A Sense of Wholeness

 It is easy to see myself as wounded.

Easy to see the losses, the grief, the pain my body still carries.

There have been times when chronic pain left me feeling broken, defeated, and far from whole.

Yet when I look back over the last thirty years, I see something else.

I see a woman who traveled from self-hatred to self-love.

No small journey.

No small miracle.

Recovery taught me compassion. It taught me forgiveness. It taught me how to look in the mirror and love the person looking back.

And just when I thought I had found my footing, physical pain arrived to teach me something new.

Fibromyalgia.

Knee pain.

Bladder pain.

Each one touching the frightened child within me—the little girl who learned early to fear pain and brace for punishment.

Today, I understand that she still lives inside me.

And today, I speak to her differently.

I remind her that the danger has passed.

That she is safe.

That she is loved.

That the past is over.

Perhaps healing is not becoming someone new.

Perhaps it is remembering that beneath every wound, we have always been whole.

Childhood Wounds

 Our bodies carry stories long after our minds forget them.

When I think of the little girl I once was, I see a sensitive, shy child trying her best to survive. She grew up in a home where fear, shame, and punishment were common, but nurturing was scarce. No one taught her how to feel good about herself. No one taught her that she was enough.

So she became her own bully.

Quietly.

Relentlessly.

Nothing she did felt quite right. Every mistake became evidence against her. And when she fell short of her impossible standards, she punished herself far more harshly than anyone else ever could.

Perhaps nowhere was this more painful than in motherhood.

I loved my children deeply, yet I carried the constant feeling that I should have done more, known more, been more. The mistakes felt enormous. The love I gave somehow never seemed enough in my own eyes.

Then recovery entered my life.

Slowly, it taught me something I had never learned as a child:

Forgiveness.

Compassion.

Grace.

Over time, I began to see that I was not a bad mother trying to become good. I was a wounded woman doing the best she could with the tools she had.

Today, I no longer see failure when I look back.

I see a woman who loved fiercely.

A woman who made mistakes.

And perhaps that is what healing really is—not erasing the past, but learning to hold it with gentler hands.

Healing the Mother Wound

 As a child, I did not feel safe at home.

There were moments of safety, of course. My grandparents were a refuge. I loved being with them. And then there was my dog, my faithful companion, who offered comfort when the world felt frightening.

As I grew older, I began looking for safety elsewhere.

First in a boyfriend.

Then in other relationships with men.

For much of my life, I searched for protection outside myself.

Because trust had been wounded early.

I struggled to trust my mother.

I struggled to trust my sister.

And those wounds followed me into adulthood.

Today, I can see that healing happens through relationships too.

Just as my partner, Jack, helped heal a wound connected to my father, the women in my life are helping heal something equally tender.

My roommate, Chas, as well as other women, are a blessing for my child and for my well-being.

I used to believe that surrounding myself with lots of people would make me feel secure.

It didn’t.

Today, my circle is small.

Just a handful of people.

But they are honest. They are loyal. They are trustworthy.

And that is enough.

My little girl is learning that women can be safe too.

Seeing the Full Truth

 For a long time, I minimized the pain of my childhood.

My attention stayed fixed on being beaten with a belt. That alone was painful enough. But today I can see more clearly that the harm went far beyond that. We were raised in fear, shame, and guilt. That atmosphere shaped everything.

It was deeply damaging. It robbed me of feeling loved, of feeling safe, and of feeling heard.

I did a good job of hiding the truth from myself for many years. I told myself a smaller story because it was easier to carry. But recently, that truth has begun to surface.

I can no longer ignore how much I was affected by the environment I grew up in.

What I once dismissed as normal was not normal at all. It left wounds that went deeper than I understood.

And now, with more honesty and clarity, I am beginning to face what I spent so long avoiding.

Asking for Answers

 This morning, I see her clearly.

The little girl who is still caught in trauma.

Still frightened.

Still waiting for the danger to pass.

For a long time, I believed that if I found the right answer, the right doctor, the right treatment, I could reach her and make everything okay.

But today, I feel helpless.

No matter what I try, she remains hidden behind fear and pain.

Sometimes I wonder if the pain feels familiar to her. If it has become a place she knows how to live. Or perhaps some wounded part of her still believes she deserves to suffer.

I don’t know.

What I do know is that I can no longer force healing.

I have tried.

I have searched.

I have done everything I know to do.

And today, I find myself turning once again to God.

Not with certainty.

Not with answers.

But with questions.

With open hands.

With tears.

“Help me see what I cannot see. Help me love what I cannot reach. Help me trust what I do not yet understand.”

For now, that is enough.

Not knowing.

Not fixing.

Just sitting quietly beside the child and waiting for grace to find us both.

When the Hiding Place Disappeared

 There is a connection between the sensitive little girl I once was and the fear I still feel today.

She grew up in a world where punishment and fear were constant companions. To survive, she learned to look for safety wherever she could find it.

For much of my life, that safety lived inside relationships.

What looked like love was often something deeper—a longing to feel protected. A longing to know that someone stronger was standing between me and the things I feared.

Then Jack died.

For the first time in my adult life, the hiding place was gone.

The rug was pulled out from beneath me.

A few months later, the bladder pain arrived.

Perhaps that was a coincidence.

Perhaps not.

What I do know is that the little girl inside me suddenly felt exposed. The safety she had borrowed from someone else was no longer there.

And there was nowhere left to hide.

Not behind a relationship.

Not behind another person.

Not behind the illusion that someone else could rescue her.

For the last two years, I have been sitting beside that frightened child, helping her learn something entirely new:

That safety does not live outside of her.

It never did.

It lives within her.

Within me.

And though the fear still visits, I no longer feel the need to run from it or cover it up.

I am learning to stay.

To comfort the child.

To trust God.

And to discover that the strength I once searched for in others has been quietly waiting inside me all along.