan

 Part of surrendering is learning to let go of our backup plans.

Not every plan, of course. There is nothing wrong with being thoughtful or preparing for the future.

But sometimes, our backup plans are about more than being prepared.

Sometimes, they are about fear.

We want to know that if something goes wrong, we have another way out. We want to protect ourselves from disappointment, uncertainty, and the possibility of being hurt.

And perhaps, in some ways, having a backup plan gives us a false sense of control.

Have you ever stopped to wonder where that need for control began?

Did you feel safe as a child?

If you didn’t, perhaps the little girl inside you learned to find ways to manage the fear. Maybe she learned to anticipate what might happen, prepare for the worst, or make sure she always had an escape route.

When a child cannot depend on the world around her to feel safe, she may begin to depend on her own ability to stay one step ahead.

I understand that little girl.

I know what it feels like to want to be prepared for whatever might happen next.

And I can see how those old patterns can follow us into adulthood.

We may look like capable, independent people who know how to take care of ourselves. But underneath, there may still be a frightened child trying to make sure nothing catches us off guard.

Perhaps surrender invites us to look at this differently.

What if I don’t need to know every possible outcome?

What if I don’t need to have an escape route for every disappointment?

What if I can trust myself to meet whatever comes, even when I don’t know exactly how I will do it?

This doesn’t mean I won’t make plans or take care of myself. It means I can begin to notice when preparation turns into an attempt to control life because I am afraid.

I can acknowledge the fear without letting it make every decision.

I can remind my little girl that we are no longer powerless children. We have choices now. We can ask for help. We can respond to circumstances as they unfold.

We don’t have to figure everything out in advance.

Maybe, just for today, I can loosen my grip, take a breath, and allow life to unfold.

And when my little girl becomes frightened by the uncertainty, I can remind her:

We don’t have to know everything that will happen.

We can trust ourselves to meet it together.

Counting Our Wins

 Before recovery, I would have described myself as more of a pessimist.

I tended to see the glass as half empty.

Looking back, I can see that much of this was learned behavior. My mother could be very negative, and she seemed to take pride in it. Without realizing it, I learned to look at life through a similar lens.

One of the first things I learned in recovery was the practice of making a gratitude list.

For many years, at the end of each day, I would write down the things I was grateful for.

At first, it was simply an exercise.

But over time, something began to change.

I was training my mind to look for the good.

Instead of focusing only on what had gone wrong, I was learning to notice what had gone right. I began to see that even on difficult days, there were things worth appreciating.

Journaling became another powerful tool.

When I put my thoughts on paper, I couldn’t hide from myself quite so easily. I began to see my patterns, my assumptions, and the negative thinking I hadn’t even realized was shaping my life.

Writing helped me become more honest with myself.

And that honesty opened the door to change.

Today, I’m using those same tools in a new way.

I’m learning to count my wins.

As I navigate my current health challenges, I keep a list of positive things that happen along the way.

Yesterday, one of my wins was taking a walk in the evening.

It might not seem like much to someone else. But to me, it mattered.

The wins don’t have to be big.

Maybe I’m able to do something I’ve been avoiding.

Maybe I respond to fear differently than I did yesterday.

Maybe I have a moment of peace, a little more energy, or a reason to smile.

They all count.

I’m not trying to convince myself that everything is wonderful when it isn’t. I’m simply learning that the difficult things aren’t the whole story.

Pain may be part of my day, but it doesn’t have to be the only thing I notice.

There can be disappointment and progress.

There can be struggle and joy.

There can be uncertainty and hope.

Perhaps this is another way of teaching my mind to see life differently—not by ignoring what is hard, but by making room for what is good.

I’ve spent a lot of years learning how to work through the difficult parts of my life.

Now I want to become just as good at recognizing the moments when something goes right.

So I will keep counting my wins.

The big ones.

The little ones.

The ones no one else may even notice.

Because every step forward deserves to be acknowledged.

And every small win is evidence of resilience. It reminds me that even when life is painful or uncertain, I am still moving, still adapting, and still finding ways to meet the day.

Hope does not always arrive as a dramatic breakthrough. Sometimes it is as quiet as taking a walk, resting when I need to, or noticing one peaceful moment in the middle of a difficult day. Sometimes hope is simply choosing to look again for something good.

When we count our wins, we are not denying our struggles. We are reminding ourselves that our struggles do not define the whole of our lives. We are gathering proof that strength can exist alongside pain, and that hope can take root in even the smallest moments.

And sometimes, when we begin to count our wins, we discover that there is more hope in our lives than we realized.