There was a time when I reached for everyone but myself.
I thought healing would come from someone else finally saying the right words. Someone finally seeing me. Someone finally understanding that I was carrying the weight of a childhood I didn’t choose. But all the reaching, all the hoping, all the silent cries, it left me empty.
Until one day, I stopped reaching out and started reaching in.
It was quiet at first. Unfamiliar. I didn’t know what to expect from myself. Could I really give the comfort I spent my life begging for?
I started small:
How can I help little me now that I’m older?
Now that I have more tools, more words, more strength… how can I show her she’s not alone anymore?
I asked her,
What are you trying to say today?
And sometimes, her answers came in tears. Sometimes in silence.
Other days, they came through fatigue, through sudden memories, through laughter at something silly.
She always answers. I just had to learn how to listen.
Then I asked,
What do you want to do right now?
Sometimes, she wants to rest.
Other times, she wants to feel sunshine on her skin, eat something sweet, or simply be told she’s doing great especially on the days she doesn’t feel like it.
And slowly, something shifted.
All I had to do was reach within.
It’s wild how we overlook the person who’s been with us the longest. The one who’s survived it all. The one who just wanted someone to care enough to ask the right questions.
It turns out, the person who would truly listen to me… was me.
Not to fix her.
Not to silence her.
Just to sit beside her and say:
“I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere.”
That was all she needed.
That’s all I needed.
