Looking for Comfort Within

 This morning, I found myself visiting childhood feelings once again.

Yesterday, it was loneliness.

Today, I feel the little girl who lives inside me—frightened and hypervigilant, watching my bladder pain closely, always waiting for the next wave.

At this moment, I cannot quite reach her.

But I can promise her this: I will keep showing up.

With kindness.

With patience.

With reassurance.

I will give her what she never received as a child.

There was no one in my home to hold her after the punishments, no safe arms to help her make sense of fear. Except for her dog.

Her dog was her comfort, her refuge, her safe place in an unsafe world.

It is no surprise that I have turned to animals for comfort throughout my life. My pets have been faithful companions, offering the unconditional love I longed for as a child.

And yet, something has changed.

I love Winston, my cat, deeply. I am grateful for his quiet presence and the way he stays close to me. But I can no longer rely on that familiar feeling of reassurance in the same way I once did.

Somewhere along the path, I surrendered my attachments—even to the things that once brought me comfort and hope.

Today, I am learning something new.

The comfort I have searched for all my life can no longer come from outside of me.

It must come from within.

And perhaps that is the deepest healing of all: becoming the safe place my little girl has been searching for all along.