Waiting for the Next Shoe to Drop

 I find myself wondering what life felt like inside my little girl’s heart when everything seemed calm.

Was I ever able to relax?

Or was I always waiting for the next shoe to drop?

Was I living on pins and needles, anticipating the next outburst, the next disappointment, the next reason to be afraid?

Most likely, the answer is yes.

Fear was more familiar to me than peace.

At home, I learned to expect that safety could disappear without warning. Even during the quiet moments, perhaps my little nervous system never truly believed the calm would last.

Children who grow up this way don’t simply experience fear.

They begin to expect it.

Yet there was another world.

When I stayed with my grandparents, something inside me softened. I felt safe. I felt protected. I could lose myself in play for hours without worrying about what might happen next. My body knew the difference, even if I couldn’t have explained it at the time.

Looking back now, I think my sensitive little girl lived in far more fear than I ever realized.

That realization helps me understand so much about the woman I became.

I have always wanted life to go well.

I have always hoped for good things.

But underneath that hope has lived another voice, quietly preparing for disappointment.

A part of me expected life to take away whatever I loved.

A part of me believed that peace was temporary.

Fear had taught me that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t count on life to stay safe.

Perhaps that is one of childhood trauma’s greatest losses.

It doesn’t only steal a child’s sense of safety.

It quietly steals her expectation that life can be good—and that she is capable of meeting it with confidence.

Today, I see that little girl with new compassion.

She wasn’t expecting the worst because she lacked faith.

She was expecting what she had already learned.

I will gently continue to teach her that the future does not have to repeat the past.