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.

Feeling Caged

 If you had met my parents or seen our home when I was a child, you might have thought we were the perfect family.

My mother stayed home and kept the house immaculate. My father was a successful contractor who built a beautiful two-story house that others admired. From the outside, everything looked picture-perfect.

But appearances can be deceiving.

Our home was filled with unspoken rules.

No noise.

No mess.

No disturbing Mom.

No upsetting Dad.

There was little freedom to simply be children.

Fear lived quietly in our house. The threat of punishment was always close by. Looking back, I cannot remember anything I did as a child that would have warranted the fear we lived under. It was never really about us. It was about my mother’s perfectionism and the shame that hid beneath it, and my father’s temper, which, once unleashed, could not be contained.

We learned early that our feelings, needs, and authentic selves were safer hidden away.

When I finally left home, I believed freedom would surely follow. I thought my life would begin the moment I escaped that house.

But the cage came with me.

It had been built long before I knew it existed.

Over the past thirty years, I have done a great deal of healing. Much of that old cage has fallen away. Yet I can still feel the little girl inside me who fears punishment.

Those roots run deep.

But roots can be loosened.

And I trust that, in time, even these will release.

Holding on to the Past

 Punishment was familiar in childhood.

The belt was not used often, but the threat of it was always present. Fear became a way of life. My parents were the punishers then, but somewhere along the way, I took over the job myself.

I grew up believing I was somehow bad—unworthy of love or goodness. That belief followed me into adulthood. I became my own harshest critic, judging myself relentlessly, carrying shame that was never mine to carry.

Recovery began to soften me. Slowly, I learned the language of self-compassion. Little by little, I discovered what self-love looked like.

Yet tonight, I asked myself a difficult question:

Does the little girl who believed she deserved punishment still live in me?

To my surprise, the answer was yes.

The frightened little girl who believed she was bad and deserved to suffer. Even as I learned to love myself, she remained hidden, quietly carrying the old story.

I feel her. 

Though I’ve forgiven my parents for the mistakes they made and forgiven myself for my own mistakes, my little girl still hides behind pain. My job is to comfort her. I’m certain that she will let go of the pain when she’s ready. In the meantime, I’ll continue to let her know she is safe and loved.

You Can Leave Home But Home Leaves With You

 I will be honest when I say that, as a child, I felt something close to hatred toward both of my parents. 

Even writing those words stirs guilt in me. But feelings do not disappear simply because we wish them away.

I lived for the day I could leave.

I dreamed of freedom.

Freedom from the rules.

Freedom from the punishment.

Freedom from the fear.

As soon as I graduated from high school, I wanted out. College held little interest for me then. All I wanted was a place of my own. I believed that once I walked out that door, my life would finally begin.

And in many ways, it did.

But what I did not understand was this:

I took my childhood with me.

The fear.

The shame.

The beliefs I had formed about myself and the world.

I left the house, but the house had not yet left me.

Life brought both beauty and heartbreak. There were many good years. I had the white picket fence, two children, three dogs, and a successful husband. From the outside, it looked like the life I had always wanted.

Yet beneath it all, old wounds were quietly shaping my choices. I sabotaged myself in ways I did not understand. The pain of childhood echoed through my relationships, especially my marriage.

It wasn’t until recovery and therapy that I began to see the truth.

My past was not behind me.

It was living through me.

And once I understood that, healing could finally begin.

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.