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Mothering My Inner Child

Night after endless night I found myself back there, never able to find the magic words to make her stay. Always the same ending—the sobbing, broken heap of a child on her bedroom floor longing for what only her mother could offer.

She left every time—and it hurt the same every time. A deep, raw kind of hurt. It would have killed me at seven to know the truth. Even at 33, my brain doesn’t trust my emotional strength enough to let these memories free. I can’t tell you much about my life for the next few years after seven. I simply don’t remember and I consider that a blessing.

I know that my journals, my sisters, and music were my saving graces. Although I try to express my gratitude freely, I don’t think my sisters realize just how many times they’ve saved me. While the loss of my mother left me empty, they tried with all their might to fill me back up. While they did the best they could, there’s something about a mother’s love that is simply irreplaceable. Sometimes a seven-year-old girl just needs her Mommy.

And that’s where I am today. I am the crumpled heap. I am seven again. Please, Mommy—I need you.

The only time I’ve ever felt love stronger than the love I had for my Mother when I was blessed with a child of my own. That love invaded every stitch of my heart and soul. Its a love so pure that I believe it is magic.

What my heart is telling me now is that I have the power to help that scared seven-year-old girl still taking up space in my body and mind. My inner child is there, very real, and her presence is strong. But my love for her is stronger. It’s the kind of love a battle-scarred child needs in order to let go of catastrophic emotions.

“You’re so beautiful. ” I tell her. “I know right now it hurts. And you’re scared. And you don’t understand what you’ve done wrong. Baby, listen to me. Concentrate. Believe these words. It’s not your fault. You’ve done nothing wrong. It WILL get better. Your life has so much in store for you and you are worthy of it.” 

“Trust in God. Talk to Him. Keep writing.”

“You are seven. You should be carefree and happy, not tortured and trapped in your own dreadful memories. Open yourself up for the kind of love you deserve—the kind this woman you worship can’t give you, because she’s gone. I will give it to you. I have an abundance of exactly what you need, just relax and let it fill you. I will crawl under the covers with you and pour unconditional love from your head to your precious toes.”

“You don’t need any magic words. I will hold you for as long as it takes to repair this damage. You deserve this—it’s long overdue. When the pain subsides, and a smile graces your lips, I’ll know my job is done. You will laugh, and play, and sing, and never again long for love—because it flows from within. You have unlimited access to what you needed so badly. Its there now just waiting on you—everflowing and endless. Knowing this, FEELING THIS, you can move on to where you should be.”

“Let it all go. You are free, child. Go play.”

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