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.