Covering Up Our Wounds

 There are so many ways I learned to cover up my wounds.

One of them was being in a relationship.

Having someone beside me gave me a sense of comfort and security. But when my partner died, that layer of protection disappeared. His death exposed things underneath that I hadn’t fully recognized before.

It left me face-to-face with parts of myself that had been hidden beneath the comfort of having someone there.

Another way I covered my wounds was through hobbies.

I had more hobbies than you can imagine, and I genuinely enjoyed them. Creating, learning, and keeping busy brought me pleasure. They gave me something to look forward to and helped me focus on things outside myself.

There was nothing wrong with those things. They brought real enjoyment into my life.

But I’m beginning to recognize that something can bring us joy and still serve as a distraction from what hurts.

At the end of the day, the wounds were still there.

These are just a couple of examples that came to me this morning. I’m looking at my life and acknowledging something I haven’t fully understood.

I’m in a place where I can no longer rely on some of the things I once used to distract myself from what was underneath.

And that leaves me with myself.

My thoughts.

My feelings.

My fears.

My pain.

The parts of me that I may have been able to set aside when life was full of activity, relationships, and things to do.

At this moment in my life, I am meeting myself in a way I never have before.

And I’m not going to tell you it’s comfortable.

It isn’t.

But there are times when I need to sit with what is here, even when I don’t yet understand it.

I don’t know what I will discover as I continue to meet myself in this unfamiliar place.

I only know that I am here now, and I am willing to look.

Maybe that is enough for today.

In a World That is Soft and Kind

 At this moment, I don’t believe my little girl can imagine what it would feel like to be free of pain, both physical and emotional.

Fear is how she was raised.

It is what she knows.

Even though the adult in me has tasted the sweetness of life, the thought of living in a world that is soft and kind terrifies her.

How could it not?

She learned early that life could hurt. That love didn’t always feel safe. That making a mistake could have consequences. That even in the quiet moments, she needed to be prepared for what might happen next.

Fear became her companion.

She learned to watch, to anticipate, to brace herself.

And now, after all these years, I wonder if the very thing she longs for is also the thing she fears most.

Peace.

What would she do in a world where she didn’t have to be on guard?

How would she feel in a body she didn’t have to fear?

I don’t think she knows.

And perhaps I cannot expect her to understand something she has never fully experienced.

The adult in me has known love, joy, purpose, and moments of deep peace. I have experienced the sweetness of recovery and the gift of helping others. I know that life can be beautiful.

But my little girl still carries the expectations she formed long ago.

She doesn’t yet trust that the good can last.

Perhaps she is afraid to let go of fear because fear has always been her way of trying to stay safe.

So I won’t force her to believe in a world that feels impossible to her.

I will simply begin to show her.

A gentle moment.

A kind word.

A moment when pain is present, but fear doesn’t have to take over everything.

Perhaps that is how she will begin to learn.

Not through promises that nothing difficult will ever happen again, but through the experience of being cared for when life is difficult.

I can let her know that she doesn’t have to understand the whole journey.

She doesn’t have to believe in a completely different life today.

She only needs to know that she isn’t alone.

Maybe together we can discover what it feels like to live in a world that is softer than the one she remembers.

A world where we can breathe.

Where we can rest.

Where we can allow good things to happen without immediately preparing for them to disappear.

A world where fear may still visit, but it no longer has to run our lives.

I don’t know how long it will take for her to trust that world.

But I don’t have to rush her.

I can remember the sweetness I have already experienced, even when she cannot imagine it for herself.

And perhaps, little by little, she will begin to discover that life can hold more than fear and pain.

There can also be gentleness.

There can be comfort.

There can be joy.

And there can be a place for her in a world that is soft and kind.

Discovering What’s Beyond Survival

 Today, I can look back at that little girl with compassion instead of judgment. I can acknowledge just how painful her world once felt without becoming lost in it myself.

Because something else is true, too.

She made it here.

She grew up.

She found recovery.

She discovered spirituality, love, and purpose. She learned to help others. She found a passion for understanding the wounds of childhood and helping people learn to care for the little ones inside themselves.

She became a woman who has lived, loved, lost, and continued to grow.

She discovered a strength she could never have imagined when she was a frightened little girl.

And she is still here.

I think sometimes I forget how far we have come.

I become so focused on what still hurts, what remains unresolved, and what I am still trying to understand that I forget to acknowledge the journey itself.

Perhaps I have spent so many years trying to heal her that I haven’t fully stopped to appreciate the fact that she survived.

She doesn’t need me to keep searching for every painful memory.

She doesn’t need me to keep reopening every wound to prove that what happened mattered.

So, little girl, I want you to know something.

I understand how badly you wanted the pain to stop.

I wish you hadn’t felt so alone.

I wish someone had helped you carry what was too heavy for you.

You deserved comfort, protection, and love.

But you made it here.

And you don’t have to keep living inside that painful story to be remembered, loved, or understood.

I will not deny what happened to you.

I will not ask you to pretend it didn’t hurt.

But I will gently remind you that our story did not end there.

We are allowed to experience joy.

We are allowed to feel peace.

We are allowed to look toward the future without carrying every sorrow from the past.

Perhaps this is what surrender means for me now.

Not abandoning my little girl.

Not forgetting her pain.

She has waited a long time for peace.

And maybe, little by little, we can allow ourselves to discover it.

Not by erasing the past.

But by remembering to live in the day.