It was ten years ago or so that I first began to get acquainted with my inner child. At first she seemed like a really sad little thing, and elusive. Often when I tried to find her, she was just a glimpse, vanishing around the corner. It took me a while to realize she was as shy as a real child—why should she come running to my arms after all those years of neglect? I needed to learn to be patient for her. I learned to sit every morning and take twenty minutes for her. I learned to welcome her tears and her fears, her big reactions to small things that happened each day.
We had a long journey together in therapy and on our own, through brambles and swamps of mistrust, through ancient castles of family structures, down a labyrinth where she hid for years, holding her secrets and holding out from love. We had to face what my family had done—the abuse, the betrayal by both father and mother. That’s the journey I wrote about in my forthcoming memoir.
These days I still sit with the little ones every morning and listen. Sometimes they rush in with fears or loneliness, sometimes I have to wait for the faint hints and listen with great patience. I’ve also grown much more of a spiritual life, but I’ve found it doesn’t substitute in my life for the aliveness of the inner little girls. I need both. My love for my self and my life is embodied in loving these aspects of me - Eager, Good, Silent, Creative, Loving.